What makes a cedar waxwing sing
Hey all! I’d been casting about for a good newsletter topic, and I’m still working on a few more detailed ideas, but in the meantime I found this story earlier today that I absolutely have to share with you.
Firstly, though, an exciting update: I’m headed back to the UK for a conference in July! I’ll be collaborating with my dear friend, the incredibly talented professional mezzo Patricia Hammond, on a lecture-recital at the inaugural conference of the International Nineteenth-Century Studies Association at the University of Durham. We’re going to talk about Claribel’s awesome life and career, of course, but we’re also going to talk about Phyllis Smith’s process of excavating Claribel’s story and perform some of Claribel’s songs, with Patricia singing and me playing piano. We plan to do some of her biggest hits e.g. “Five O’Clock in the Morning,” as well as some much deeper cuts like “Tell It Not” (music by Claribel and lyrics from a poem by Lady Charlotte Elliott, AKA “Florenz”). I have no clue whether we might be able to get some sort of streaming or video-recording thing set up; if we can work that out, I’ll absolutely share that info with all y’all. Otherwise, if you happen to be within spitting distance of Durham and are free on Thursday, July 11 at 10 AM GMT, come see us in person!
Now to the original reason I wanted to send this email: the story of a cedar waxwing from almost 100 years ago, as related in a 1928 article from the Bulletin of the Northeastern Bird-Banding Association. “The Biography of a Cedar Waxwing,” penned by one Helen Granger Whittle. You can read the article yourself on JSTOR if you’ve got access to that - and hey, even a JSTOR personal account gives you access to up to 100 free articles a month! But if you can’t look at it for whatever reason, never fear, I’ll relay the important parts.
Some of you might be more familiar with birds than I am, but some of you might also be getting ready to Google cedar waxwings like I did. Here’s a very dignified picture of one from the Audubon Society’s species info page, taken by Arni Stinnissen:
But that little plume of feathers atop its head can blow around in all sorts of fun ways, as you can see in the video below, giving it more than a passing resemblance to Arnold Shortman or perhaps Johnny Bravo.
You’ll probably have to watch that video closely to figure out when the bird is actually making noise; it certainly wasn’t obvious to me. It’s a soft and super high-pitched tone, reminiscent of that mosquito-ringtone that seemingly every other kid at my high school had on their phone so they could text in class without the teachers noticing. Helen Granger Whittle corroborates this in her article, saying cedar waxwings are “well known as ‘songless,’ almost voiceless birds” (p. 81) — but the subject of her biography, though he “had the soft, thin, sibilant voice of his race,” was much more of a singer than your average waxwing.
Helen first encountered this bird in 1924, near Peterborough, New Hampshire. As it turned out, this bird didn’t have its proper flight feathers — it couldn’t grow them, for whatever reason. So she and her family adopted this bird for about a year and a half, naming him “Cede” (pronounced like “seedy”). A large portion of the article talks in minute detail about Cede’s feeding habits and various physical measurements, but then Helen switches gears to talk about his singing. I’ll reproduce that section here:
Our Cedarbird was put into a cage on November 2d [1924]. On November 4th, my notes say, “Cede is making his single lisping note frequently, and already answers me when I speak his name, even though I may be across the room.” On November 6th, as his cage stood in a sunny window and I was busy at a little distance, I was delighted and amazed to hear from him a little song. At that time, I had never heard of a Waxwing’s singing. This first song was not long, and not at all loud, but it was distinctly musical and pleasing. It was made up of little trills, interspersed with his usual soft single notes. On November 9th, he “sang frequently all day little trilly, sibilant songs of considerable variety.”
This singing increased in quantity until, as my notes often state during the first winter, he “sang practically all day.” The singing seemed to be an expression of content, a whiling-away of time when no more pressing matters engaged his attention. It was a nearly continuous warbling, a varied arrangement of short trills, some higher, some lower, with a few connecting or finishing single notes, and occasionally a glide. One needed to be rather near to get all the modulations, as the voice was soft. While Cede was, in general, fearless, he was very sensitive to voices and to the presence of strangers, usually relapsing at once into silence when they entered the room. On January 25, 1925, however, Mr. Charles C. Gorst was able to hear fragmentary renderings of the song, and thought the notes ranged from D flat to D flat, four and five octaves above middle C.
During the summer of 1925 the singing was much reduced in quantity, but it was taken up again the following autumn and winter. Sometimes, if Cede seemed pensive and inclined to silence, we could coax him into song by singing to him, lingeringly, a few bars of “I cannot sing the old songs.” Oddly enough, we found no other melody which affected him in this way.
(Whittle p. 82)
Oh, my heart.
There are so, so many things I wish I could tell Claribel, of course, but this is now near the top of my list: a little cedar waxwing in New Hampshire, who couldn’t fly but could sing more than any other member of his species, loved her music enough that even if he felt shy or quiet, he’d sing in response to it.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go spend some time with a box of tissues.
(I’ll try to send another dispatch soon, mes chers!)
Thanks for reading! Find out more about my project at the links below.
Past letters (updated archive coming soon!) | Research materials gift registry