I was in the dentist’s office recently, reclining for an hour in the hygienist’s chair with no other duties but to rinse and spit. My mind wandered, as it often does.
Suddenly, it hit me. America’s recent desire to take over Canada is partially the fault of the birding community. Just look at the way we name birds.
In Maine, you can find American wigeons, American black ducks, American coots, American oystercatchers, American golden-plovers, American woodcocks, American bitterns, American three-toed woodpeckers, American pipits, American kestrels, American crows, American robins, American goldfinches, American tree sparrows and American redstarts.
You can also find Canada warblers, Canada jays and Canada geese.
How did it happen that some birds are named after a country — Canada — but others are named American, as if they are somehow possessed by our country, or are at least specifically associated with it? Or maybe they are just more patriotic than similar birds?
Other species are named after places without implying possession. In Maine, you can find a Virginia rail, but there is no such thing as a Virginian rail.
It’s a Carolina wren, not a Carolinian wren. We have Tennessee warblers, but not Tennessean warblers. I can tell you exactly where to look for a Louisiana waterthrush, but not a Louisianian waterthrush.
“But, wait,” you say. “What about Virginia’s warbler out west?” Nope. That bird was named for Mrs. Virginia Anderson, the wife of the man who first collected the bird in New Mexico in 1858.
The theme continues with birds named after cities. In Maine, you can find Nashville warblers, Cape May warblers, Philadelphia vireos and Baltimore orioles without any hint that the birds are somehow associated with those communities. I
In fact, except for the oriole, those birds are rarely found in the cities for which they are named.
As I endured my final flossing, one last thought crossed my mind. Thank goodness there is no bird named after Greenland.
Two days later, I was walking quietly on a back road, listening for owls, when I began to wonder why is it called the great horned owl? Other owls have horns. What makes this one so great?
Size certainly matters. Three species of screech owl in this country have horns, as does the long-eared owl. In fact, the long-eared owl resembles a great horned owl.
Some birds are great. Some are greater. Why the difference, and which one is better?
Maine has great blue herons, great egrets, great black-backed gulls, great cormorants and great-crested flycatchers. In the latter case, the hyphen in the name seems to imply that only its crest is great.
Lucky birders at sea in late summer can spy great shearwaters, or even a rare great skua. Really lucky birders might discover a great gray owl overwintering somewhere in Maine. I’ve seen two here. Maine has great birds.
Maine also has greater birds: the greater scaups and greater yellowlegs, distinguishing them from lesser scaups and lesser yellowlegs.
Maine has little blue herons and little gulls, but no birds that are named large or big. We have least terns, least bitterns, least sandpipers and least flycatchers, but no birds named most.
Don’t get me started on birds with directional names. There are northern cardinals, mockingbirds, shovelers, pintails, gannets, fulmars, waterthrushes, parulas, flickers, goshawks, harriers and saw-whet owls. There are no equivalent species with southern in the name.
Maine is a place to find eastern bluebirds, phoebes, towhees, meadowlarks, kingbirds, wood-pewees, whip-poor-wills and screech-owls. Six of the eight have western-named equivalents. There are no birds named western phoebe or western towhee.
Maine is visited by western sandpipers in late summer, yet there is no such thing as an eastern sandpiper.
I’d like to think bird names were historically chosen after a great deal of thought and consideration. I’m starting to think they’re just the end product of a drinking game.
Even recent history is guilty. The jay named for Canada held that nomenclature from 1831 to 1957. It was then erroneously renamed gray jay, as ornithologists worked to properly identify subspecies. It took 60 years to correct the mistake, and the bird officially became the Canada jay again in 2018.
And that great shearwater? Until 2010, it was called the greater shearwater. I guess we’re making shearwaters great again.
