Where Did Those Bird Names Come From? II

A number of people responded favorably to my first Bird Names posting, and I thank both of you. That surge of approval has prompted me to do another one.

Let me begin by telling you what I cannot do. I can’t tell you with any certainty where Gadwall, Grackle, Teal or Tern came from. The philologist William Burley Lockwood (1917-2012), who focused on the derivation of bird names, saw a few of them, as was his wont, as onomatopoetic, though such is unlikely.

Let’s look at Grackle in the catalog of the unknowable. Susan Myers (The Bird Name Book, 2022, Princeton) says that the word derives “from the Latin graculus, supposedly from its gra gra note” (referring to the Eurasian Jackdaw). “However, this may be pure conjecture on the part of the English translator of [a] Latin tome in 1920, and the true identity of the bird is lost in the mists of time.” Never mind confusion about the name. At one time in America “Grackle” comprised many black birds, including the Starling; and in the 18th century Cormorants were classified in the now unused genus Graculus, which did not include Grackles. I do hope you have not been led to know less by reading this.

Speaking of the Cormorant, its name came to English in the 12th century as a French contraction, cormarenc, of the Latin corvus marinus, “sea raven,” Myers tells us. The Cormorants were believed to be related to the Corvids, the Crows. In Norse mythology, Ravens were the eyes and ears of Odin. Christianity, viewing the pagan gods as evil, associated Ravens with Satan. The Ravens’ cause wasn’t helped during the periods of bubonic plague and war, when they fed on corpses left in the streets, to say nothing of battlefields. Since Cormorants were lumped in with Corvids, they were also evil birds. Myers notes this from John Milton’s long 17th century poem Paradise Lost:

Thence up he [Satan] flew, and on the Tree of Life,
The middle Tree and highest there that grew,
Sat like a Cormorant.

You’ve probably seen Cormorants sitting on tree limbs with their wings spread. This is generally not an expression of evil intent. They are trying to dry out, having been underwater for a lengthy time. All About Birds tells us that “They have less preen oil than other birds, so their feathers can get soaked rather than shedding water like a duck’s.” Our only regular representative of the family is the Double-crested Cormorant, though the Neotropic Cormorant, a denizen of Central America, is occasionally showing up in the Southern U.S. and as far north as Illinois.

We’ll stay in the water with the Merganser. This word goes back a long way. Pliny used the word mergus to describe a waterbird in his Natural History. Mergus is the genus of our Mergansers. The Latin mergo (to immerse or plunge) and anser (diver) combined, redundantly describing the same thing (so, a plunging diver). Anser, by the way, also translates as “goose.” The Common Merganser, which occupies territory all over the northern hemisphere, is known in the U.K. as the Goosander (also a redundancy). We are blessed with three species of Merganser in the continental U.S.: the Common Merganser, the Red-breasted Merganser and the striking Hooded Merganser with its amazing white crest, far outdoing the white patch of the Bufflehead (see my first Bird Names posting).

While we’re in the pond, consider the Mallard. In the 1300s the English adopted the Old French word mallart (derived from malle, male) to refer to any male duck. Myers suggests (citing a 1767 French Histoire Naturelle) that the term actually might stem from a French man’s proper name, Maillard. Whatever the case, it’s a duck that is ubiquitous and has, of course, both males and females in its flotillas.

Rails. Also water birds, but not swimmers. They’re stalkers in the marshes and they’re in a big family. The name derives from the Vulgar Latin (the spoken language of the Romans) word rascula (to scrape or rasp) which in 15th century England generated “rale,” and eventually, “rail.” This word is actually onomatopoetic and echoes the rather harsh calls the birds emit. The family of Rails includes Gallinules and Coots, birds mentioned in the first episode of Bird Names. It also includes the

Sora. The name is probably also onomatopoetic, echoing the bird’s call, described in the literature as “so-REE.” And, in fact, as Myers points out, John Latham in his late 18th century book A General Synopsis of Birds called the bird the “SOREE Gallinule.” It was also termed the “Sorus,” which ultimately morphed into our “Sora.” I always hope for a Sora sighting during our Spring migration season and have seen them only twice in 10 years. Sigh.

So what about the Bittern? If you’ve seen herons at all, you’ve probably seen Great Blue Herons, Egrets, Green Herons and the like. You’ve probably never seen a Bittern, another member of the heron family. We have two Bitterns in North America: the Least Bittern and the American Bittern. You don’t see these birds as much as hear them. They are marsh skulkers and difficult to find unless you locate them by their call – which is, as we’ll see, where they get their weird name. The Online Etymology Dictionary says that the word appeared in English “circa 1300 as bitour or botor, from Old French butor ‘bittern,’ which is perhaps from Gallo-Roman butitaurus, from Latin butionem ‘bittern’ + taurus ‘bull’ and it reflects the idea that, to some ears, the bird’s call resembles a bull’s roar. To other listeners the call sounded like a bass drum. Chaucer’s “Wife of Bath Tale” mentions the “bitore [that] bumbleth in the myre,” an observation that persists in our time with the alternate namefor the bird, “mire-drum.” Why? Listen in this link to the sound of the American Bittern and you’ll see: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bAxAEoAVmuc

They are, by the way, in the order Pelicaniformes, and yes, they are related to Pelicans, though taxonomists argue the point. The relationship lies in their webbed feet, with all four toes in the webbing, as well as a comb-mail on their longest toe, used to brush their feathers.

And speaking of Pelicans: Pelican. This relative of the Bittern and of Herons gets its name from a Greek root, pelekys, axe, or at least such is the speculation. Why an axe? Because of its long, thick beak and its hanging pouch, which to observers of the time resembled an axe. The American White Pelican is a Spring and Fall migrant in the Midwest. The Pelican is one of the largest and heaviest flying birds in North America, larger than the Bald Eagle, with a wingspan of up to 10 feet. Those pouches are actually strainers, which drain the water out after the bird in flight scoops fish out of the water. Curiously, according to All About Birds, “Though females lay two eggs, only one chick per nest usually survives—one harasses or kills the other (a behavior known as siblicide).” A 1910 poem about the bird, written by Dixon Lanier Merritt (NOT Ogden Nash!) says,

A wonderful bird is the pelican,
His bill will hold more than his belican.
He can take in his beak
Food enough for a week,
But I’m damned if I see how the hell he can!

About Herons and Egrets. Heron and Egret are essentially the same word. Not the same bird, forsooth, but the words have very similar origins. Myers tells us that in Old English the word for Heron was hrágra, replaced after the Norman conquest with the Old French hairon. In Middle English it was heron, heroun or heiron. All derived from the Proto-Germanic haigrô or hraigrô, which in turn probably came from the Proto-Indo-European root (s)kreig-, to screech or creak. We’re back to onomatopoeia here, a name reflecting the screeching calls of herons as heard by the ears that named the birds. “Egret” came to us as aigrette, the diminutive form of aigron, or heron, in Old French. As with “heron,” “egret” in Old English was hrágra.

We’re all probably feeling waterlogged, talking about all these birds that live in, on or near water. Let’s move along to dry birds. For example, the

Prothonotary Warbler. Where does this little migrant bird get a fancy names like Prothonotary? Certainly not from the sounds it makes! The Prothonotary Warbler is quite yellow of head and breast, with blue-gray wings. They favor swamps and lowland forests, as well as forests along rivers. They are loud, singing, according to some ears, “sweet, sweet, sweet.” But why “prothonotary”? Well, historically, papal scribes and registrars wore bright yellow robes as a designation of their office. The word itself comes from the Greek prótonotários, or “chief scribe” or (more importantly) “chief notary.” So proto- (first) notary (scribe). The bird appears to emulate those notaries in its brilliant yellow plumage.

Parula or Parula Warbler. A name that receives any of three pronunciations, none of them the agreed-upon correct one: pah-ROO-la, PAR-uh-luh, PAR-you-luh. The bird itself has no preference we know of. But what of that odd name? Its name comes from an assignment given it by Linnaeus: Parus americanus, which meant this “new world” warbler belonged, according to Linnaeus, in the tit family with the Titmouse and Chickadee. The Latin parus means “tit” or “titmouse.” Of course, the bird is none of those, even though it seems to forage as a chickadee does. The Latin name carries over to cover the entire family of New World Warblers, the Parulidae.

The warbler family, incidentally, probably helps the chiropractic business more than other bird families do. In migration season, most of the species of warbler forage high up in trees, flitting about rapidly. Birders spotting them and watching them intently complain of a condition known in the birding community as “warbler neck,” an ornithological hazard.

The female and non-breeding male Scarlet Tanager are, of course, yellow-green. It’s the mature, breeding male Scarlet Tanager who is bright red and black. Breeding populations of Scarlet Tanagers migrate into wide areas of the U.S east of Minnesota and Iowa, north into Canada and as far south as Alabama.  Summer Tanagers nest mostly south of the Upper Midwest and Pennsylvania but do appear occasionally in more northern climes.

The Summer Tanager male is the only all-red bird of North America. Nice to know. But “tanager”? What does that mean? The Fall migration of both varieties of Tanager takes them to western South America. It is their winter residential location that earned them their genus name Tanager. The word for the bird in Brazilian Portuguese and in Tupi, an indigenous Brazilian language, might be tangará, the original meaning of which is unknown. Myers says tangará comes from two Tupi words: atá, to walk or jump, and cará, go around, but that the Tupi tangará actually refers to a completely different bird, the Manikin. I’m confused. I’ll ask the next Tanager I see.

So many bird names. Such fun. I have other things to write about, but I’ll come back to this topic at some later date, I promise. Meanwhile, go find a Heron.

I present these facts to you with no egrets and hope you accept them without bittern-ness.

Edmund J McDevitt
©June 2026