What Audubon Called the Birds, Part II

In the last edition of What Audubon Called the Birds, I focused on some old bird names that we should go back to using.  Well, I'm back with more bird names - straight from the 1800s.

Carolina Turtle-Dove - now known as Mourning Dove
As a Carolina-born birder, I get a little sense of pride every time I hear a bird with "Carolina" in its name.  Carolina Chickadee, Carolina Wren, Porzana carolina - why not have Carolina Turtle-Dove join the ranks?  Have you ever seen a Mourning Dove actually look sad?  Hell no.  They sit on tree branches and power lines, chase each other around, and eat seeds.  Sure, their call is "mournful", but so is literally every other dove's song.  Carolina Turtle-Dove only makes sense here (though I would accept a shortened "Carolina Dove" as well).

Much better.

Ferruginous Mocking-bird - now known as Brown Thrasher
I love the word "ferruginous", so I may be a little biased.  But Brown Thrashers aren't exactly brown, as I found out.  They are, indeed, the rusty iron color of ferruginous.  I do like the word "Thrasher" though, so I think a compromise may be needed.  Let's go with "Ferruginous Thrasher" and call it a day.  It's a more accurate name, plain and simple.

Bergomaster - now known as Glaucous Gull
Burgomaster is German for "Mayor" or "Master of the Town", a fantastic moniker for this large and somewhat intimidating Larus.  I don't have any idea who started calling them Bergomasters, but I like it.  Glaucous makes me think of Glaucoma anyway, which is definitely NOT a disease a birder wants to get.

The most badass name for the most badass gull.

Great Cinerous Owl - now known as Great Gray Owl
C'mon.  Great Gray Owls aren't just gray.  They are cinerous, which is an ashy gray tinged with brown.  "Cinerous" is also tinged with just enough 19th-century romanticism to make this already-majestic bird even better.  Slam dunk.  Now if only I could see one...

Hudsonian Curlew - now known as Whimbrel
Ignoring the fact that we may return to this name anyway (or to the similar "Hudsonian Whimbrel"), I think "Hudsonian Curlew" bears a more authentic North American flair than "Whimbrel" does.  Why do we use the European name here anyway? Do we call Black-bellied Plovers "Grey Plovers"?  Or Brants "Brent Geese"?  No, we're not British.  And I want to start calling them HUCUs (pronounced HooKoos).  "Hey, did you see the big flock of HUCUs at the inlet?"  Yes, yes I did.

HUCU in North Carolina, at the aforementioned "inlet".

Acadian Owl - now known as Northern Saw-whet Owl
Some may object to changing the name of what is arguably the cutest of America's birds, but hear me out.  We need more "Acadian" birds to join the ranks of my local "pizza!" spewing Empidonax flycatcher.  Acadia was an area in the Northeast settled by the French (Acadie was the French name for Nova Scotia), a fitting location name for this little owl.  And no one knows what the sound of a "saw whetting" even is these days, so the new name is obsolete.

This owl is angry someone changed his name to Saw-whet.

I challenge the birding councils to consider my requests.  Our pastime would be much richer if we could return to these antique names.

Audubon's images from Audubon.org's page on Birds of America.  I feel like I should owe them something at this point.

Vagrants, Before Birding

Everyone knows Audubon's paintings of extinct birds - the Carolina Parakeet, Great Auk, Passenger Pigeon, Eskimo Curlew, and Ivory-billed Woodpecker.  However, while working on my What Audubon Called the Birds post, I realized that the great American ornithologist also found some pretty incredible rarities.  He saw a male Smew in Louisiana.*  A pair of Snowy Owls in Kentucky.  Not one, not two, but THREE Curlew Sandpipers along the coast.   This left me wondering - what kind of birds were showing up in North America before birding even got started?  This was an age where, instead of reporting a rarity to eBird or the listserv, you shot it into oblivion.  It seems likely that birds such as the Smew and Curlew Sandpiper had much larger populations in the Old World than they do today - so did they visit America in proportionately higher numbers?  Were birds showing up back then that have yet to be added to the ABA Checklist?  Let's take a closer look at some of the more intriguing species recorded during the 19th century.  (Note - Reading Rare Birds of North America a couple times by no means makes me an expert on vagrancy, but it's fun to speculate sometimes. Enjoy.)

The "Mango Humming-bird"

The "Mango Hummingbird" was not actually seen by Audubon, but he received specimens from a friend.  They (at least two) were supposedly shot in the Florida Keys.  The Audubon website lists this species as the Black-throated Mango - which seems unlikely, considering it is a strictly South American bird.  My mind jumped to Green-breasted Mango, the Mango that strays into the ABA area with some frequency.  But the illustration just isn't right.  The juvenile male has a black throat, and the adults look a little "off" too.  The female specimen, Audubon admits, was likely not collected in the US - but the other birds probably were.  All three birds in his illustration closely resemble the Antillean Mango, seen below.  It is entirely within the realm of possibility that a Caribbean hummingbird would stray north into the United States - e.g. the Bahama Woodstar in Pennsylvania.  Additionally, Green-breasted Mango vagrants tend to go North and East from Mexico, bypassing Southern Florida altogether.  It seems plausible (though not probable) that the bird encountered in Key West by Audubon's friend was an Antillean Mango (or another Anthracothorax sp.), a bird not currently on the ABA checklist.

Antillean Mango - a possible 19th Century stray to Florida?
(From Princeton University Press, Birds of the Dominican Republic and Haiti)

The "Black-headed Goldfinch"

What Audubon depicts here is a perfect match for the Black-headed Siskin, a Mesoamerican species. Audubon claims to have seen five of these birds on "one cold morning in December" near his home in Henderson, Kentucky.  He goes on to say that "their notes resembled those of the Pine [Siskin]..."and that he managed to shoot and procure two birds. His description is quite detailed, and lacks the vagueness that some of his other species accounts are known to have. Finches do wander, sometimes in flocks - it seems highly unlikely, but not impossible (nothing with birds is impossible), that this Mexican species of finch would wander north into the Ohio Valley. The world was experiencing a substantially different climate than that of today - the Northern Hemisphere was still within the grips of the "Little Ice Age."

However, I don't think this report would pass muster with a state bird records committee, had one existed at the time.  It seems more likely that Audubon encountered these birds elsewhere, or obtained them from a friend. He may have wanted to include this striking siskin in Birds of America (which was basically his life list), and simply changed the report to the central US.  After all, birders have been known to see a species in one location and purposefully report it from another.  Maybe Audubon was America's first stringer as well...  At any rate, it is intriguing, especially since Black-headed Siskin has been predicted to be one of the next vagrants to the ABA area.

The Scarlet Ibis

The Scarlet Ibis is on the ABA checklist, but US records have been questioned on the grounds of provenance.  Audubon claims: 

"... I have found the Scarlet Ibis less numerous than even the Glossy Ibis; indeed I have not met with more than three individuals in a state of liberty, in the whole range of the United States. These birds occurred at Bayou Sara, in Louisiana, on the 3d of July, 1821." 

Scarlet Ibises occuring as vagrants in Louisiana make complete sense.  It is safe to say that these birds were natural vagrants (how many zoos had Scarlet Ibises in 1821?), and that Audubon did, indeed, see these birds.  Audubon was certainly lucky in finding this species for is ABA list!  I also like how he considers "even rarer than Glossy Ibis" to be a strong statement of this bird's scarcity.

The Gigantic Fulmar

We don't usually associate pelagic birds with antiquity, but many species were seen with more frequency than today.  Everyone travelled by ship - and although they weren't seeking out rarities, these sailors definitely took notice of tubenoses.  

I saw this and couldn't resist.
Giant Petrel, or "Gigantic Fulmar", from Eve of the Emperor Penguin: A Merlin Mission (Magic Treehouse #40).

Perhaps the most fascinating pelagic report from the 19th century involves a specimen of a "Gigantic Fulmar, shot at some distance from the mouth of the Columbia river" which was sent to Audubon by his good friend Townsend (of Solitaire, Shearwater, and Warbler fame).   It is said to be "frequent in the southern seas", scavenging on the remains of dead animals.  This, coupled with his description of an albatross-sized bird that resembles the fulmar "in form and proportions" matches that of the Giant-Petrels.   Both the Northern and Southern Giant-Petrels, like the Black-headed Siskin, were listed as one of the next vagrants to the ABA area back in 2000 (Pranty et al.).  Could it be that one of these two species strayed north toward the Oregon coast during the early 19th Century?

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In writing this post, I think I have proven my obsession with historical records of rare birds.  Hell, these are so old they're not even considered records - more like "unconfirmed sightings".  Hopefully this has been a small glimpse into rarities from before birding was a "thing" - and I'm sure there are more old reports somewhere out there worth exploring, too.  

Thanks to audubon.org's page on Birds of America for the illustrations and much of the information. 

*Correction 3/12/15: It was a female, not a male, Smew shot (or so he claims) by Audubon in Louisiana.

What Audubon Called The Birds

No character in history, with the possible exception of Roger Tory Peterson, has had such a profound impact on America's perception of birds as John James Audubon.  However, when looking through his works, a few things stand out as being, well, a little "different" from what the modern birder is accustomed to.  For the life of me, I cannot figure out what the hell the Carbonated Swamp-Warbler or the Washington's Eagle even are.  Some birds' names have been changed completely - leaving behind their colorful colloquial roots to occupy a more utilitarian space in our 21st century language.  This is a shame - Audubon probably had a lot more fun identifying birds by these "antiquated" names than we ever will by our modern, AOU-certified ones.  Let's explore some of my personal favorites from Audubon's extensive repertoire:

Aquatic Wood-Wagtail - Now known as Louisiana Waterthrush

I can't think of a more fascinating name for one of my favorite birds.  A Wood-Wagtail?  It sounds so exotic.  Let's face it - Louisiana Waterthrushes have hardly anything to do with Louisiana.  They do, however, wag their tails emphatically, live along wooded streams, and enjoy water.  Sure, it makes you think of those pipit-like Eurasian birds, but technically it's not a "thrush" either.  So I propose we return to our ancestral American roots and change the common name back to AWWA.

Red Palarope - Now known as Red Phalarope

I know this is just a misspelling, but it made me laugh.  If any bird would be your pal, it would be the Red Palarope.

They just look friendly, don't they?  Like lil' buddies.

Hyperborean Phalarope - Now known as Red-necked Phalarope

"Hyperborean" comes from the Greek word for a mythical people that lived beyond the North Wind, a fitting (and mysterious) name for a bird that breeds in the Arctic and migrates offshore.  Come on y'all - this is so cool.  "Red-necked" just makes me think of muddin' and Jeff Foxworthy.  We could make this name even better by calling it the Hyperborean Palarope instead.  

Some Hyperborean Palaropes the Birder's Conundrum team saw off Cape Hatteras.

Foolish Guillemot - Now known as Common Murre

Back before I was a birder, I went on a puffin-watching trip in Newfoundland.  On the way to the breeding colony, the captain of our boat pointed out a few chunky seabirds desperately trying to take off.  He told us that they were Murres who had eaten too much, and thus couldn't fly.  That's pretty foolish.  I think "Foolish Guillemot" is an excellent name that should be reinstated.

Scolopaceous Courlan - Now known as Limpkin

This has to be my favorite of these names, if only because of the sheer ridiculousness of the first word.  "Scolopaceous" means "woodcock-like" (remember Scolopax is the genus that Woodcocks fall under).  Why an adjective would be created to mean something so specific as "woodcock-like", I have no idea.  "Limpkin" sounds like something I don't really want to look up on Urban Dictionary.  So Scolopaceous Courlan is definitely preferred here.

Scolopaceous Courlan - Barra del Colorado, Costa Rica

Tell-tale Godwit  - Now known as Greater Yellowlegs

"Tell-tale" makes me think of Edgar Allen Poe, so this name automatically gets bonus points.  The name "tell-tale" actually refers to their noisy call, which would often give away a hunter's position before he could approach a flock of shorebirds (I'm sure this has happened to birders too).  Greater Yellowlegs is a fitting name, but Tell-tale Godwit is more poetic, don't you think?

Illustrations from audubon.org