Starlings and Bluebirds

Bluebirds wait for the tenth welfare handout of the day.

I'm not done with Guyana, not by a long shot, but this has been such a ravishingly beautiful winter--the most beautiful I can remember, with a fresh new layer of snow nearly every day to cover the old, not to mention four days of solid ice, and all the brittle beauty that goes along with that. I've decided to post my ice pictures before the woodcocks arrive on February 19 and hurry us all toward spring.

The mundane, transformed by a gleaming coat.
A sassafras bud, waiting for spring, coated in a protective glass layer.


Of course, the transformation of their habitat and food sources into a wilderness of brittle ice was less than delightful for the birds. Ice storms are one of the single greatest population drains on the eastern bluebird. A bad winter can kill them by the millions.

And so the ice transformed our bluebirds into beggars--eight of them at once.

Here, a field sparrow crouches, heel-deep in suet dough, while bluebirds feed all around him.

I had to sit by the patio window whenever I put suet dough out, or a huge and ravenous flock of starlings would come in and clean it all up within seconds. Starlings are only a problem for us when the ground is covered with snow and/or frozen. They clear out as soon as it thaws, bless their dark little hearts. I gradually moved my rocking chair up until my toe touched the window, so bold were the starlings. Any bird that wanted the good stuff had to look me right in the eye.


We're not sure we want to do that. You don't seem to like us much.



You have to admit they're beautiful birds, if a bit on the gluttonous, pot-bellied, poopy side. Never fear, I put out tons of old fridge and freezer food for them; they were cleaning chicken carcasses and eating sausage and buns and dog chow and fancy ravioli like there was no tomorrow. I just was not into giving them the Zick dough, the costly, hard labor of mine own biceps.

One of my favorite ice storm revelations: When I'd rise, arms waving, and holler BOOGA BOOGA at the starlings, which would rise up and fly off in a panic, the bluebirds would just sit there in the willow, watching, never ruffling a feather. They knew what I was doing and why, and they knew that as soon as I got rid of the starlings, they could come in, say a polite hello, and eat in peace.
You got that right, Captain Cobalt. Zick loves you.

Snob Feeding

A suet dough fan at the back deck (female eastern bluebird). I post these just to show you that I am capable of taking a decent bird picture.
Blue jays are prone to gobbling great quantities of dough, but I don't mind it. They're just bearing it away to cache it for later. Sometimes I give them the bum's rush when I think they've taken enough. But I adore them and they know it. Well, that's enough of good bird photos. On to the crappy ones.

It's that time of winter, when the cold clamps down and supplies of natural bird food are dwindling. As I write, the temperature is plunging through the twenties, despite brilliant sun and blue sky. Tonight's going to be in the single digits, brrrr!

When the ground freezes, European starlings come in hordes to my feeders. I am an unrepentant snob when it comes to feeding good suet dough to starlings. Hence my newly coined term, "Snob feeding." If the starlings would just take a little food and leave, like all the rest of the birds do, that would be fine. But starling style (dare I call it Eurostyle?) is to descend in a pack of a dozen or more, crowd, squabbling, into the dish, and vacuum up every bit of food. Before they depart, they unload the foul contents of their caecums into the food dish for me to clean up. (No, clearly I dare not.) What doesn't go into the dish goes all over our front stoop. They sit all day in the sumac on our north border and watch for me to put out more food, and they try to beat the bluebirds, Carolina wrens, cardinals, titmice and woodpeckers to it. Usually, they succeed. If starlings weren't exotic birds, and so aggressive and abundant, I'd probably put up with their gluttony. But the filth they leave everywhere puts me over the edge.

Making suet dough is enough work, especially when I'm mixing up the recipe times ten, that this starling problem had to be addressed. So, taking the advice I hand out so freely to others, I got out my so-called "bluebird feeders" and once again tried to make them work to everyone's advantage but the starlings'.

This Plexi-sided feeder has proven to be an unequivocal flop. It's a great looking feeder, a nice concept, and I'm sure that somewhere on Planet Earth, there are happy bluebirds and chickadees going in and out of a feeder just like this one. However...I've been trying to entice birds to use it for five years now, and I have never had a single bird, blue or otherwise, enter it via the entrance holes in each side. Cardinals perch on the side railings and peer forlornly at the dough locked within. Chances that a cardinal would enter a hole are nil, anyway. Carolina wrens peek and lean in, occasionally snagging a morsel. I think it's because it looks like some kind of trap. It's been hanging up for two weeks now, stuffed with suet dough, and the most action it's gotten is a pair of tufted titmice, perching and peeking in one hole. But as bold and innovative as titmice are, neither one has dared enter. One year I put it out and found the same results after a couple of weeks. So I opened up the hinged top, and birds would hop down inside it to get suet dough. But that defeats the purpose, which is to exclude birds that can't enter a 1 1/2" hole. So I reluctantly give this feeder an F, and will consign it to eternity.

This little feeder is somewhat more successful. The principle is that it excludes all birds that can't or won't enter through the 1 1/2" square wire mesh holes. It's a little more user friendly, since the bird doesn't have to squeeze through a hole and enter a completely enclosed area. After a couple of days of sitting unused, a pair of Carolina wrens and a couple of titmice learned to use it. The starlings also figured out that if they stuck their heads inside and stretched their necks all the way out they could vacuum up all the suet dough. Putting the dough in a small plastic dish in the center solved this. But a problem remained: Cardinals, woodpeckers, juncoes and the bluebirds I was trying to entice refused to go inside. In past years I've had bluebirds enter this feeder successfully. It's a matter of giving them time to get used to it. So this feeder was marginally successful, but nothing to write home about, because it's just too small all around to completely defeat the starlings. I often wonder if feeder manufacturers bother to give prototypes to people like me who can test them before going into production. Apparently not, in many cases. The small size of most feeders available today has to do not with utility or efficacy, but solely with whether or not they'll fit on store shelves. Starlings have a reach of more than three inches by just stretching their necks, and this little feeder encloses an area about 9 x 9". So there's a three-inch "safe zone" at the very center of the inside. Hmmph.
There had to be some other solution, given that the "bluebird feeders" I have are both failures, from a number of standpoints.

I decided to use the starling's natural (and well-founded) fear of humans to my advantage. I'd feed suet dough only when I was in the kitchen to watch it. This is easy enough to do, since I'm in the kitchen for a couple of hours in the morning and a couple in the evening, fixing lunches and breakfasts, cooking dinner. I put my birdbath pedestal on top of my bonsai bench, which stands just beneath the kitchen window. I put the suet dough dish on top of that, neatly bringing it up to window level. This is a great arrangement, since the whole affair is under the eave, which keeps the food dry. The dish is snugged right up against the kitchen window, which means that I am about two feet away from it. And I make a terrific scarecrow.Tufted titmice are usually the first to try anything around here. They're inquisitive, smart, and bold. But even the juncoes and song sparrows are becoming accustomed to the new arrangement.My first Carolina chickadee at the new location. Yes, it's me. The Dough Lady. You know me. Don't look so spooked.At first, the birds all avoided the dish, but I was patient. I knew that my true friends would come to accept it if I would only wait. At first, they only came in ones and twos, and only when I was out of the kitchen. About ten days into it, I'm delighted to report that most of the birds are now using the "snob feeder" when I'm in the kitchen, especially if the kitchen lights are off. Titmice and cardinals will come when I'm standing right at the window, and the bluebirds are rapidly acclimating to me as well. Hey, it's not like they don't know who I am. These are the same birds that stare me down, begging shamelessly, when I'm writing in the tower. They know darn well who I am, and they know that I'm the person who puts the dough out for them. And they're cool with it. We're friends.
I really like it when the bluebirds feel comfortable enough to turn their backs on me. That is something I can assure you the starlings NEVER do. A subtle refinement of this new system is to pile the suet dough on the side of the dish nearest the window, so the birds have to come right up against the glass to feed. The starlings don't like that, and I have seen only one house sparrow venture on this feeder. That's saying something.

The starlings are not cool with feeding two feet away from me. I make horrible faces and lunge at them should they be so bold. This photo was taken while I was standing well back from the window in the darkened kitchen, and just a millisecond before I yelled BLAAA! and waved my arms. The starlings didn't come back for the rest of the morning. I have to laugh, because when I drive up from being in town, the "snob feeder" is full of starlings. They know when I'm away and take that opportunity to clean up all the food. But they're decidedly uncomfortable with eating in front of me. They get strong negative reinforcement when they dare. And I actually have suet dough left in the dish at dusk.

For now, two weeks into it, this is working well. I get ridiculously close looks at all my favorite birds. They get good food, unmolested by starlings. I don't have to wash the dish twice a day. My suet dough output has gone from over a pound a day to about 1/3 pound. That's as it should be. What's the sense of putting expensive, labor-intensive bird food out and not hanging around to see who eats it? When you think about it, it makes sense to feed a premium food like this in a highly structured way, at the same time of day. That way, the birds you want to attract learn when it's available, and the birds you don't want have to lump it, because you're there guarding it. The system is based on snobbery, on the natural spookiness of starlings, and on the bond of trust I've built with the birds I feed. Snob feeding.
Action like this right by your kitchen window is its own reward. I know these pictures are awful, but it was the darkest rainy day ever, and I haven't had a chance to get up and clean the outside glass. I just had to show you what all goes on now outside my window as I'm cooking and washing dishes. As you can see, sunny days are worse yet for photography! This is a bluebird with a cardinal. Check out the hind toe length on this white-breasted nuthatch. Nice hook to hang by.How nice to see Mr. Redbelly conquer his shyness! Help yourself! We're all friends here at Birdie Cheers.
If you're around at predictable times a day, and you're having trouble with starlings eating all your good Zick dough,** you might want to try something like this. A large, high-quality cage excluder feeder is a good place to start. But it's really rewarding to train the birds you like most to trust you and eat in your presence. And they'll like you, and trust you right back.

**There. I wrote it. I still have to suppress a startled "Waaak!" when I see people I've never met calling it Zick Dough on their blogs. I keep forgetting that we're all out there, introducing ourselves, every day.

Good New Is, The Bluebirds Hatched...

I've had a lot of e-mails about the five bluebird eggs in my front yard box, which were due to hatch April 12 or 13. Short answer: Yes, they hatched, at least four of the five did. There's also a long answer, as there usually is here in my little laboratory, where natural events rarely go unobserved, where there's always a bigger issue lurking beneath most interactions between me and the birds whose lives I affect. That's the stuff of another post; right now I've got some supreme weirdness to report.

On the evening of April 12, the eggs were pipping. There were pinpoint cracks in the big end of each one. The chicks were making their way to freedom. April 13 dawned cold and spitting rain (what else is new?), but turned out to be a surprisingly nice day, with highs in the 50's and intermittent sun all afternoon. By 9 AM, two bluebirds had hatched. Since it was dry and reasonably warm for the first time in many days, I left the little family alone, not wanting to disturb them as they got acquainted. I had ordered 10,000 of the smallest mealworms sold by Nature's Way.
Tim Vocke, proprietor, is a friend and great supporter of my work (his company sponsors my column, Watcher at the Window, for the Backyard Bird Newsletter.) Tim grows and ships what are, in my opinion, the best and cleanest mealworms available.

The weather reports for the weekend were frankly horrible. Highs in the 40's, lows in the 30's, mixed rain and snow. That turned out to be charitable. Sunday was freezing cold, and we got an inch and a half of rain all told. I knew that the nestlings could survive most of their first day on what was left of their yolk sacs, which start out external and through the process of embryonic development are incorporated into their guts. On hatch day (Friday) afternoon, I put a lid full of mealworms on the roof of the box. The wind was blowing a gale, so I duct-taped it to the top of the box. Later that afternoon, I found it upside down on the lawn, and figured it had blown off. So I got up Saturday morning before light, refilled it, and taped it down even more firmly. I didn't know if the bluebirds would accept the tiny larvae as a suitable food for newly hatched chicks, but I figured it was worth a try.

Over 20-plus years of feeding mealworms to bluebirds, I've learned a lot. One of these hard-won lessons is this: Bluebirds will not feed regular-sized mealworms to their chicks until the babies are at least six days old. I had never tried tiny mealworms (1/2" to 1/4" in length). I already had my doubts that their refusal to offer mealworms to young babies was a size issue; I think it's more a tenderness issue. Bluebirds instinctively know what foods are right for their young, and they vary the offerings according to the age of the chicks. So when the chicks are new and tiny, they feed them soft, small larvae and spiders. They aren't going to try to jam a grasshopper down their throats. As the chicks grow, they gradually increase the size and toughness of the insects they offer. The problem with mealworms is that they have a whole lot of chitin on them--the hard exoskeleton that makes them feel smooth and shiny. Tiny mealworms have proportionately more chitin than big ones. But I couldn't think of any other live food that's commercially available that would be small enough for newly hatched chicks. Look at your pinky fingernail. Their open bills are not even that big. It was an imperfect solution, but it seemed like it was worth a try.

Sure enough, the bluebirds looked in the dish, picked out the large mealworms and nubbles of suet dough I'd put in there for them, ate those, and ignored the mini-worms. Rats, rats, rats. I wasn't surprised, but I was disappointed. Early on Saturday morning, I decided to take a few minutes out of a busy day and watch the box for awhile to see what was going on. The female bluebird appeared, holding something medium-sized and wobbly, perhaps a caterpillar. She took it into the nest box. The male kept visiting the mealworm dish, picking out the larger mealworms. He'd take them to a perch, think about it for a moment, then eat them. Then it happened. He flew down to the dish, squatted, and peered underneath it. Circled around and peered again. With one swift, decisive movement, he grabbed the pad of duct tape that held the dish to the roof of his box, yanked it, and ripped the whole thing, mealworms and all, off the box. Twenty-five feet he flew, lugging the heavy lid, raining tiny mealworms the whole way. He dropped it in the grass and returned to his lookout on the wire overhead.

I was astounded, gasping for breath and laughing. I've been feeding bluebirds this way for many years, and I've never had one do that. I could only wonder at what was going through his mind. My first hypothesis was that he didn't like the idea of attracting cardinals, titmice, juncos, and blue jays (the last being known nest predators) to the roof of his nesting box. All of those species had seen me put the food out and were hanging around; titmice, cardinals and juncos had already landed on the box to snatch a mealworm. Smart bluebird. He's right: you don't want a bunch of other birds, especially chick-eating blue jays, landing on your nest box. I decided to offer food some distance away, and take the attention away from the box. Sorry about that. My other hypothesis was a little less charitable: This is very unusual behavior. Maybe he's got a screw loose.

Having established that the food I was offering was not being given to the nestlings, and that, thanks to the unseasonable cold, the adults were not able to find adequate amounts of natural food, I decided to start supplementing the chicks' diet. I mixed up a slurry of soaked kitten chow and calcium/vitamin supplement, warmed it nicely, put it in my smallest syringe, and marched out in the cold rain to the nestbox. It was noon on Saturday. I was shocked to find only two chicks and an unhatched egg. One of those chicks, despite my best efforts to revive it, was already dead. Zow. That was fast. What had happened to the other two chicks? Had they already died and been removed by the adults? They only hatched yesterday morning, and they should have been able to survive that first day just fine--it was mostly sunny, and tolerably warm. I fed the lone remaining live chick and removed the dead one. Good grief, this was weird. I'd seen a lot of chicks succumb to bad spring weather and food shortages, but I'd never had any die that soon after hatching or be removed so promptly by the adults. More typically, I'd have to remove them. Hmmmmm.

Over the next three hours, I syringe-fed the lone remaining chick every half-hour, leaving it in the nest box so as not to sever the bond between it and its parents, and was pleased to see its color and vigor improve. The female bluebird sat closely on it and the unhatched egg, leaving momentarily when I'd open the box, returning when I'd leave. At least they were warm and dry. This could work. It would be a pain in the neck, but I was pretty sure that I could pull this chick through the weekend as long as the adults hung in there with me. I'd done it before, most notably in a weekend snowstorm last April 24, when I pulled five boxes full of babies through that way (and almost wore myself out doing it). I was absolutely sure that the chick would die unless I fed it. Even if the weather were to turn warm and sunny, how many small, tender larvae could have survived more than a week of sub-freezing nights?

Three o'clock rolled around, and Bill and I were slated to help serve food at the local elementary school carnival--an all-day sucker. We'd already planned to take two cars, so I could race back and give the chick a few feedings before nightfall. I went out to the box, and the female bluebird shot out. And the chick I'd been feeding was gone. Now, hold on just a minute. I KNOW that chick was alive. It was alive and eating a half-hour ago. It was doing better! I cast an eye up, to the phone wire overhead. The male bluebird sat, looking down at the sad scene--me holding a nest containing one unhatched (and, it turns out, dead-in-shell) egg. I searched the lawn all around the box, thinking that perhaps I could find the chick, still alive and squirming in the wet grass. Nothing. I thought about the male bluebird and the jar lid, and turned over the loose-screw hypothesis in my head.

Birds are funny creatures. They're individuals, and given a set of stimuli, no two individuals will react in exactly the same way. I have known many of the bluebirds that live on our property for season after season. I know which ones like to use grape bark and rootlets, and which ones like to use grass to build their nests. I know which ones are fussy about hygiene, and which ones are so slovenly that I find myself removing fecal sacs from their schmutzy nests. I know which ones seem not to fear me at all, and which ones swoop low over my head, snapping their bills as I check to make sure all is well in their houses.

I can't help but think that the male bluebird's display of "housecleaning" behavior--removing the dish from the roof of his box--could be linked to the sudden disappearance of his own young. There is a mental leap that birds must take when the nice, smooth eggs in their nests suddenly begin to crack, and squirming pink chicks emerge from their broken halves. The parent birds need to be accepting of this change. Part of what helps them accept the strange new objects in their nest is the automatic gaping reflex that even the youngest chicks display, blindly raising their heads and opening their tiny bills. Ah. This the parent understands, in an instinctive way, even if it's a first-time event. I must poke some food into that mouth! Now imagine if that gaping reflex ceases, as it would as a chick loses strength in the face of starvation. Here are these fleshy objects in my nest. Where are my beautiful blue eggs? Perhaps they're hidden under these things. I'll take those out, and maybe I'll uncover my eggs... Significantly, the unhatched egg is still in the nest as I write, early Monday morning. It's cold as a stone, but it has not been removed. This argues strongly that a house sparrow or other nest box competitor was not the culprit in the chicks' disappearance.

I may never know what was going on in that male bluebird's head, if indeed he was the one who removed his own chicks, dead and alive, but then again, I might get the chance to figure it out. He's the resident territorial male here in the yard, top dog, with the best territory. He and his mate will doubtless try again, probably in the same box, and I will be here, watching, and trying in my clumsy way to help, as I have been for 15 years. For better or worse, in sickness and in health, through snow and rain and gloom of night, we're in this together. And, given time and patience, I might just figure out what happened here.