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Over the last 10 days or so, I've been spending a lot of time on ladders, giving the old homestead a much-needed coat of paint. Up there at a level even with the tops of our flowering crabs and ash tree, and almost into the upper reaches of the pines and spruce that border our yard, is a good place to eavesdrop on the dialogue of the neighborhood birds.

I'm far from an expert on bird songs, or what passes for speech in their world, but I have the common ones down pretty well. I've been hearing a lot from several of the birds that stay with us all winter, ones we can count on to keep us company by making appearances at our bird feeders.

Most conspicuous have been the blue jays, whose urgent, almost angry conversations are fitting for a bird that is bold, aggressive, sometimes even a raider of other birds' nests. Ornithologists - the "bird guys" - say that this trait is exaggerated, and that studies of blue jay stomachs turn up the remains of eggs or nestlings only 1 or 2 percent of the time. On the other hand, I have seen a blue jay doing its best to consume a field mouse - whether predation or "road kill," I cannot say - which proves that they do have a taste for meat.

Blue jays, according to the ornithologists, have a more complex social system than many songbirds, with strong social bonding. This may explain their being so vocal, almost to the point of argument, it seems (not so unlike human families!). Blue jays sometimes cache food for later retrieval, something that is true their northern relative, the gray or Canada jay. That, too, seems pretty sophisticated for a creature with a "bird brain."[[In-content Ad]]

They're credited with helping to expand the range of oak forests in this country, by burying acorns that are never retrieved. While they're not migratory in the sense of some songbirds that trade Minnesota for the tropics in winter, blue jays may move substantial distances, in large, loose flocks in spring and fall. Birds at our winter feeders may, in fact, be birds from farther north that have replaced "locals" that moved farther south.

Even more a vocal reminder of fall for me is the white-breasted nuthatch. Maybe the nuthatch "speaks" more, and louder, at this time of year. Or, the cast of songbird characters may be thinning out with the departure of early migrants, and I hear the nuthatches better. Maybe I also notice them because the nuthatch is one of the few birds whose world is often upside-down, as it walks facing downward on the trunks of trees, foraging for insects

The nuthatch is not showy, but dressed conservatively in muted, gray-blue plumage above, with a whitish breast and under parts, and a hood-like, black cap that extends down the back of its neck. It's understated in voice, too, at least compared to the vocabulary of the blue jay. The nuthatch has a monotone, nasal call that has been described as a "yank ... yank," or an "amph ... amph" sound.

The nuthatch supposedly gets its name from its habit of jamming seeds, nuts or acorns into crevices in trees, where it can more effectively hammer away at them with its sharp bill, to "hatch" the seed or nut. You'll see them doing that very thing with sunflower seeds, when they stop by for a "take out" meal at your backyard bird feeder.

My third transition songbird of fall is the black-capped chickadee, or just plain chickadee to most Minnesotans, who rarely see its northern relative, the boreal chickadee, which is more common in the dense conifer forests of Canada. The boreal is a shy bird that prefers the shaded interiors of great spruces to the "bright lights, big city" of residential yards and bird feeders.

An opposite in personality, "our" chickadee is inquisitive and trusting, investigating whatever or whomever it encounters in the territory it calls home. Like the nuthatch, it is a regular at winter bird feeders; it especially goes for suet, sunflower and thistle seeds.

The familiar "chick-a-dee-dee-dee" that gives the bird its name also becomes its alarm call - they say - when more "dees" are added, and its ramps up in intensity. Other chickadees are said to freeze and remain immobile until they hear a more relaxed "chick-a-dee-dee-dee," giving the all-clear. It also has a more muted and calm "fee - bee" call, the first note higher-pitched than the second. A third note - a second "bee" at this lower pitch - is sometimes added.

I'm one of those poor hosts who do not fill their feeders throughout the summer. Apparently the local chickadees aren't holding that against me, for lately I've been hearing more of their familiar namesake tune as I perch on my ladder - paint brush in hand - and crane my neck to find the source. Maybe they would be easier to spot if I would dust off the feeders and offer them a free meal.

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