Pam’s Perspective
From the…
Pam Otto is the Manager of Natural Programs and
Interpretive Services for the St. Charles Park District
May 11, 2012
“Mew.”
The sound was soft and, at first, easy to overlook. But the longer I spent in the woods, listening
as I walked, the more insistent the caller became.
“Mew…Meew…Meeeww!”
I was supposed to be gathering supplies at the end of “Lay of the Land,” our sixth grade geology
and orienteering program, but the weather was so perfect, I was having trouble staying on task.
As the sun dappled the leaves and ground around me, distractions just kept coming along—a
mourning cloak butterfly smack in the middle of the path (tried to take a picture, but no luck);
great gobs of spittlebug spittle, glistening in the sun (had to poke into one, to see if I could find
the little larva hidden inside); an American toad crawling through the sedges (can’t not stop to
appreciate a toad, warts and all).
And then there was that incessant mewing.
Clearly I’d upset someone’s day in the
woods. And thanks to that cat-like call, it
wasn’t hard to know who it was:
Dumetella carolinensis, the gray catbird.
Boy, talk about a perfect name. This
medium-sized member of the Mimidae, or
mimic family (the same as mockingbirds
and thrashers), is predominantly slate
gray, with a black cap and a dark gray tail.
It’s not entirely monochromatic, though.
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Down below, the patch of feathers known as the undertail coverts are a rusty red color. You can
see these pictured in field guides and, if you’re lucky, in the field. Catbirds, however, are more
likely heard than seen.
Any hard-core Latin buffs out there may recognize the root word dumus, or thorny thicket,
hidden in the genus name. Add on a diminutive suffix and you end up with a name that means,
roughly, “small thornbush dweller,” another apt descriptor. Catbirds typically are found in the
woodland understory, calling from the branches of shrubs and small trees, whether thorny or not.
But what both the common and Latin names leave out is any mention of the catbird’s
phenomenal singing ability.
Are you familiar with scat? (And, no, even though this is a nature column, we’re not talking
about THAT kind of scat. Not this time anyway.) What I’m referring to is the style of singing
where the singer just keeps going on and on, incorporating familiar words or phrases along with
a long string of nonsensical sounds. Ella Fitzgerald was a great scat artist, and so was Cab
Calloway.
And so is the catbird.
Their “mew” sounds, or warning calls, aside, catbirds are accomplished vocalists capable of
producing some of the longest songs in our woods. Their compositions are a combination of
original notes and, true to their mimic roots, bits and pieces borrowed from other birds. One song
can include tweets and peeps, toots and howls, along with parts of songs from robins, orioles or
other songbirds, even the calls of frogs or the drone of machinery.
What really distinguishes the catbird’s song is its length. Like some naturalists I know, the
catbird can go on and on. And on. Songs can last up to 10 minutes—a huge chunk of time when
you consider that life in the woods must also include other necessary tasks like foraging for food
and hiding from predators.
If you should find yourself near a woodland or “thorny thicket” and happen to hear a bird
singing, stop and give a listen. Not sure who is? Be a bad audience member and clear your
throat. Rustle around a little, or clap prematurely. If your actions cause the singing to stop, and if
you’re scolded with a petulant, whining “Mew!” you’ll know you’ve found yourself a catbird, an
avian songster whose bold performances are, say it with me, the cat’s meow.
Pam Otto, who can’t sing to save her life but has no trouble making nonsensical sounds, is the
manager of nature programs and interpretive services for the St. Charles Park District. She can
be reached at 630-513-4346 or potto@stcparks.org.