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Title: Birds and their nests
Author: Howitt, Mary (Mary Botham)
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Birds and their nests" ***
Transcriber’s Notes
Hyphenation has been standardised.
For the CONTENTS on page v, Chapter IX—Peewits 51 was missed from
print in the original, and has been added.
The layout of the Contents continuation page on page vi, has been
changed to replicate the layout of the previous Contents page.
Page 41—changed cemetries to cemeteries.
Page 55—changed artifical to artificial.
BIRDS AND THEIR NESTS.
[Illustration: ROBIN AND NEST.]
BIRDS AND THEIR NESTS,
BY
MARY HOWITT.
[Illustration]
_With Twenty-three Full-page Illustrations by Harrison Weir._
NEW YORK:
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, 416, BROOME STREET.
London: S. W. Partridge & Co., 9, Paternoster Row.
_All rights reserved._
[Illustration: WATSON AND HAZELL,
_Printers_,
London and Aylesbury.]
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Introductory Chapter 1
Chapter I.—THE WREN 8
” II.—THE GOLDFINCH 15
” III.—THE SONG THRUSH 20
” IV.—THE BLACKBIRD 26
” V.—THE DIPPER, OR WATER-OUSEL 33
” VI.—THE NIGHTINGALE 37
” VII.—THE SKYLARK 42
” VIII.—THE LINNET 47
” IX.—THE PEEWIT 51
” X.—HOUSE-MARTINS, OR WINDOW-SWALLOWS, AND NESTS 56
” XI.—CHIFF-CHAFFS, OR OVEN-BUILDERS, AND NEST 66
” XII.—GOLDEN-CRESTED WRENS AND NEST 70
” XIII.—WAGTAIL AND NEST 76
” XIV.—JACKDAW AND NESTLINGS 82
” XV.—SPOTTED FLY-CATCHERS AND NEST 86
” XVI.—WOOD-PIGEONS AND NEST 92
” XVII.—WHITE-THROAT AND NEST 98
” XVIII.—BULL-FINCH AND NESTLINGS 102
” XIX.—MISSEL-THRUSHES AND NEST 106
” XX.—YELLOW-HAMMER, OR YELLOW-HEAD, AND NEST 112
” XXI.—MAGPIE AND NEST 116
” XXII.—NUTHATCH AND NEST 120
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_Birds and their Nests._
INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.
The birds in these pictures of ours have all nests, which is as it
should be; for how could the bird rear its young without its little
home and soft little bed, any more than children could be comfortably
brought up without either a bed to lie upon, or a home in which to be
happy.
Birds-nests, though you may find them in every bush, are wonderful
things. Let us talk about them. They are all alike in the purpose for
which they are intended, but no two families of birds build exactly
alike; all the wrens, for instance, have their kind of nest; the
thrushes have theirs; so has the swallow tribe; so has the sparrow,
or the rook. They do not imitate one another, but each adheres to its
own plan, as God, the great builder and artist, as well as Creator,
taught them from the very beginning. The first nightingale, that sang
its hymn of joyful thanksgiving in the Garden of Paradise, built
its nest just the same as the bird you listened to last year in the
coppice. The materials were there, and the bird knew how to make use
of them; and that is perhaps the most wonderful part of it, for she
has no implements to work with: no needle and thread, no scissors, no
hammer and nails; nothing but her own little feet and bill, and her
round little breast, upon which to mould it; for it is generally the
mother-bird which is the chief builder.
No sooner is the nest wanted for the eggs which she is about to lay,
than the hitherto slumbering faculty of constructiveness is awakened,
and she selects the angle of the branch, or the hollow in the bank or
in the wall, or the tangle of reeds, or the platform of twigs on the
tree-top, exactly the right place for her, the selection being always
the same according to her tribe, and true to the instinct which was
implanted in her at the first.
So the building begins: dry grass or leaves, little twigs and
root-fibres, hair or down, whether of feather or winged seed, spangled
outside with silvery lichen, or embroidered with green mosses, less
for beauty, perhaps—though it is so beautiful—than for the birds’
safety, because it so exactly imitates the bank or the tree-trunk in
which it is built. Or it may be that her tenement is clay-built, like
that of the swallow; or lath and plaster, so to speak, like an old
country house, as is the fashion of the magpie; or a platform of rude
sticks, like the first rudiment of a basket up in the tree-branches, as
that of the wood-pigeon: she may be a carpenter like the woodpecker,
a tunneller like the sand-martin; or she may knead and glue together
the materials of her nest, till they resemble thick felt; but in all
this she is exactly what the great Creator made her at first, equally
perfect in skill, and equally undeviating year after year. This is very
wonderful, so that we may be quite sure that the sparrow’s nest, which
David remarked in the house of God, was exactly the same as the sparrow
built in the days of the blessed Saviour, when He, pointing to that
bird, made it a proof to man that God’s Providence ever watches over
him.
[Sidenote: _Jules Michelet on Birds._]
Nevertheless, with this unaltered and unalterable working after one
pattern, in every species of bird, there is a choice or an adaptation
of material allowed: thus the bird will, within certain limits, select
that which is fittest for its purpose, producing, however, in the end,
precisely the same effect. I will tell you what Jules Michelet, a
French writer, who loves birds as we do, writes on this subject:—“The
bird in building its nest,” he says, “makes it of that beautiful
cup-like or cradle form by pressing it down, kneading it and shaping
it upon her own breast.” He says, as I have just told you, that the
mother-bird builds, and that the he-bird is her purveyor. He fetches in
the materials: grasses, mosses, roots, or twigs, singing many a song
between whiles; and she arranges all with loving reference; first,
to the delicate egg which must be bedded in soft material; then to
the little one which, coming from the egg naked, must not only be
cradled in soft comfort, but kept alive by her warmth. So the he-bird,
supposing it to be a linnet, brings her some horse-hair: it is stiff
and hard; nevertheless, it is proper for the purpose, and serves as a
lower stratum of the nest—a sort of elastic mattress: he brings her
hemp; it is cold, but it serves for the same purpose. Then comes the
covering and the lining; and for this nothing but the soft silky fibre
of certain plants, wool or cotton, or, better still, the down from her
own breast, will satisfy her. It is interesting, he says, to watch the
he-bird’s skilful and furtive search for materials; he is afraid if he
see you watching, that you may discover the track to his nest; and, in
order to mislead you, he takes a different road back to it. You may see
him following the sheep to get a little lock of wool, or alighting in
the poultry yard on the search for dropped feathers. If the farmer’s
wife chance to leave her wheel, whilst spinning in the porch, he steals
in for a morsel of flax from the distaff. He knows what is the right
kind of thing; and let him be in whatever country he may, he selects
that which answers the purpose; and the nest which is built is that of
the linnet all the world over.
Again he tells us, that there are other birds which, instead of
building, bring up their young underground, in little earth cradles
which they have prepared for them. Of building-birds, he thinks the
queerest must be the flamingo, which lays her eggs on a pile of mud
which she has raised above the flooded earth, and, standing erect all
the time, hatches them under her long legs. It does seem a queer,
uncomfortable way; but if it answer its end, we need not object to it.
Of carpenter-birds, he thinks the thrush is the most remarkable; other
writers say the woodpecker. The shore-birds plait their nests, not very
skilfully it is true, but sufficiently well for their purpose. They
are clothed by nature with such an oily, impermeable coat of plumage,
that they have little need to care about climate; they have enough to
do to look after their fishing, and to feed themselves and their young;
for all these sea-side families have immense appetites.
[Sidenote: _How various Birds Build._]
Herons and storks build in a sort of basket-making fashion; so do the
jays and the mocking birds, only in a much better way; but as they
have all large families they are obliged to do so. They lay down, in
the first place, a sort of rude platform, upon which they erect a
basket-like nest of more or less elegant design, a web of roots and dry
twigs strongly woven together. The little golden-crested wren hangs her
purse-like nest to a bough, and, as in the nursery song, “When the wind
blows the cradle rocks.” An Australian bird, a kind of fly-catcher,
called there the razor-grinder, from its note resembling the sound of
a razor-grinder at work, builds her nest on the slightest twig hanging
over the water, in order to protect it from snakes which climb after
them. She chooses for her purpose a twig so slender that it would not
bear the weight of the snake, and thus she is perfectly safe from her
enemy. The same, probably, is the cause why in tropical countries,
where snakes and monkeys, and such bird-enemies abound, nests are so
frequently suspended by threads or little cords from slender boughs.
The canary, the goldfinch, and chaffinch, are skilful cloth-weavers
or felt makers; the latter, restless and suspicious, speckles the
outside of her nest with a quantity of white lichen, so that it
exactly imitates the tree branch on which it is placed, and can hardly
be detected by the most accustomed eye. Glueing and felting play an
important part in the work of the bird-weavers. The humming-bird, for
instance, consolidates her little house with the gum of trees. The
American starling sews the leaves together with her bill; other birds
use not only their bills, but their feet. Having woven a cord, they fix
it as a web with their feet, and insert the weft, as the weaver would
throw his shuttle, with their bill. These are genuine weavers. In fine,
their skill never fails them. The truth is, that the great Creator
never gives any creature work to do without giving him at the same time
an inclination to do it—which, in the animal, is instinct—and tools
sufficient for the work, though they may be only the delicate feet and
bill of the bird.
And now, in conclusion, let me describe to you the nest of the little
English long-tailed titmouse as I saw it many years ago, and which I
give from “Sketches of Natural History”:—
[Sidenote: _The Titmouse’s Nest._]
There, where those boughs of blackthorn cross,
Behold that oval ball of moss;
Observe it near, all knit together,
Moss, willow-down, and many a feather,
And filled within, as you may see,
As full of feathers as can be;
Whence it is called by country folk,
A fitting name, the feather-poke;
But learned people, I have heard,
_Parus caudatus_ call the bird.
Yes, here’s a nest! a nest indeed,
That doth all other nests exceed,
Propped with the blackthorn twigs beneath,
And festooned with a woodbine wreath!
Look at it close, all knit together,
Moss, willow-down, and many a feather;
So soft, so light, so wrought with grace,
So suited to this green-wood place,
And spangled o’er, as with the intent
Of giving fitting ornament,
With silvery flakes of lichen bright,
That shine like opals, dazzling white.
Think only of the creature small,
That wrought this soft and silvery ball,
Without a tool to aid her skill,
Nought but her little feet and bill—
Without a pattern whence to trace
This little roofed-in dwelling place—
And does not in your bosom spring
Love for this skilful little thing?
See, there’s a window in the wall;
Peep in, the house is not so small,
But snug and cosy you shall see
A very numerous family!
Now count them: one, two, three, four, five—
Nay, _sixteen_ merry things alive—
Sixteen young, chirping things all sit,
Where you, your wee hand, could not get!
I’m glad you’ve seen it, for you never
Saw ought before so soft and clever.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
THE WREN.
Truly the little Wren, so beautifully depicted by Mr. Harrison Weir,
with her tiny body, her pretty, lively, and conceited ways, her short,
little turned-up tail, and delicate plumage, is worthy of our tender
regard and love.
The colouring of the wren is soft and subdued—a reddish-brown colour;
the breast of a light greyish-brown; and all the hinder parts, both
above and below, marked with wavy lines of dusky-brown, with two bands
of white dots across the wings.
Its habits are remarkably lively and attractive. “I know no pleasanter
object,” says the agreeable author of “British Birds,” “than the wren;
it is always so smart and cheerful. In gloomy weather other birds
often seem melancholy, and in rain the sparrows and finches stand
silent on the twigs, with drooping wings and disarranged plumage; but
to the merry little wren all weathers are alike. The big drops of the
thunder-shower no more wet it than the drizzle of a Scotch mist; and as
it peeps from beneath the bramble, or glances from a hole in the wall,
it seems as snug as a kitten frisking on the parlour rug.”
[Illustration:
WRENS AND NEST. [Page 8.
]
[Sidenote: _A Builder of Many Nests._]
“It is amusing,” he continues, “to watch the motions of a young family
of wrens just come abroad. Walking among furze, broom, or juniper, you
are attracted to some bush by hearing issue from it the frequent
repetition of a sound resembling the syllable _chit_. On going up you
perceive an old wren flitting about the twigs, and presently a young
one flies off, uttering a stifled _chirr_, to conceal itself among the
bushes. Several follow, whilst the parents continue to flutter about
in great alarm, uttering their _chit, chit_, with various degrees of
excitement.”
The nest of the wren is a wonderful structure, of which I shall have a
good deal to say. It begins building in April, and is not by any means
particular in situation. Sometimes it builds in the hole of a wall
or tree; sometimes, as in this lovely little picture of ours, in the
mossy hollow of a primrose-covered bank; and because it was formerly
supposed to live only in holes or little caves, it received the name of
_Troglodytes_, or cave-dweller. But it builds equally willingly in the
thatch of out-buildings, in barn-lofts, or tree-branches, either when
growing apart or nailed against a wall, amongst ivy or other climbing
plants; in fact, it seems to be of such a happy disposition as to adapt
itself to a great variety of situations. It is a singular fact that it
will often build several nests in one season—not that it needs so many
separate dwellings, or that it finishes them when built; but it builds
as if for the very pleasure of the work. Our naturalist says, speaking
of this odd propensity, “that, whilst the hen is sitting, the he-bird,
as if from a desire to be doing something, will construct as many as
half-a-dozen nests near the first, none of which, however, are lined
with feathers; and that whilst the true nest, on which the mother-bird
is sitting, will be carefully concealed, these sham nests are open
to view. Some say that as the wrens, during the cold weather, sleep
in some snug, warm hole, they frequently occupy these extra nests as
winter-bedchambers, four or five, or even more, huddling together, to
keep one another warm.”
Mr. Weir, a friend of the author I have just quoted, says this was the
case in his own garden; and that, during the winter, when the ground
was covered with snow, two of the extra nests were occupied at night by
a little family of seven, which had hatched in the garden. He was very
observant of their ways, and says it was amusing to see one of the old
wrens, coming a little before sunset and standing a few inches from the
nest, utter his little cry till the whole number of them had arrived.
Nor were they long about it; they very soon answered the call, flying
from all quarters—the seven young ones and the other parent-bird—and
then at once nestled into their snug little dormitory. It was also
remarkable that when the wind blew from the east they occupied a nest
which had its opening to the west, and when it blew from the west, then
one that opened to the east, so that it was evident they knew how to
make themselves comfortable.
And now as regards the building of these little homes. I will, as far
as I am able, give you the details of the whole business from the diary
of the same gentleman, which is as accurate as if the little wren had
kept it himself, and which will just as well refer to the little nest
in the primrose bank as to the nest in the Spanish juniper-tree, where,
in fact, it was built.
[Sidenote: _How a Nest was built._]
“On the 30th of May, therefore, you must imagine a little pair of
wrens, having, after a great deal of consultation, made up their minds
to build themselves a home in the branches of a Spanish juniper. The
female, at about seven o’clock in the morning, laid the foundation
with the decayed leaf of a lime-tree. Some men were at work cutting
a drain not far off, but she took no notice of them, and worked away
industriously, carrying to her work bundles of dead leaves as big
as herself, her mate, seeming the while to be delighted with her
industry, seated not far off in a Portugal laurel, where he watched
her, singing to her, and so doing, making her labour, no doubt, light
and pleasant. From eight o’clock to nine she worked like a little
slave, carrying in leaves, and then selecting from them such as suited
her purpose and putting aside the rest. This was the foundation of the
nest, which she rendered compact by pressing it down with her breast,
and turning herself round in it: then she began to rear the sides.
And now the delicate and difficult part of the work began, and she
was often away for eight or ten minutes together. From the inside she
built the underpart of the aperture with the stalks of leaves, which
she fitted together very ingeniously with moss. The upper part of it
was constructed solely with the last-mentioned material. To round it
and give it the requisite solidity, she pressed it with her breast and
wings, turning the body round in various directions. Most wonderful to
tell, about seven o’clock in the evening the whole outside workmanship
of this snug little erection was almost complete.
“Being very anxious to examine the interior of it, I went out for that
purpose at half-past two the next morning. I introduced my finger,
the birds not being there, and found its structure so close, that
though it had rained in the night, yet that it was quite dry. The
birds at this early hour were singing as if in ecstasy, and at about
three o’clock the little he-wren came and surveyed his domicile with
evident satisfaction; then, flying to the top of a tree, began singing
most merrily. In half-an-hour’s time the hen-bird made her appearance,
and, going into the nest, remained there about five minutes, rounding
the entrance by pressing it with her breast and the shoulders of her
wings. For the next hour she went out and came back five times with
fine moss in her bill, with which she adjusted a small depression in
the fore-part of it; then, after twenty minutes’ absence, returned
with a bundle of leaves to fill up a vacancy which she had discovered
in the back of the structure. Although it was a cold morning, with
wind and rain, the male bird sang delightfully; but between seven and
eight o’clock, either having received a reproof from his wife for his
indolence, or being himself seized with an impulse to work, he began
to help her, and for the next ten minutes brought in moss, and worked
at the inside of the nest. At eleven o’clock both of them flew off,
either for a little recreation, or for their dinners, and were away
till a little after one. From this time till four o’clock both worked
industriously, bringing in fine moss; then, during another hour, the
hen-bird brought in a feather three times. So that day came to an end.
“The next morning, June 1st, they did not begin their work early, as
was evident to Mr. Weir, because having placed a slender leaf-stalk
at the entrance, there it remained till half-past eight o’clock, when
the two began to work as the day before with fine moss, the he-bird
leaving off, however, every now and then to express his satisfaction on
a near tree-top. Again, this day, they went off either for dinner or
amusement; then came back and worked for another hour, bringing in fine
moss and feathers.
[Sidenote: _The Patient Industry of this Bird._]
“The next morning the little he-wren seemed in a regular ecstasy,
and sang incessantly till half-past nine, when they both brought in
moss and feathers, working on for about two hours, and again they
went off, remaining away an hour later than usual. Their work was now
nearly over, and they seemed to be taking their leisure, when all at
once the hen-bird, who was sitting in her nest and looking out at her
door, espied a man half-hidden by an arbor vitæ. It was no other than
her good friend, but that she did not know; all men were terrible,
as enemies to her race, and at once she set up her cry of alarm. The
he-bird, on hearing this, appeared in a great state of agitation, and
though the frightful monster immediately ran off, the little creatures
pursued him, scolding vehemently.
“The next day they worked again with feathers and fine moss, and again
went off after having brought in a few more feathers. So they did for
the next five days; working leisurely, and latterly only with feathers.
On the tenth day the nest was finished, and the little mother-bird laid
her first egg in it.”
Where is the boy, let him be as ruthless a bird-nester as he may, who
could have the heart to take a wren’s nest, only to tear it to pieces,
after reading the history of this patient labour of love?
The wren, like various other small birds, cannot bear that their nests
or eggs should be touched; they are always disturbed and distressed by
it, and sometimes even will desert their nest and eggs in consequence.
On one occasion, therefore, this good, kind-hearted friend of every
bird that builds, carefully put his finger into a wren’s nest, during
the mother’s absence, to ascertain whether the young were hatched; on
her return, perceiving that the entrance had been touched, she set up
a doleful lamentation, carefully rounded it again with her breast and
wings, so as to bring everything into proper order, after which she and
her mate attended to their young. These particular young ones, only six
in number, were fed by their parents 278 times in the course of a day.
This was a small wren-family; and if there had been twelve, or even
sixteen, as is often the case, what an amount of labour and care the
birds must have had! But they would have been equal to it, and merry
all the time.
For all these little creatures, which so lightly we regard,
They love to do their duty, and they never think it hard.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
THE GOLDFINCH.
The Goldfinch, which is cousin to the Linnet, is wonderfully clever and
docile, as I shall show you presently. In the first place, however, let
me say a word or two about bird cleverness in general, which I copy
from Jules Michelet’s interesting work, “The Bird.” Speaking of the
great, cruel, and rapacious family of the _Raptores_, or Birds of Prey,
he expresses satisfaction in the idea that this race of destroyers is
decreasing, and that there may come a time when they no longer exist
on the earth. He has no admiration for them, though they may be the
swiftest of the swift, and the strongest of the strong, because they
put forth none of the higher qualities of courage, address, or patient
endurance in taking their prey, which are all weak and powerless in
comparison with themselves; their poor unoffending victims. “All these
cruel tyrants of the air,” he says, “like the serpents, have flattened
skulls, which show the want of intellect and intelligence. These birds
of prey, with their small brains, offer a striking contrast to the
amiable and intelligent species which we find amongst the smaller
birds. The head of the former is only a beak, that of the latter is a
face.” Afterwards, to prove this more strongly, he gives a table to
show the proportion of brain to the size of the body in these different
species of birds. Thus the chaffinch, the sparrow, and the goldfinch,
have more than six times as much brain as the eagle in proportion to
the size of the body. We may look, therefore, for no less than six
times his intelligence and docile ability. Whilst in the case of the
little tomtit it is thirteen times as much.
But now for the goldfinch, of which our cut—which is both faithful
and beautiful—shows us a pair, evidently contemplating with much
satisfaction the nest which they have just finished on one of the
topmost boughs of a blossomy apple-tree. This nest is a wonderful
little fabric, built of moss, dry grass, and slender roots, lined with
hair, wool, and thistle-down; but the true wonder of the nest is the
exact manner in which the outside is made to imitate the bough upon
which it is placed. All its little ruggednesses and lichen growths
are represented, whilst the colouring is so exactly that of the old
apple-tree that it is almost impossible to know it from the branch
itself. Wonderful ingenuity of instinct, which human skill would find
it almost impossible to imitate!
The bird lays mostly five eggs, which are of a bluish-grey, spotted
with greyish-purple or brown, and sometimes with a dark streak or two.
The goldfinch is one of the most beautiful of our English birds, with
its scarlet forehead, and quaint little black velvet-like cap brought
down over its white cheeks; its back is cinnamon brown, and its breast
white; its wings are beautifully varied in black and white, as are also
its tail feathers. In the midland counties it is known as “The Proud
Tailor,” probably because its attire looks so bright and fresh, and it
has a lively air as if conscious of being well dressed.
[Illustration:
GOLDFINCHES AND NEST. [Page 16.
]
[Sidenote: _Daily Life of this Bird._]
Like its relation, the linnet, it congregates in flocks as soon as
its young can take wing, when they may be seen wheeling round in
the pleasant late summer and autumn fields, full of life, and in
the enjoyment of the plenty that surrounds them, in the ripened
thistle-down, and all such winged seeds as are then floating in the air.
How often have I said it is worth while to go out into the woods and
fields, and, bringing yourself into a state of quietness, watch the
little birds in their life’s employment, building their nests, feeding
their young, or pursuing their innocent diversions! So now, on this
pleasant, still autumn afternoon, if you will go into the old pasture
fields where the thistles have not been stubbed up for generations, or
on the margin of the old lane where ragwort, and groundsel, and burdock
flourish abundantly, “let us,” as the author of “British Birds” says,
“stand still to observe a flock of goldfinches. They flutter over the
plants, cling to the stalks, bend in various attitudes, disperse the
down, already dry and winged, like themselves, for flight, pick them
out one by one and swallow them. Then comes a stray cow followed by a
herd boy. At once the birds cease their labour, pause for a moment,
and fly off in succession. You observe how lightly and buoyantly
they cleave the air, each fluttering its little wings, descending in
a curved line, mounting again, and speeding along. Anon they alight
in a little thicket of dried weeds, and, in settling, display to the
delighted eye the beautiful tints of their plumage, as with fluttering
wings and expanded tail, they hover for a moment to select a landing
place amid the prickly points of the stout thistles whose heads are now
bursting with downy-winged seeds.”
[Sidenote: _The Goldfinch._]
The song of the goldfinch, which begins about the end of March, is
very sweet, unassuming, and low—similar to that of the linnet, but
singularly varied and pleasant.
Now, however, we must give a few instances of this bird’s teachable
sagacity, which, indeed, are so numerous that it is difficult to make a
selection.
Mr. Syme, in his “British Song Birds,” says, “The goldfinch is easily
tamed and taught, and its capacity for learning the notes of other
birds is well known. A few years ago the Sieur Roman exhibited a number
of trained birds: they were goldfinches, linnets, and canaries. One
appeared dead, and was held up by the tail or claw without exhibiting
any signs of life; a second stood on its head with its claws in the
air; a third imitated a Dutch milkmaid going to market with pails on
its shoulders; a fourth mimicked a Venetian girl looking out at a
window; a fifth appeared as a soldier, and mounted guard as a sentinel;
whilst a sixth acted as a cannonier, with a cap on its head, a firelock
on its shoulder, and a match in its claw, and discharged a small
cannon. The same bird also acted as if it had been wounded. It was
wheeled in a barrow as if to convey it to the hospital, after which
it flew away before the whole company. The seventh turned a kind of
windmill; and the last bird stood in the midst of some fireworks which
were discharged all round it, and this without showing the least sign
of fear.”
Others, as I have said, may be taught to draw up their food and water,
as from a well, in little buckets. All this is very wonderful, and
shows great docility in the bird; but I cannot greatly admire it, from
the secret fear that cruelty or harshness may have been used to teach
them these arts so contrary to their nature. At all events it proves
what teachable and clever little creatures they are, how readily they
may be made to understand the will of their master, and how obediently
and faithfully they act according to it.
Man, however, should always stand as a human Providence to the
animal world. In him the creatures should ever find their friend and
protector; and were it so we should then see many an astonishing
faculty displayed; and birds would then, instead of being the most
timid of animals, gladden and beautify our daily life by their sweet
songs, their affectionate regard, and their amusing and imitative
little arts.
[Sidenote: _Introduced into Pictures._]
The early Italian and German painters introduce a goldfinch into their
beautiful sacred pictures—generally on the ground—hopping at the feet
of some martyred saint or love-commissioned angel, perhaps from an old
legend of the bird’s sympathy with the suffering Saviour, or from an
intuitive sense that the divine spirit of Christianity extends to bird
and beast as well as to man.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
THE SONG THRUSH.
We have here a charming picture of one of the finest and noblest of
our song-birds—the thrush, throstle, or mavis. The trees are yet
leafless, but the bird is in the act of building, whilst her mate, on
the tree-top, pours forth his exquisite melody. The almost completed
nest, like a richly ornamented bowl, is before us.
This bird belongs to a grandly musical family, being own cousin to the
missel-thrush and the blackbird, each one having a kindred song, but
all, at the same time, distinctly characteristic.
The colouring of the thrush is soft and very pleasing; the upper parts
of a yellowish-brown; the chin, white; the under part of the body,
grayish white; the throat, breast, and sides of the neck, yellowish,
thickly spotted with dark brown.
[Illustration:
SONG THRUSH AND NEST. [Page 20.
]
The thrush remains with us the whole year, and may occasionally be
heard singing even in the winter, though April, May, and June are the
months when he is in fullest song. They pair in March, and by the end
of that month, or early in April, begin to build. They have several
broods in the year. The nest, which, as we see, is commodious, is
placed at no great height from the ground, in a thick bush or hedge,
and sometimes, also, in a rough bank, amongst bushes and undergrowth.
They are particularly fond of spruce-fir plantations, building on
one of the low, spreading branches, close to the stem. Though the
structure is so solid and substantial, yet it is built very rapidly;
indeed, the thrush seems to be wide awake in all its movements; he
is no loiterer, and does his work well. As a proof of his expedition
I will mention that a pair of these birds began to build a second,
perhaps, indeed, it might be a third nest, on a Thursday, June 15; on
Friday afternoon the nest was finished, and on Saturday morning the
first egg was laid, though the interior plastering was not then dry. On
the 21st the hen began to sit, and on the 17th of July the young birds
were hatched.
The frame-work, so to speak, of the nest is composed of twigs, roots,
grasses, and moss, the two latter being brought to the outside. Inside
it is lined with a thin plastering of mud, cow-dung, and rotten wood,
which is laid on quite smoothly, almost like the glaze on earthenware;
nor is there an internal covering between this and the eggs. The
circular form of the nest is as perfect as a bowl shaped upon a
lathe, and often contracts inwards at the top. The eggs, which are
generally five in number, are of a bright blue-green, spotted over with
brownish-black, these spots being more numerous at the larger end.
The food of the thrush is mostly of an animal character, as worms,
slugs, and snails; and, by seasides, small molluscs, as whelks and
periwinkles. On all such as are enclosed in shells he exercises his
ingenuity in a remarkable way. We ourselves lived at one time in an
old house standing in an old garden where were many ancient trees and
out-buildings, in the old ivied roots and walls of which congregated
great quantities of shell-snails. One portion of this garden, which
enclosed an old, disused dairy, was a great resort of thrushes, where
they had, so to speak, their stones of sacrifice, around which lay
heaps of the broken shells of snails, their victims. I have repeatedly
watched them at work: hither they brought their snails, and, taking
their stand by the stone with the snail in their beak, struck it
repeatedly against the stone, till, the shell being smashed, they
picked it out as easily as the oyster is taken from its opened shell.
This may seem easy work with the slender-shelled snail, but the labour
is considerably greater with hard shell-fish. On this subject the
intelligent author of “British Birds” says, that many years ago, when
in the Isle of Harris, he frequently heard a sharp sound as of one
small stone being struck upon another, the cause of which he, for a
considerable time, sought for in vain. At length, one day, being in
search of birds when the tide was out, he heard the well-known click,
and saw a bird standing between two flat stones, moving its head and
body alternately up and down, each downward motion being accompanied
by the sound which had hitherto been so mysterious. Running up to the
spot, he found a thrush, which, flying off, left a whelk, newly-broken,
lying amongst fragments of shells lying around the stone.
Thrushes are remarkably clean and neat with regard to their nests,
suffering no litter or impurity to lie about, and in this way are a
great example to many untidy people. Their domestic character, too,
is excellent, the he-bird now and then taking the place of the hen on
the eggs, and, when not doing so, feeding her as she sits. When the
young are hatched, the parents may be seen, by those who will watch
them silently and patiently, frequently stretching out the wings of
the young as if to exercise them, and pruning and trimming their
feathers. To put their love of cleanliness to the proof, a gentleman,
a great friend of all birds, had some sticky mud rubbed upon the backs
of two of the young ones whilst the parents were absent. On their
return, either by their own keen sense of propriety, or, perhaps, the
complaint of the young ones, they saw what had happened, and were not
only greatly disconcerted, but very angry, and instantly set to work to
clean the little unfortunates, which, strange to say, they managed to
do by making use of dry earth, which they brought to the nest for that
purpose. Human intellect could not have suggested a better mode.
[Sidenote: _How a Day was spent._]
This same gentleman determined to spend a whole day in discovering how
the thrushes spent it. Hiding himself, therefore, in a little hut of
fir boughs, he began his observations in the early morning of the 8th
of June. At half-past two o’clock, the birds began to feed their brood,
and in two hours had fed them thirty-six times. It was now half-past
five, the little birds were all wide awake, and one of them, whilst
pruning its feathers, lost its balance and fell out of the nest to the
ground. On this the old ones set up the most doleful lamentations, and
the gentleman, coming out of his retreat, put the little one back into
the nest. This kind action, however, wholly disconcerted the parents,
nor did they again venture to feed their young till an artifice
of the gentleman led them to suppose that he was gone from their
neighbourhood. No other event happened to them through the day, and by
half-past nine o’clock at night, when all went to rest, the young ones
had been fed two hundred and six times.
Thrushes, however, become occasionally so extremely tame that the
female will remain upon her eggs and feed her young, without any
symptom of alarm, in the close neighbourhood of man. Of this I will
give an instance from Bishop Stanley’s “History of Birds”—
“A short time ago, in Scotland, some carpenters working in a shed
adjacent to the house observed a thrush flying in and out, which
induced them to direct their attention to the cause, when, to their
surprise, they found a nest commenced amongst the teeth of a harrow,
which, with other farming tools and implements, was placed upon the
joists of the shed, just over their heads. The carpenters had arrived
soon after six o’clock, and at seven, when they found the nest, it was
in a great state of forwardness, and had evidently been the morning’s
work of a pair of these indefatigable birds. Their activity throughout
the day was incessant; and, when the workmen came the next morning,
they found the female seated in her half-finished mansion, and, when
she flew off for a short time, it was found that she had laid an egg.
When all was finished, the he-bird took his share of the labour, and,
in thirteen days, the young birds were out of their shells, the refuse
of which the old ones carried away from the spot. All this seems to
have been carefully observed by the workmen; and it is much to their
credit that they were so quiet and friendly as to win the confidence of
the birds.”
The song of the thrush is remarkable for its rich, mellow intonation,
and for the great variety of its notes.
[Sidenote: _Wordsworth’s Verses on the Thrush._]
Unfortunately for the thrush, its exquisite power as a songster makes
it by no means an unusual prisoner. You are often startled by hearing,
from the doleful upper window of some dreary court or alley of London,
or some other large town, an outpouring of joyous, full-souled melody
from an imprisoned thrush, which, perfect as it is, saddens you, as
being so wholly out of place. Yet who can say how the song of that bird
may speak to the soul of many a town-imprisoned passer-by? Wordsworth
thus touchingly describes an incident of this kind:—
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Hangs a thrush that sings loud; it has sung for three years:
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard,
In the silence of morning, the song of the bird.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail,
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s,
The one only dwelling on earth which she loves.
’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? she sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade—
The mist and the river, the hill, sun, and shade;
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
THE BLACKBIRD.
The Blackbird is familiar to us all. It is a thoroughly English bird,
and, with its cousin the thrush, is not only one of the pleasantest
features in our English spring and summer landscape, but both figure
in our old poetry and ballads, as the “merle and the mavis,” “the
blackbird and the throstle-cock;” for those old poets loved the
country, and could not speak of the greenwood without the bird.
When shaws are sheen and fields are fair,
And leaves both large and long,
’Tis merry walk’ng in the green forest
To hear the wild birds’ song;
The wood merle sings, and will not cease,
Sitting upon a spray;
The merle and the mavis shout their fill,
From morn till the set of day.
[Illustration:
BLACKBIRD AND NEST. [Page 26.
]
The blackbird takes its name from a very intelligible cause—its
perfectly black plumage, which, however, is agreeably relieved by the
bright orange of its bill, the orange circles round its eyes, and its
yellow feet; though this is peculiar only to the male, nor does he
assume this distinguishing colour till his second year. The female is
of a dusky-brown colour.
[Sidenote: _The Notes of the Blackbird._]
Sometimes the singular variety of a _white_ blackbird occurs, which
seems to astonish even its fellow birds; the same phenomenon also
occurs amongst sparrows; a fatal distinction to the poor birds, who are
in consequence very soon shot.
This bird is one of our finest singers. His notes are solemn and
flowing, unlike those of the thrush, which are short, quick, and
extremely varied. The one bird is more lyrical, the other sings in
a grand epic strain. A friend of ours, deeply versed in bird-lore,
maintains that the blackbird is oratorical, and sings as if delivering
an eloquent rhythmical oration.
This bird begins to sing early in the year, and continues his song
during the whole time that the hen is sitting. Like his relatives, the
thrush and the missel-thrush, he takes his post on the highest branch
of a tree, near his nest, so that his song is heard far and wide; and
in fact, through the whole pleasant spring you hear the voices of these
three feathered kings of English song constantly filling the woods and
fields with their melody. The blackbird sings deliciously in rain, even
during a thunderstorm, with the lightning flashing round him. Indeed,
both he and the thrush seem to take great delight in summer showers.
The blackbird has a peculiar call, to give notice to his brood of the
approach of danger; probably, however, it belongs both to male and
female. Again, there is a third note, very peculiar also, heard only
in the dusk of evening, and which seems pleasingly in harmony with the
approaching shadows of night. By this note they call each other to
roost, in the same way as partridges call each other to assemble at
night, however far they may be asunder.
The nest of the blackbird is situated variously; most frequently in
the thicker parts of hedges; sometimes in the hollow of a stump or
amongst the curled and twisted roots of old trees, which, projecting
from the banks of woods or woodland lanes, wreathed with their trails
of ivy, afford the most picturesque little hollows for the purpose.
Again, it may be found under the roof of out-houses or cart-sheds,
laid on the wall-plate; and very frequently in copses, in the stumps
of pollard trees, partly concealed by their branches; and is often
begun before the leaves are on the trees. The nest is composed of dry
bents, and lined with fine dry grass. The hen generally lays five eggs,
which are of a dusky bluish-green, thickly covered with black spots;
altogether very much resembling those of crows, rooks, magpies, and
that class of birds.
Universal favourite as the blackbird deservedly is, yet, in common with
the thrush, all gardeners are their enemies from the great liking they
have for his fruit, especially currants, raspberries, and cherries.
There is, however, something very amusing, though, at the same time,
annoying, in the sly way by which they approach these fruits, quite
aware that they are on a mischievous errand. They steal along, flying
low and silently, and, if observed, will hide themselves in the nearest
growth of garden plants, scarlet runners, or Jerusalem artichokes,
where they remain as still as mice, till they think the human enemy has
moved off. If, however, instead of letting them skulk quietly in their
hiding-place, he drives them away, they fly off with a curious note,
very like a little chuckling laugh of defiance, as if they would say,
“Ha! ha! we shall soon be back again!” which they very soon are.
But we must not begrudge them their share, though they neither have
dug the ground nor sowed the seed, for very dull and joyless indeed
would be the garden and the gardener’s toil, and the whole country in
short, if there were no birds—no blackbirds and thrushes—to gladden
our hearts, and make the gardens, as well as the woods and fields,
joyous with their melody. Like all good singers, these birds expect,
and deserve, good payment.
The blackbird, though naturally unsocial and keeping much to itself,
is very bold in defence of its young, should they be in danger, or
attacked by any of the numerous bird-enemies, which abound everywhere,
especially to those which are in immediate association with man. The
Rev. J. G. Wood tells us, for instance, that on one occasion a prowling
cat was forced to make an ignominious retreat before the united onset
of a pair of blackbirds, on whose young she was about to make an attack.
[Sidenote: _Macgillivray’s Account._]
Let me now, in conclusion, give a day with a family of blackbirds,
which I somewhat curtail from Macgillivray.
“On Saturday morning, June 10th, I went into a little hut made of green
branches, at half-past two in the morning, to see how the blackbirds
spend the day at home. They lived close by, in a hole in an old wall,
which one or other of them had occupied for a number of years.
“At a quarter-past three they began to feed their young, which were
four in number. She was the most industrious in doing so; and when he
was not feeding, he was singing most deliciously. Towards seven o’clock
the father-bird induced one of the young ones to fly out after him.
But this was a little mistake, and, the bird falling, I was obliged to
help it into its nest again, which made a little family commotion. They
were exceedingly tidy about their nest, and when a little rubbish fell
out they instantly carried it away. At ten o’clock the feeding began
again vigorously, and continued till two, both parent-birds supplying
their young almost equally.
“The hut in which I sat was very closely covered; but a little wren
having alighted on the ground in pursuit of a fly, and seeing one of
my legs moving, set up a cry of alarm, on which, in the course of a
few seconds, all the birds in the neighbourhood collected to know what
was the matter. The blackbird hopped round the hut again and again,
making every effort to peep in, even alighting on the top within a few
inches of my head, but not being able to make any discovery, the tumult
subsided. It was probably considered a false alarm, and the blackbirds
went on feeding their young till almost four o’clock: and now came the
great event of the day.
“At about half-past three the mother brought a large worm, four inches
in length probably, which she gave to one of the young ones, and flew
away. Shortly afterwards returning, she had the horror of perceiving
that the worm, instead of being swallowed was sticking in its throat;
on this she uttered a perfect moan of distress, which immediately
brought the he-bird, who also saw at a glance what a terrible
catastrophe was to be feared. Both parents made several efforts to push
the worm down the throat, but to no purpose, when, strange to say, the
father discovered the cause of the accident. The outer end of the worm
had got entangled in the feathers of the breast, and, being held fast,
could not be swallowed. He carefully disengaged it, and, holding it up
with his beak, the poor little thing, with a great effort, managed to
get it down, but was by this time so exhausted that it lay with its
eyes shut and without moving for the next three hours. The male bird in
the meantime took his stand upon a tree, a few yards from the nest, and
poured forth some of his most enchanting notes—a song of rejoicing no
doubt for the narrow escape from death of one of his family.
[Sidenote: _Macgillivray’s Day with this Bird._]
“From four till seven o’clock both birds again fed their young, after
which the male bird left these family duties to his mate, and gave
himself up to incessant singing. At twenty minutes to nine their
labours ceased, they having then fed their young one hundred and
thirteen times during the day.
“I observed that before feeding their young they always alighted upon
a tree and looked round them for a few seconds. Sometimes they brought
in a quantity of worms and fed their brood alternately; at other times
they brought one which they gave to only one of them.
“The young birds often trimmed their feathers, and stretched out their
wings; they also appeared to sleep now and then.
“With the note of alarm which the feathered tribes set up on the
discovery of their enemies all the different species of the little
birds seem to be intimately acquainted; for no sooner did a beast or
bird of prey make its appearance, than they seemed to be anxiously
concerned about the safety of their families. They would hop from tree
to tree uttering their doleful lamentations. At one time the blackbirds
were in an unusual state of excitement and terror, and were attended
by crowds of their woodland friends. A man and boy, who were working
in my garden, having heard the noise, ran to see what was the cause of
it, and on looking into some branches which were lying on the ground,
observed a large weasel stealing slyly along in pursuit of its prey. It
was, however, driven effectually from the place without doing any harm.
It is astonishing how soon the young know this intimation of danger;
for I observed that no sooner did the old ones utter the alarm-cry,
than they cowered in their nest, and appeared to be in a state of great
uneasiness.”
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
THE DIPPER, OR WATER-OUSEL.
The Dipper, or Water-ousel, of which Mr. Weir has given us a charming
and faithful portrait, is very like a wren in form and action, with
its round body and lively little tail. Its mode of flight, however,
so nearly resembles the kingfisher that, in some places, the country
people mistake it for the female of that bird. But it is neither wren
nor kingfisher, nor yet related to either of them. It is the nice
little water-ousel, with ways of its own, and a cheerful life of its
own, and the power of giving pleasure to all lovers of the free country
which is enriched with an infinite variety of happy, innocent creatures.
The upper part of the head and neck, and the whole back and wings of
this bird, are of a rusty-brown; but, as each individual feather is
edged with gray, there is no deadness of colouring. The throat and
breast are snowy white, which, contrasting so strongly with the rest of
the body, makes it seem to flash about like a point of light through
the dark shadows of the scenes it loves to haunt.
I said above that this bird gave pleasure to all lovers of nature. So
it does, for it is only met with in scenes which are especially beloved
by poets and painters. Like them, it delights in mountain regions,
where rocky streams rush along with an unceasing murmur, leaping over
huge stones, slumbering in deep, shadowy pools, or lying low between
rocky walls, in the moist crevices and on the edges of which the wild
rose flings out its pale green branches, gemmed with flowers, or the
hardy polypody nods, like a feathery plume. On these streams, with
their foamy waters and graceful vegetation, you may look for the
cheerful little water-ousel. He is perfectly in character with the
scenes.
[Illustration:
DIPPERS AND NEST. [Page 34.
]
[Sidenote: _The Home of the Dipper._]
And now, supposing that you are happily located for a few weeks in
summer, either in Scotland or Wales, let me repeat my constant advice
as regards the study and truest enjoyment of country life and things.
Go out for several hours; do not be in a hurry; take your book, or
your sketching, or whatever your favourite occupation may be, if it be
only a quiet one, and seat yourself by some rocky stream amongst the
mountains; choose the pleasantest place you know, where the sun can
reach you, if you need his warmth, and if you do not, where you can yet
witness the beautiful effects of light and shade. There seat yourself
quite at your ease, silent and still as though you were a piece of
rock itself, half screened by that lovely wild rose bush, or tangle of
bramble, and before long you will most likely see this merry, lively
little dipper come with his quick, jerking flight, now alighting on
this stone, now on that, peeping here, and peeping there, as quick as
light, and snapping up, now a water-beetle, now a tiny fish, and now
diving down into the stream for a worm that he espies below, or walking
into the shallows, and there flapping his wings, more for the sheer
delight of doing so than for anything else. Now he is off and away,
and, in a moment or two, he is on yonder gray mass of stone, which
rises up in that dark chasm of waters like a rock in a stormy sea,
with the rush and roar of the water full above him. Yet there he is
quite at home, flirting his little tail like a jenny wren, and hopping
about on his rocky point, as if he could not for the life of him be
still for a moment. Now listen! That is his song, and a merry little
song it is, just such a one as you would fancy coming out of his jocund
little heart; and, see now, he begins his antics. He must be a queer
little soul! If we could be little dippers like him, and understand
what his song and all his grimaces are about, we should not so often
find the time tedious for want of something to do.
We may be sure he is happy, and that he has, in the round of his small
experience, all that his heart desires. He has this lonely mountain
stream to hunt in, these leaping, chattering, laughing waters to bear
him company, all these fantastically heaped-up stones, brought hither
by furious winter torrents of long ago—that dashing, ever roaring,
ever foaming waterfall, in the spray of which the summer sunshine
weaves rainbows. All these wild roses and honeysuckles, all this maiden
hair, and this broad polypody, which grows golden in autumn, make up
his little kingdom, in the very heart of which, under a ledge of rock,
and within sound, almost within the spray of the waterfall, is built
the curious little nest, very like that of a wren, in which sits the
hen-bird, the little wife of the dipper, brooding with most unwearied
love on four or five white eggs, lightly touched with red.
This nest is extremely soft and elastic, sometimes of large size, the
reason for which one cannot understand. It is generally near to the
water, and, being kept damp by its situation, is always so fresh,
looking so like the mass of its immediate surroundings as scarcely to
be discoverable by the quickest eye. When the young are hatched they
soon go abroad with the parents, and then, instead of the one solitary
bird, you may see them in little parties of from five to seven going on
in the same sort of way, only all the merrier because there are more of
them.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
THE NIGHTINGALE.
Philomela, or the Nightingale, is the head of the somewhat large
bird-family of Warblers, and is the most renowned of all feathered
songsters, though some judges think the garden-ousel exceeds it in
mellowness, and the thrush in compass of voice, but that, in every
other respect, it excels them all. For my part, however, I think no
singing-bird is equal to it; and listening to it when in full song, in
the stillness of a summer’s night, am ready to say with good old Izaak
Walton:—
“The nightingale, another of my airy creatures, breathes such sweet
music out of her little instrumental throat, that it might make mankind
to think that miracles had not ceased. He that at midnight, when the
weary labourer sleeps securely, should hear, as I have very often
heard, the clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural rising and
falling, the doubling and redoubling of her voice, might well be lifted
above earth and say, ‘Lord, what music hast Thou provided for the
saints in heaven, when Thou affordest bad men such music on earth!’”
In colour, the upper parts of the nightingale are of a rich brown;
the tail of a reddish tint; the throat and underparts of the body,
greyish-white; the neck and breast, grey; the bill and legs, light
brown. Its size is about that of the garden warblers, which it
resembles in form—being, in fact, one of that family. Thus, the most
admired of all singers—the subject of poets’ songs and eulogies, the
bird that people walk far and wide to listen to, of which they talk for
weeks before it comes, noting down the day of its arrival as if it were
the Queen or the Queen’s son—is yet nothing but a little insignificant
brown bird, not to be named with the parrot for plumage, nor with
our little goldfinch, who always looks as if he had his Sunday suit
on. But this is a good lesson for us. The little brown nightingale,
with his little brown wife in the thickety copse, with their simple
unpretending nest, not built up aloft on the tree branch, but humbly
at the tree’s root, or even on the very ground itself, may teach us
that the world’s external show or costliness is not true greatness. The
world’s best bird-singer might have been as big as an eagle, attired
in colours of blue and scarlet and orange like the grandest macaw. But
the great Creator willed that it should not be so—his strength, and
his furiousness, and his cruel capacity were sufficient for the eagle,
and his shining vestments for the macaw; whilst the bird to which was
given the divinest gift of song must be humble and unobtrusive, small
of size, with no surpassing beauty of plumage, and loving best to hide
itself in the thick seclusion of the copse in which broods the little
mother-bird, the very counterpart of himself, upon her olive-coloured
eggs.
[Sidenote: _The Philomela of Surrey._]
Mr. Harrison Weir has given us a sweet little picture of the
nightingale at home. Somewhere, not far off, runs the highroad, or it
may be a pleasant woodland lane leading from one village to another,
and probably known as “Nightingale-lane,” and traversed night after
night by rich and poor, learned and unlearned, to listen to the
bird. In our own neighbourhood we have a “Nightingale-lane,” with its
thickety copses on either hand, its young oaks and Spanish chestnuts
shooting upwards, and tangles of wild roses and thick masses of
brambles throwing their long sprays over old, mossy, and ivied stumps
of trees, cut or blown down in the last generation—little pools
and water courses here and there, with their many-coloured mosses
and springing rushes—a very paradise for birds. This is in Surrey,
and Surrey nightingales, it is said, are the finest that sing. With
this comes the saddest part of the story. Bird-catchers follow the
nightingale, and, once in his hands, farewell to the pleasant copse
with the young oaks and Spanish chestnuts, the wild rose tangles, the
little bosky hollow at the old tree root, in one of which the little
nest is built and the little wife broods on her eggs!
Generally, however, the unhappy bird, if he be caught, is taken soon
after his arrival in this country; for nightingales are migratory, and
arrive with us about the middle of April. The male bird comes about
a fortnight before the female, and begins to sing in his loneliness
a song of salutation—a sweet song, which expresses, with a tender
yearning, his desire for her companionship. Birds taken at this time,
before the mate has arrived, and whilst he is only singing to call and
welcome her, are said still to sing on through the summer in the hope,
long-deferred, that she may yet come. He will not give her up though
he is no longer in the freedom of the wood, so he sings and sings, and
if he live over the winter, he will sing the same song the following
spring, for the want is again in his heart. He cannot believe but that
she will still come. The cruel bird-catchers, therefore, try all their
arts to take him in this early stage of his visit to us. Should he be
taken later, when he is mated, and, as we see him in our picture, with
all the wealth of his little life around him, he cannot sing long. How
should he—in a narrow cage and dingy street of London or some other
great town—perhaps with his eyes put out—for his cruel captor fancies
he sings best if blind? He may sing, perhaps, for a while, thinking
that he can wake himself out of this dreadful dream of captivity,
darkness, and solitude. But it is no dream; the terrible reality at
length comes upon him, and before the summer is over he dies of a
broken heart.
It is a curious fact that the nightingale confines itself, without
apparent reason, to certain countries and to certain parts of England.
For instance, though it visits Sweden, and even the temperate parts
of Russia, it is not met with in Scotland, North Wales, nor Ireland,
neither is it found in any of our northern counties excepting
Yorkshire, and there only in the neighbourhood of Doncaster. Neither
is it known in the south-western counties, as Cornwall and Devonshire.
It is supposed to migrate during the winter into Egypt and Syria. It
has been seen amongst the willows of Jordan and the olive trees of
Judea, but we have not, to our knowledge, any direct mention of it in
the Scriptures, though Solomon no doubt had it in his thoughts, in his
sweet description of the spring—“Lo, the winter is past, the rain is
over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing
of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.” A
recent traveller in Syria tells me that she heard nightingales singing
at four o’clock one morning in April of last year in the lofty regions
of the Lebanon.
[Illustration:
NIGHTINGALES AND NEST. [Page 40.
]
[Sidenote: _Sir John Sinclair’s Attempt._]
There have been various attempts to introduce the nightingale into such
parts of this country as it has not yet frequented; for instance, a
gentleman of Gower, a sea-side district of Glamorganshire, the climate
of which is remarkably mild, procured a number of young birds from
Norfolk and Surrey, hoping that they would find themselves so much at
home in the beautiful woods there as to return the following year. But
none came. Again, as regards Scotland, Sir John Sinclair purchased a
large number of nightingales’ eggs, at a shilling each, and employed
several men to place them carefully in robins’ nests to be hatched. So
far all succeeded well. The foster-mothers reared the nightingales,
which, when full-fledged, flew about as if quite at home. But when
September came, the usual month for the migration of the nightingale,
the mysterious impulse awoke in the hearts of the young strangers, and,
obeying it, they suddenly disappeared and never after returned.
Mr. Harrison Weir has given us a very accurate drawing of the
nightingale’s nest, which is slight and somewhat fragile in
construction, made of withered leaves—mostly of oak—and lined
with dry grass. The author of “British Birds” describes one in his
possession as composed of slips of the inner bark of willow, mixed with
the leaves of the lime and the elm, lined with fibrous roots, grass,
and a few hairs; but whatever the materials used may be, the effect
produced is exactly the same.
In concluding our little chapter on this bird, I would mention that
in the Turkish cemeteries, which, from the old custom of planting a
cypress at the head and foot of every grave, have now become cypress
woods, nightingales abound, it having been also an old custom of love
to keep these birds on every grave.
CHAPTER VII.
THE SKYLARK.
The Skylark, that beautiful singer, which carries its joy up to the
very gates of heaven, as it were, has inspired more poets to sing about
it than any other bird living.
Wordsworth says, as in an ecstasy of delight:—
Up with me! up with me into the clouds!
For thy song, lark, is strong;
Up with me! up with me into the clouds!
Singing, singing.
With clouds and sky about me ringing,
Lift me, guide me till I find
That spot that seems so to my mind.
Shelley, in an ode which expresses the bird’s ecstasy of song, also
thus addresses it, in a strain of sadness peculiar to himself:—
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird, thou never wert—
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art!
Higher, still, and higher
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire;
The deep blue thou wingest,
And singing still doth soar, and soaring ever singest!
* * * * *
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground.
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips should flow;
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
[Sidenote: _James Hogg’s Verses._]
James Hogg, the Ettrick shepherd, who had listened to the bird with
delight on the Scottish hills, thus sings of it:—
Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet is thy matin o’er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay, and loud;
Far in the downy cloud
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O’er fell and fountain sheen,
O’er moor and mountain green,
O’er the red streamer that heralds the day;
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow’s rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing away!
Then when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
But we must not forget the earthly life of the bird in all these sweet
songs about him.
The plumage of the skylark is brown, in various shades; the fore-part
of the neck, reddish-white, spotted with brown; the breast and under
part of the body, yellowish-white. Its feet are peculiar, being
furnished with an extraordinarily long hind claw, the purpose of which
has puzzled many naturalists. But whatever nature intended it for, the
bird has been known to make use of it for a purpose which cannot fail
to interest us and call forth our admiration. This shall be presently
explained. The nest is built on the ground, either between two clods
of earth, in the deep foot-print of cattle, or some other small hollow
suitable for the purpose, and is composed of dry grass, hair, and
leaves; the hair is mostly used for the lining. Here the mother-bird
lays four or five eggs of pale sepia colour, with spots and markings
of darker hue. She has generally two broods in the year, and commences
sitting in May. The he-lark begins to sing early in the spring.
Bewick says, “He rises from the neighbourhood of the nest almost
perpendicularly in the air, by successive springs, and hovers at a
vast height. His descent, on the contrary, is in an oblique direction,
unless he is threatened by birds of prey, or attracted by his mate, and
on these occasions he drops like a stone.”
[Illustration:
SKYLARKS AND NEST. [Page 44.
]
With regard to his ascent, I must, however, add that it is in a spiral
direction, and that what Bewick represents as springs are his sudden
spiral flights after pausing to sing. Another peculiarity must be
mentioned: all his bones are hollow, and he can inflate them with air
from his lungs, so that he becomes, as it were, a little balloon, which
accounts for the buoyancy with which he ascends, and the length of
time he can support himself in the air: often for an hour at a time.
Still more extraordinary is the wonderful power and reach of his voice,
for while, probably, the seven hundred or a thousand voices of the
grand chorus of an oratorio would fail to fill the vast spaces of the
atmosphere, it can be done by this glorious little songster, which,
mounting upwards, makes itself heard, without effort, when it can be
seen no longer.
[Sidenote: _Its Solicitude for its Young._]
The attachment of the parents to their young is very great, and has
been seen to exhibit itself in a remarkable manner.
The nest being placed on the open-ground—often pasture, or in a field
of mowing grass—it is very liable to be disturbed; many, therefore,
are the instances of the bird’s tender solicitude either for the young
or for its eggs, one of which I will give from Mr. Jesse. “In case of
alarm,” he says, “either by cattle grazing near the nest, or by the
approach of the mower, the parent-birds remove their eggs, by means
of their long claws, to a place of greater security, and this I have
observed to be affected in a very short space of time.” He says that
when one of his mowers first told him of this fact he could scarcely
believe it, but that he afterwards saw it himself, and that he regarded
it only as another proof of the affection which these birds show their
offspring. Instances are also on record of larks removing their young
by carrying them on their backs: in one case the young were thus
removed from a place of danger into a field of standing corn. But
however successful the poor birds may be in removing their eggs, they
are not always so with regard to their young, as Mr. Yarrell relates.
An instance came under his notice, in which the little fledgeling
proved too heavy for the parent to carry, and, being dropped from an
height of about thirty feet, was killed in the fall.
Of all captive birds, none grieves me more than the skylark. Its
impulse is to soar, which is impossible in the narrow spaces of a cage;
and in this unhappy condition, when seized by the impulse of song, he
flings himself upwards, and is dashed down again by its cruel barriers.
For this reason the top of the lark’s cage is always bedded with green
baize to prevent his injuring himself. In the freedom of nature he is
the joyous minstrel of liberty and love, carrying upwards, and sending
down from above, his buoyant song, which seems to fall down through the
golden sunshine like a flood of sparkling melody.
I am not aware of the height to which the lark soars, but it must be
very great, as he becomes diminished to a mere speck, almost invisible
in the blaze of light. Yet, high as he may soar, he never loses the
consciousness of the little mate and the nestlings below: but their
first cry of danger or anxiety, though the cry may be scarce audible
to the human ear, thrills up aloft to the singer, and he comes down
with a direct arrow-like flight, whilst otherwise his descent is more
leisurely, and said by some to be in the direct spiral line of his
ascent.
Larks, unfortunately for themselves, are considered very fine eating.
Immense numbers of them are killed for the table, not only on the
continent, but in England. People cry shame on the Roman epicure,
Lucullus, dining on a stew of nightingales’ tongue, nearly two thousand
years ago, and no more can I reconcile to myself the daily feasting on
these lovely little songsters, which may be delicate eating, but are no
less God’s gifts to gladden and beautify the earth.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE LINNET.
Linnets are a branch of a larger family of finches, all very familiar
to us. They are cousins, also, to the dear, impudent sparrows, and the
pretty siskin or aberdevines.
The linnets are all compactly and stoutly built, with short necks and
good sized heads, with short, strong, pointed bills, made for the ready
picking up of seed and grain, on which they live. Most of them have two
broods in the season, and they build a bulky, deep, and compact nest,
just in accordance with their character and figure; but, though all
linnet-nests have a general resemblance of form, they vary more or less
in the material used.
Linnets change their plumage once a year, and have a much more spruce
and brilliant appearance when they have their new summer suits on. They
are numerous in all parts of the country, and, excepting in the season
when they have young, congregate in flocks, and in winter are attracted
to the neighbourhood of man, finding much of their food in farm-yards,
and amongst stacks.
The linnet of our picture is the greater red-pole—one of four brothers
of the linnet family—and is the largest of the four; the others
are the twit or mountain-linnet, the mealy-linnet, and the lesser
red-pole—the smallest of the four—all very much alike, and easily
mistaken for each other. The name red-pole is given from the bright
crimson spot on their heads—_pole_ or _poll_ being the old Saxon word
for head. The back of our linnet’s head and the sides of his neck are
of dingy ash-colour, his back of a warm brown tint, his wings black,
his throat of a dull white, spotted with brown, his breast a brilliant
red, and the under part of his body a dingy white.
The linnet, amongst singing birds, is what a song writer is amongst
poets. He is not a grand singer, like the blackbird or the thrush,
the missel-thrush or the wood-lark, all of which seem to have an epic
story in their songs, nor, of course, like the skylark, singing up to
the gates of heaven, or the nightingale, that chief psalmist of all
bird singers. But, though much humbler than any of these, he is a sweet
and pleasant melodist; a singer of charming little songs, full of the
delight of summer, the freshness of open heaths, with their fragrant
gorse, or of the Scottish brae, with its “bonnie broom,” also in golden
blossom. His are unpretending little songs of intense enjoyment, simple
thanksgivings for the pleasures of life, for the little brown hen-bird,
who has not a bit of scarlet in her plumage, and who sits in her snug
nest on her fine little white eggs, with their circle of freckles and
brown spots at the thicker end, always alike, a sweet, patient mother,
waiting for the time when the young ones will come into life from that
delicate shell-covering, blind at first, though slightly clothed in
greyish-brown—five little linnets gaping for food.
[Illustration:
LINNETS AND NEST. [Page 48.
]
The linnet mostly builds its nest in low bushes, the furze being its
favourite resort; it is constructed outside of dry grass, roots, and
moss, and lined with hair and wool. We have it here in our picture;
for our friend, Mr. Harrison Weir, always faithful in his transcripts
of nature, has an eye, also, for beauty.
Round the nest, as you see, blossoms the yellow furze, and round it
too rises a _chevaux de frise_ of furze spines, green and tender to
look at, but sharp as needles. Yes, here on this furzy common, and on
hundreds of others all over this happy land, and on hill sides, with
the snowy hawthorn and the pink-blossomed crab-tree above them, and,
below, the mossy banks gemmed with pale-yellow primroses, are thousands
of linnet nests and father-linnets, singing for very joy of life and
spring, and for the summer which is before them. And as they sing, the
man ploughing in the fields hard-by, and the little lad leading the
horses, hear the song, and though he may say nothing about it, the man
thinks, and wonders that the birds sing just as sweetly now as when
he was young; and the lad thinks how pleasant it is, forgetting the
while that he is tired, and, whistling something like a linnet-tune,
impresses it on his memory, to be recalled with a tender sentiment
years hence when he is a man, toiling perhaps in Australia or Canada;
or, it may be, to speak to him like a guardian angel in some time of
trial or temptation, and bring him back to the innocence of boyhood and
to his God.
[Sidenote: _Bishop Huntley’s Anecdote._]
Our picture shows us the fledgeling brood of the linnet, and the
parent-bird feeding them. The attachment of this bird to its young is
very great. Bishop Huntley, in his “History of Birds,” gives us the
following anecdote in proof of it:—
“A linnet’s nest, containing four young ones, was found by some
children, and carried home with the intention of rearing and taming
them. The old ones, attracted by their chirping, fluttered round the
children till they reached home, when the nest was carried up stairs
and placed in the nursery-window. The old birds soon approached the
nest and fed the young. This being observed, the nest was afterwards
placed on a table in the middle of the room, the window being left
open, when the parents came in and fed their young as before. Still
farther to try their attachment, the nest was then placed in a cage,
but still the old birds returned with food, and towards evening
actually perched on the cage, regardless of the noise made by several
children. So it went on for several days, when, unfortunately, the
cage, having been set outside the window, was exposed to a violent
shower of rain, and the little brood was drowned in the nest. The poor
parent-birds continued hovering round the house, and looking wistfully
in at the window for several days, and then disappeared altogether.”
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IX.
THE PEEWIT.
The Peewit, lapwing, or plover, belongs to the naturalist family of
_Gallatores_ or Waders, all of which are furnished with strong legs and
feet for walking, whilst all which inhabit watery places, or feed their
young amongst the waves, have legs sufficiently long to enable them to
wade; whence comes the family name.
The peewit, or lapwing, is a very interesting bird, from its peculiar
character and habits. Its plumage is handsome; the upper part of the
body of a rich green, with metallic reflections; the sides of the neck
and base of the tail of a pure white; the tail is black; so is the
top of the head, which is furnished with a long, painted crest, lying
backwards, but which can be raised at pleasure. In length the bird is
about a foot.
The peewit lives in all parts of this country, and furnishes one of
the pleasantly peculiar features of open sea-shores and wide moorland
wastes, in the solitudes of which, its incessant, plaintive cry has an
especially befitting sound, like the very spirit of the scene, moaning
in unison with the waves, and wailing over the wide melancholy of the
waste. Nevertheless, the peewit is not in itself mournful, for it is
a particularly lively and active bird, sporting and frolicking in the
air with its fellows, now whirling round and round, and now ascending
to a great height on untiring wing; then down again, running along the
ground, and leaping about from spot to spot as if for very amusement.
It is, however, with all its agility, a very untidy nest-maker; in
fact it makes no better nest than a few dry bents scraped together in
a shallow hole, like a rude saucer or dish, in which she can lay her
eggs—always four in number. But though taking so little trouble about
her nest, she is always careful to lay the narrow ends of her eggs in
the centre, as is shown in the picture, though as yet there are but
three. A fourth, however, will soon come to complete the cross-like
figure, after which she will begin to sit.
These eggs, under the name of plovers’ eggs, are in great request as
luxuries for the breakfast-table, and it may be thought that laid thus
openly on the bare earth they are very easily found. It is not so,
however, for they look so much like the ground itself, so like little
bits of moorland earth or old sea-side stone, that it is difficult to
distinguish them. But in proportion as the bird makes so insufficient
and unguarded a nest, so all the greater is the anxiety, both of
herself and her mate, about the eggs. Hence, whilst she is sitting, he
exercises all kinds of little arts to entice away every intruder from
the nest, wheeling round and round in the air near him, so as to fix
his attention, screaming mournfully his incessant _peewit_ till he has
drawn him ever further and further from the point of his anxiety and
love.
[Illustration:
PEEWITS AND NEST. [Page 52.
]
[Sidenote: _Stratagems of the Bird._]
The little quartette brood, which are covered with down when hatched,
begin to run almost as soon as they leave the shell, and then the poor
mother-bird has to exercise all her little arts also—and indeed the
care and solicitude of both parents is wonderful. Suppose, now, the
little helpless group is out running here and there as merry as life
can make them, and a man, a boy, or a dog, or perhaps all three, are
seen approaching. At once the little birds squat close to the earth,
so that they become almost invisible, and the parent-birds are on the
alert, whirling round and round the disturber, angry and troubled,
wailing and crying their doleful _peewit_ cry, drawing them ever
further and further away from the brood. Should, however, the artifice
not succeed, and the terrible intruder still obstinately advance in the
direction of the young, they try a new artifice; drop to the ground,
and, running along in the opposite course, pretend lameness, tumbling
feebly along in the most artful manner, thus apparently offering the
easiest and most tempting prey, till, having safely lured away the
enemy, they rise at once into the air, screaming again their _peewit_,
but now as if laughing over their accomplished scheme.
The young, which are hatched in April, are in full plumage by the end
of July, when the birds assemble in flocks, and, leaving the sea-shore,
or the marshy moorland, betake themselves to downs and sheep-walks,
where they soon become fat, and are said to be excellent eating.
Happily, however, for them, they are not in as much request for the
table as they were in former times. Thus we find in an ancient book
of housekeeping expenses, called “The Northumberland Household-book,”
that they are entered under the name of _Wypes_, and charged one penny
each; and that they were then considered a first-rate dish is proved by
their being entered as forming a part of “his lordship’s own mess,” or
portion of food; _mess_ being so used in those days—about the time,
probably, when the Bible was translated into English. Thus we find in
the beautiful history of Joseph and his brethren, “He sent messes to
them, but Benjamin’s mess was five times as much as any of theirs.”
Here I would remark, on the old name of _Wypes_ for this bird, that
country-people in the midland counties still call them _pie-wypes_.
But now again to our birds. The peewit, like the gull, may easily be
tamed to live in gardens, where it is not only useful by ridding them
of worms, slugs, and other troublesome creatures, but is very amusing,
from its quaint, odd ways. Bewick tells us of one so kept by the Rev.
J. Carlisle, Vicar of Newcastle, which I am sure will interest my
readers.
[Sidenote: _A Winter Visitor._]
He says two of these birds were given to Mr. Carlisle, and placed
in his garden, where one soon died; the other continued to pick up
such food as the place afforded, till winter deprived it of its usual
supply. Necessity then compelled it to come nearer the house, by
which it gradually became accustomed to what went forward, as well as
to the various members of the family. At length a servant, when she
had occasion to go into the back-kitchen with a light, observed that
the lapwing always uttered his cry of _peewit_ to gain admittance.
He soon grew familiar; as the winter advanced, he approached as far
as the kitchen, but with much caution, as that part of the house was
generally inhabited by a dog and a cat, whose friendship the lapwing
at length gained so entirely, that it was his regular custom to resort
to the fireside as soon as it grew dark, and spend the evening and
night with his two associates, sitting close to them, and partaking
of the comforts of a warm fireside. As soon as spring appeared he
betook himself to the garden, but again, at the approach of winter,
had recourse to his old shelter and his old friends, who received him
very cordially. But his being favoured by them did not prevent his
taking great liberties with them; he would frequently amuse himself
with washing in the bowl which was set for the dog to drink out of, and
whilst he was thus employed he showed marks of the greatest indignation
if either of his companions presumed to interrupt him. He died, poor
fellow, in the asylum he had chosen, by being choked with something
which he had picked up from the floor. During his confinement he
acquired an artificial taste as regarded his food, and preferred crumbs
of bread to anything else.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER X.
THE HOUSE-MARTIN, OR WINDOW-SWALLOW.
During our winter, swallows inhabit warm tropical countries, migrating
northwards with the first approaches of summer. They are usually seen
with us from the 13th to the 20th of April, and are useful from the
first day of their arrival, by clearing the air of insects, which they
take on the wing; indeed, they may be said to live almost wholly on the
wing, and, except when collecting mud for their nests, are seldom seen
to alight, and, in drinking, dip down to the water as they skim over it
on rapid wing.
[Illustration:
HOUSE-MARTINS AND NESTS. [Page 56.
]
We have three kinds of swallows in England: the chimney-swallow, the
house-martin, and the sand-martin, of which I shall have something to
say in due course. The chimney-swallow and house-martin are especially
worthy of the affectionate regard of man; for they love his society,
build around his dwelling, destroy nothing that he values, have no
appetite for his fruits; they live harmoniously amongst themselves,
and have no other disposition than that of cheerfulness, unwearying
industry and perseverance, and the most devoted parental affection.
Mr. Weir has given us a lively picture of swallow-life—four nests
grouped together on a house-side: more there probably are; but there
are as many as we can manage with; indeed we will presently confine
our attention to one single nest, and, by so doing, I flatter myself
that I shall win your admiration for these birds, and that you will
agree with me in thinking that if we all, men and women, boys and
girls, had only their persevering spirit, and their courage under
adversity, there would not be so much unsuccess, either at school or in
life, as is now, too often, the case.
[Sidenote: _The Nests on Traquair House._]
Some people are very fond of having martins about their houses, under
their eaves, and even in the corners of their windows. The Earl of
Traquair was one of these; he was, indeed, a great lover of all kinds
of birds, and all were protected on his premises. In the autumn of
1839, there were no less than one hundred and three martins’ nests on
Traquair House—which is a very fine old place—besides several which
had been deserted, injured, or taken possession of by sparrows, which
is a very unwarrantable liberty taken by these birds.
From six to twenty days are required to build a martin’s nest. If all
goes on well it may be finished in the shorter time.
Let us now see how the birds set about building. Here are several
nests in our picture; and turning to the pages of Macgillivray’s
“British Birds,” I shall find exactly the information we need. I will,
therefore, extract freely from this interesting writer, that my young
readers may be as grateful to him as I am myself.
[Sidenote: _The Domestic Life of a Pair._]
Again turning to our picture, we find four nests. “A party of eight
martins arrived here on the 1st of May. As this was quite a new
location, they spent the whole day in examining the eaves of the house,
the corners of the windows, and the out-buildings. By the following
morning the question was settled, and they had, as you see, fixed
upon a high wall with a slate coping, and an eastern aspect, and at
once commenced making a general foundation for their nests. Suitable
materials are procured from the banks of an adjoining pond, or a puddle
in the lane. Let us go down and see them. Here they come, sailing
placidly over the tree-tops; now they descend so as almost to sweep the
surface of the pond; some of them alight at once, others skim round, as
if borne away by a brisk wind. Those that have alighted walk about with
short steps, looking round for materials. Some seem not to find the mud
suitable, but seize on a piece of straw, or grass, which, tempering
in the mud, they then fly off with. Returning now to the building, we
see one using its tail planted against the wall, or against the nest,
if sufficiently advanced, as a support, deposit the material it has
brought by giving its head a wriggling motion, so that the mud slides
gently into the crevices of yesterday’s work; then he retouches the
whole. See, one has now arrived with his supply before the other has
finished: he is impatient to disburden himself, and wants to drive
off the worker, who rather snappishly retorts, and he, poor fellow,
goes off for a while with the mud sticking to his bill. Now she has
finished; there is room for him, and he goes back again and works hard
in his turn. They never alight on the nest without twittering. At noon,
if the weather be hot, they betake themselves to the fields, or, after
a dip in the pond, sun themselves on the house-top for half-an-hour or
so. Then they will hawk about for food, and after awhile one of them
may, perhaps, return and give another touch or two to the work, or seat
herself in the nest to consolidate the materials. But if cold, wet, or
windy, they keep away. What they do with themselves I know not; but
as soon as it clears up, they are at work again. At the beginning of
their building, they seem to have no objection to leave it for a whole
day; but as it advances, they become more interested or anxious, and
one or both will sit in it all night, even though the weather be bad.”
So much for the building of these four nests of our picture; and now
I will bespeak your attention to a little narrative of the joys and
sorrows of the domestic life of a pair of martins, which, we will
suppose, belong also to our group.
“The building began on the 1st of May, at daybreak. But the weather was
very much against them, being cold and stormy, and it was the 18th of
the month before it was finished.
“Seeing their labours thus brought to a close, one could not help
wishing, considering how much it had cost, that the nest might last
them for many years. But on the 23rd of June, during a heavy fall of
thunder rain, almost the entire nest was washed to the ground, together
with the young birds which it contained. A short time before the
catastrophe, the old birds were observed hovering about, and expressing
great uneasiness. Almost immediately after it happened they left the
place, but returned the following day, and spent it in flying about and
examining the angle of the wall.
“Next morning they commenced repairing the nest. In three days they had
made great progress; but again rain fell, and their work was stayed.
On the 30th, they advanced rapidly, and both remained sitting on the
nest all night. The next day it was finished; and now they began to
rejoice: they twittered all the evening till it was dark, now and then
pruning each other’s heads, as, seated side by side, they prepared to
spend the dark hours in the nest. Eggs were soon laid again, but,
sad to say, on the morning of the 18th of July, again, during a great
storm of wind and rain, the upper wall fell, carrying with it one
of the eggs. The old birds again fluttered about, uttering the most
plaintive cries, and early the next morning began to repair the damage,
though it rained heavily all day. Part of the lining hanging over the
side was incorporated with the new layers of mud. The urgency of the
case was such, that they were obliged to work during the bad weather.
Throughout the day one bird sat on the nest, whilst the other laboured
assiduously. Kindly was he welcomed by his mate, who sometimes, during
his absence, nibbled and retouched the materials which he had just
deposited. In a few days it was finished, the weather became settled,
the young were hatched, and all went well with them.
“Sometimes when the nests are destroyed, the birds, instead of
attempting to repair the damage, forsake the neighbourhood, as if
wholly disheartened. Nothing can be more distressing to them than to
lose their young. In the storm of which I have just spoken, another
martin’s nest was washed down with unfledged young in it. These were
placed on some cotton wool in a basket, covered with a sheet of
brown paper, in an open window, facing the wall. During that day and
the following, the parents took no notice of them, and their kind
human protector fed them with house-flies. That evening he tried an
experiment. He gently placed the young ones in a nest of that same
window, where were other young. It was then about eight o’clock in the
evening; the rain was falling heavily, and no sound was heard save
the _cheep, cheep_, of the young birds, and the dashing of the storm
against the window-glass. A minute elapsed, when forth rushed the
parents shrieking their alarm notes, and, again and again wheeled up to
the nest, until at last they drifted away in the storm. He watched them
till they disappeared about half-past-nine. During all this time they
only twice summoned courage to look into the nest. Next morning I was
rejoiced to see them attending assiduously to the young ones.”
[Sidenote: _The Feeding of the Young._]
And now, turning again to our group of four nests on the walls,
supposing it be the month of July, every one of them with its
fledgeling brood sitting with gaping mouths, ever ready for food, you
may, perhaps, like to know how many meals are carried up to them in the
course of the day. If, then, the parents began to feed them at about
five in the morning, and left a little before eight at night, they
would feed them, at the lowest calculation, about a thousand times.
With all this feeding and care-taking, the young ones, as the summer
goes on, are full-fledged, and have grown so plump and large that the
nest is quite too small for them; therefore, they must turn out into
the world, and begin life for themselves.
It is now a fine, brisk, August morning, and at about eight o’clock,
you can see, if you look up at the nests, how the old birds come
dashing up to them quite in an excited way, making short curves in the
air, and repeating a note which says, as plain as a bird can speak,
This is the day
You must away!
What are wings made for, if not to fly?
Cheep, cheep,
Now for a leap!—
Father and mother and neighbours are by!
This flying away from the nest is a great event in swallow-life, as you
may well believe. Let us therefore now direct our attention to one nest
in particular, in which are only two young ones—a very small family;
but what happens here is occurring all round us.
One of these little ones balances itself at the entrance, looking
timidly into the void, and, having considered the risk for awhile,
allows its fellow to take its place.
During all this time, the parents keep driving about, within a few feet
of the entrance, and endeavour, by many winning gestures, to induce
their charge to follow them. The second bird also, after sitting for
some time, as if distrustful of its powers, retires, and the first
again appears. Opening and shutting his wings, and often half inclined
again to retire, he, at length, summons up all his resolution, springs
from the nest, and, with his self-taught pinions, cleaves the air. He
and his parents, who are in ecstasies, return to the nest, and the
second young one presently musters courage and joins them. And now
begins a day of real enjoyment; they sport chiefly about the tree-tops
till seven in the evening, when all re-enter the nest.
In several instances I have seen the neighbours add their inducements
to those of the parents, when the young were too timid to leave their
home. If the happy day prove fine, they seldom return to the nest
till sunset; if otherwise, they will come back two or three times. On
one occasion, when the young were ready to fly, but unwilling to take
the first leap, the parents had recourse to a little stratagem, both
ingenious and natural. The he-bird held out a fly at about four inches
from the entrance to the nest. In attempting to take hold of it, they
again and again nearly lost their balance. On another occasion, the
mother bird, trying this plan to no purpose, seemed to lose patience,
and seizing one of them by the lower mandible, with the claw of her
right foot, whilst it was gaping for food, tried to pull it out of the
nest, to which, however, it clung like a squirrel. But the young, every
one of them, fly in time, and a right joyous holiday they all have
together.
[Sidenote: _The Autumn Migration._]
So the summer comes to an end; and towards the middle of September,
the great family cares being over, and the young having attained
to an age capable of undertaking the fatigues of migration, that
mysterious impulse, strong as life itself, and probably affecting
them like some sickness—the necessity to exchange one country and
climate for another—comes upon them. Under this influence, they
congregate together in immense numbers, every neighbourhood seeming
to have its place of assembly—the roofs of lofty buildings, or the
leafless boughs of old trees: here they meet, not only to discuss the
great undertaking, but to have a right merry time together—a time
of luxurious idleness, lively chatterings, singing in chorus their
everlasting and musical _cheep, cheep_, eating and drinking, and making
ready for the journey before them.
At length the moment of departure is come, and at a given signal the
whole party rises. Twittering and singing, and bidding a long farewell
to the scenes of their summer life, they fly off in a body, perhaps, if
coming from Scotland, or the north of England, to rest yet a few weeks
in the warmer southern counties; after which, a general departure takes
place to the sunny lands of Africa.
Though gifted with wings wonderfully constructed for prolonged flight,
and though having passed every day of so many successive months almost
wholly on the wing, the swallow frequently suffers great fatigue and
exhaustion in its long migration. Sometimes, probably driven out of
its course by adverse winds, it is known to alight by hundreds on the
rigging of vessels, when worn out by hunger and fatigue it is too
often shot or cruelly treated. Nevertheless the swallow, protected
by Him who cares for the sparrow, generally braves the hardships of
migration, and the following spring, guided by the same mysterious
instinct, finds his way across continents and seas to his old home,
where, identified by some little mark which has been put upon him—a
silken thread as a garter, or a light silver ring—he is recognised as
the old familiar friend, and appears to be no less happy to be once
more with them than are they to welcome him. Sometimes swallows coming
back as ordinary strangers, prove their identity, even though the scene
of their last year’s home may have been pulled down, together with the
human habitation. In this case, he has been known to fly about in a
distracted way, lamenting the change that had taken place, and seeming
as if nothing would comfort him.
Though the fact of swallows coming back to their old haunts does not
need proving, yet I will close my chapter with an incident which
occurred in our own family. During a summer storm, a martin’s nest,
with young, was washed from the eaves of my husband’s paternal
home. His mother, a great friend to all birds, placed the nest with
the young, which happily were uninjured, in a window, which, being
generally open, allowed the parent-birds access to their young. They
very soon began to feed them, making no attempt to build any other
nest; so that the young were successfully reared, and took their flight
full-fledged from the window-sill.
[Sidenote: _A Welcomed Return to Old Haunts._]
The next spring, when the time for the arrival of the swallows came,
great was the surprise and pleasure of their kind hostess, to see,
one day, a number of swallows twittering about the window, as if
impatient for entrance. On its being opened, in they flew, and,
twittering joyfully and circling round the room, as if recognising the
old hospitable asylum of the former year, flew out and soon settled
themselves under the eaves with the greatest satisfaction. There could
be no doubt but that these were the birds that had been reared there.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XI.
THE CHIFF-CHAFF, OR OVEN-BUILDER.
The Chiff-chaff, chill-chall, lesser pettichaps, or oven-builder, is
one of the great bird-family of warblers, and the smallest of them in
size; indeed, it is not much larger than the little willow-wren. Like
all its family it is a bird of passage, and makes its appearance here,
in favourable seasons, as early as the 12th of March—earlier than
the warblers in general—and also remains later, having been known to
remain here to the middle of October.
[Illustration:
CHIFF-CHAFFS AND NEST. [Page 66.
]
It is a remarkably cheerful little bird, and is warmly welcomed by all
lovers of the country as being one of the first visitants of spring,
sending its pleasant little voice, with an incessant “chiff-chaff,”
“chery-charry,” through the yet leafless trees.
Its plumage is dark olive-green; the breast and under part of the body,
white, with a slight tinge of yellow; the tail, brown, edged with pale
green; legs, yellowish-brown.
The nest is not unlike that of a wren, built in a low bush, and,
sometimes, even on the ground. The one so beautifully and faithfully
depicted by Mr. Harrison Weir, seems to be amongst the tallest grasses
and picturesque growths of some delicious woodland lane. It is a
lovely little structure; a hollow ball wonderfully put together, of
dry leaves and stems of grass, and a circular hole for entrance at
the side; lined with soft feathers—a little downy bed of comfort. The
mother-bird, as we now see her, sits here in delicious ease on five or
six white eggs, beautifully spotted with rich red-brown.
[Sidenote: _Mr. Howitt’s Account of this Bird._]
This dainty little bird, which seems made alone for pleasure, is
very useful to man, and should be made kindly welcome everywhere,
living entirely on caterpillars and other troublesome and destructive
creatures. The Rev. J. G. Wood says that it saves many a good oak from
destruction by devouring, on its first arrival, the caterpillars of
the well-known green oak-moth, which roll up the leaves in so curious
a manner, and come tumbling out of their green houses at the slightest
alarm.
He says, also, that a little chiff-chaff, which had been caught and
tamed, was accustomed to dash to the ceiling of the room in which it
was kept, and to snatch thence the flies which settled on the white
surface.
My husband, writing of this bird, says:—
“Gilbert White gave, I believe, the name of chiff-chaff to this
little bird from its note. In the midland counties it is called the
chill-chall from the same cause; and, indeed, this name is, to my ear,
more accordant with its continuous ditty. Its cheery little voice is
one of the pleasantest recognitions of returning spring. It is sure to
be heard, just as in former years, in the copse, the dell, the belt
of trees bordering a wayside; we catch its simple note with pleasure,
for it brings with it many a memory of happy scenes and days gone
by. We see the little creature hopping along the boughs of the yet
only budding oak, and know that it is as usefully employed for man
as agreeably for itself. It tells us, in effect, that sunny days,
flowers, and sweet airs, and the music of a thousand other birds, are
coming. We revert to the time when, tracing the wood-side or the bosky
dingle in boyhood, we caught sight of its rounded nest amongst the
screening twigs of the low bush, and the bleached bents of last year’s
grapes. We remember the pleasure with which we examined its little
circular entrance, and discovered, in its downy interior, its store
of delicate eggs, or the living mass of feathery inmates, with their
heads ranged side by side and one behind another, with their twinkling
eyes and yellow-edged mouths. Many a time, as we have heard the ever
blithe note of chill-chall, as it stuck to its unambitious part of the
obscure woodland glade, we have wished that we could maintain the same
buoyant humour, the same thorough acceptance of the order of Providence
for us. As Luther, in a moment of despondency, when enemies were rife
around him, and calumny and wrong pursued him, heard the glad song of a
bird that came and sang on a bough before his window, we have thanked
God for the lesson of the never-drooping chill-chall. The great world
around never damps its joy with a sense of its own insignificance; the
active and often showy life of man, the active and varied existence of
even birds, which sweep through the air in gay companies, never disturb
its pleasure in its little accustomed nook. It seems to express, in its
two or three simple notes, all the sentiment of indestructible content,
like the old woman’s bird in the German story by Ludwig Tieck—
Alone in wood so gay,
’Tis good to stay,
Morrow like to-day
For ever and aye;
Oh, I do love to stay
Alone in wood so gay!
[Sidenote: _The Bird’s Ditty._]
“This little bird appears to feel all that strength of heart, and to
put it into its little ditty, which seems to me to say—
“Here I continue ‘cheery cheery, and still shall, and still shall!’”
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XII.
THE GOLDEN-CRESTED WREN.
We have here the Golden-crested Wren—the _Regulus cristatus_
of naturalists—the tiniest of our British birds, “the pleasing
fairy-bird,” as Bewick calls it, one of the large family of warblers,
and a near relation to Jenny Wren. It is a very charming little bird,
with a sweet melodious song of its own, and so many curious little ways
that it is well worth everybody’s notice and everybody’s love.
It is very active and lively, always in motion, fluttering from branch
to branch, and running up and down the trunks and limbs of trees, in
search of insects on which it lives. It may as often be seen on the
under as on the upper side of a branch, with its back downwards, like
a fly on a ceiling, and so running along, all alert, as merry and busy
as possible. In size it is about three inches, that is with all its
feathers on, but its little body alone is not above an inch long; yet
in this little body, and in this little brain, lives an amazing amount
of character, as I shall show you, as well as a great deal of amusing
conceit and pertness which you would hardly believe unless you were
told.
[Illustration:
GOLDEN-CRESTED WRENS AND NEST. [Page 70.
]
The colour of the bird is a sort of yellowish olive-green, the under
part of pale, reddish-white, tinged with green on the sides; the quill
feathers of the wing are dusky, edged with pale green, as are also
the tail feathers. Thus attired by nature, that is, by the great
Creator who cares for all His creatures, this little bird, creeping
and fluttering about the branches and bole of the leafy summer tree,
can scarcely be distinguished from the tree itself: hence it is that
the bird is so unfamiliar to most people. The he-bird, however, has
a little distinguishing glory of his own—a crest of golden-coloured
feathers, bordered on each side with black, like a sort of eye-brow to
his bright hazel eyes. This crest, which gives him his distinguished
name, can be erected at pleasure, when he is full of life and
enjoyment, or when he chooses to lord it over birds ten times as big as
himself.
[Sidenote: _The Lively Gambols of this Bird._]
It is worth anybody’s while, who has a love for the innocent denizens
of nature, and no desire to do them harm, to go into a wood on a
summer’s day on purpose to watch the doings of this lively little bird
amongst the tree-branches. Fir-woods are the best for this purpose, as
this bird has an especial liking for these trees, and ten to one, if
you will only be patient and quite still, you may soon see him at work
busily looking after his dinner, running along the branches, up one and
down another, then like a little arrow off to the next tree, scudding
along its branches, then back again, up and down, round and round
the bole, going like a little fire, so rapid are his movements; now
running up aloft, now hanging head downward, now off again in another
direction. What a wonderful activity there is in that little body! He
must devour hundreds of insects, as well as their eggs, which he thus
seeks for under the scaly roughnesses of the bark, and finding, devours.
Pretty as he is, his nest, of which Mr. Harrison Weir has given a most
accurate drawing, is quite worthy of him. It is always the same, swung
like a little hammock from a branch, and always hidden, it may be by
leaves or a bunch of fir-cones. The cordage by which it is suspended
is of his own weaving, and is made of the same materials as the nest,
which are moss and slender thread-like roots. In form it is oval, as
you see, with a hole for entrance at the side, and is lined with the
softest down and fibrous roots. It is a lovely little structure, like
a soft ball of moss, within which the mother-bird lays from six to a
dozen tiny eggs, scarcely bigger than peas, the delicate shell of which
will hardly bear handling. The colour of the egg is white, sprinkled
over with the smallest of dull-coloured spots.
Mr. Jesse describes one of these lovely nests which was taken from the
slender branches of a fir-tree where it had been suspended, as usual,
by means of delicate cordage, secured to the branch by being twisted
round and round, and then fastened to the edge or rim of the nest,
so that one may be sure that the making and securing of these tiny
ropes must be the first work of the clever little artizan. The nest
thus suspended sways lightly to and fro with the movement of the bird.
We cannot see in our cut the slender ropes that suspend it; they are
concealed under the thick foliage; but we can easily see what a dainty
little structure it is.
[Sidenote: _The Jackdaw and Mischievous Wrens._]
Delicate and lovely as is this bird, and pleasing and harmless as is
his life, he yet possesses some curious traits of character, as I
said. For instance, though so small, with a body only an inch long,
he has, apparently, a wonderful conceit of himself, and loves to be
lord and master of creatures that will not dispute with him, as not
worth their while, or perhaps because there really is some inherent
mastership in him by which he contrives, under certain circumstances,
to rule over them. In proof of this, I will tell you what the Rev. J.
G. Wood relates from the experience of a lady, a friend of his. One
severe winter, when she had housed and fed a number of birds, amongst
which were a jackdaw, a magpie, two skylarks, a goldfinch, and a robin,
in a warm aviary, feeding them regularly and abundantly, other birds
came, of course, to partake of the plentiful feast, and amongst them
two golden-crested wrens. These little things made themselves not
only quite at home, but lorded it over the other birds in the most
extraordinary way possible. For instance, if the jackdaw had possessed
himself of a nice morsel which he was holding down with his foot to
eat comfortably, and the golden-crested wren had also set his mind on
it, he hopped on the jackdaw’s head and pecked in his eye, on the side
where his foot held the delicacy. On this the poor jackdaw instantly
lifted his foot to his head where he thought something was amiss, and
the mischievous little fellow snatched up the treasure and was off. At
first the jackdaw would pursue him in great wrath, but he soon learned
that it was no use, for the creature would only jump upon his back
where he could not reach him, and so was safe from punishment. “Before
the winter was over,” continues the lady, “the little gold-crests were
masters of all the birds, and even roosted at night on their backs;
finding, no doubt, that in this way they could keep their little feet
much warmer than on a perch.”
Conceited and dominant, however, as these little birds may be, they are
yet either extremely timid, or their nervous system is so delicately
constituted, that a sudden fright kills them. Thus if, when they are
all alert and busy on the tree-branch, seeking for insects and fearing
no evil, the branch be suddenly struck with a stick, the poor bird
falls dead to the ground. The shock has killed it. It has received no
apparent injury—not a feather is ruffled—but its joyous, innocent
life is gone for ever. This fact is asserted by Gilbert White, and was
proved by my husband, who brought me home the bird which had thus died.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIII.
THE WAGTAIL.
This elegant little bird belongs to the Motacilla, or Wagtail family.
There are three brothers of them in this country—the pied, the grey,
and the yellow. The pied is the most familiar, and our friend Mr.
Harrison Weir has given us a lovely picture of it at home in a cleft of
the rock, with fleshy-leaved lichens above, and green springing fronds
of the great fern, which will presently overshadow it. Around are the
solemn mountains, and the never silent water is foaming and rushing
below.
This bird has many names besides his Latin one of Motacilla. In Surrey
he is called washer, or dish-washer, by the common people, from his
peculiar motions in walking, which are thought to resemble those of a
washer-woman at her tub. The colours of the pied wagtail are simply
black and white, but so boldly and clearly marked as to produce a very
pleasing and elegant effect.
We have, every year, several wagtails in our garden, to which they add
a very cheerful feature, walking about, nodding their heads and tails
as if perfectly at home, afraid neither of dog nor cat, much less of
any human being about the place. A little running brook as one boundary
of the garden is, no doubt, one of the attractions; but here they are
seen less frequently than on the smoothly-mown lawn, where they pick up
tiny insects, gliding along with a smooth motion, accompanied by the
quick movement of head and tail.
It is bitterly cold wintry weather as I write this, and they now visit
the kitchen door, where, no doubt, little delicacies of various kinds
attract them. They are more fearless and familiar than either sparrows,
robins, or blackbirds; yet all of these are our daily pensioners,
having their breakfast of crumbs as regularly before the parlour window
as we have our own meal. Yet they fly away at the slightest sound,
and the appearance of the cat disperses them altogether. They have,
evidently, the old ancestral fear of man, stamped, as powerfully as
life itself, upon their being. They are suspicious, and always in
a flutter: nothing equals the calm self-possession of the wagtail,
excepting it be the state of mind into which the robin gets when the
gardener is turning up the fresh soil, just on purpose, as he supposes,
to find worms for him.
[Illustration:
WAGTAIL AND NEST. [Page 76.
]
[Sidenote: _Its Quest for Food._]
And now let me give you a wagtail picture, drawn by a faithful hand.[A]
It is the end of July, the young wagtails are abroad with their
parents, like human families, a month or two later, gone out or abroad
to take their holiday. “Often,” he says, “one may see them wading in
shallow places, in quest of insects and worms, carefully holding up
their tails to prevent them being draggled. If you watch the motions
of an individual just coming up to join the party, you see it alight
abruptly, twittering its shrill notes, and, perching on a small stone,
incessantly vibrate its body, and jerk out its tail.” This of course
is the polite way in which a stranger wagtail introduces itself
amongst its friends. There they are; now walking out into the water,
and looking round for food. Now they are on the shore again, running
rapidly along, picking up, now and then, a dainty morsel, and every
moment spreading out the ever-vibrating tail. Now they are in the
adjoining meadow, each one in pursuit of a fly, which it has no sooner
caught, than it spies another. The lazy geese, which have nibbled
the grass bare, allow the wagtail to pass in their midst without
molestation. When the cows are grazing in the midst of a swarm of
gnats and other insects, as Gilbert White says, as they tread amongst
the bush herbage they rouse up multitudes of insects which settle on
their legs, their stomachs, and even their noses, and the wagtails are
welcomed by the cows as benefactors. Watch them, for they are worth the
trouble; see, one comes forward and catches a small fly, bends to one
side to seize another, darts to the right after a third, and springs
some feet in the air before it secures a fourth, and all this time
others are running about after other flies, passing close to the cows’
noses or amongst their feet. With all this running to and fro, and
hither and thither, they every now and then run in each other’s way;
but they do not quarrel, aware, no doubt, that there is room enough for
them in the world, nay, even in the meadow, though it now seems to be
full of wagtails, all busily occupied, some walking, others running, a
few flying off and many arriving. You may walk in amongst them; they
are not very shy, for they will allow you to come within a few yards of
them. They may always be met with on the shore when the tide is out, as
well as in the meadow; you will meet with them by the river-side, or by
the mill-dam. Occasionally you may see them perched on a roof, a wall,
or a large stone, but very rarely on a tree or bush.
[Footnote A: “British Birds.”]
[Sidenote: _The Taunton Pair._]
They pair about the middle of April, and build by the side of rivers
in crevices of rock—as in our picture, on a heap of stones, in faggot
or wood stacks, or in a hole in a wall, but always near water and
carefully hidden from sight. The nest is made of dry grass, moss, and
small roots, thickly lined with wool and hair. The eggs are five or six
in number, of a greyish white, spotted all over with grey and brown.
As a proof of the confiding nature of this bird, I must mention that
occasionally it builds in most unimaginable places, directly under the
human eye—as, for instance, “a pair of them last summer,” says Mr.
Jesse, “built their nest in a hollow under a sleeper of the Brighton
Railway, near the terminus at that place. Trains at all times of the
day were passing close to the nest, but in this situation the young
were hatched and reared.” Mr. Macgillivray also mentions that a pair
of these birds built their nest in an old wall near a quarry, within a
few yards of four men who worked most part of the day in getting the
stone, which they occasionally blasted. The hen-bird laid four eggs,
and reared her brood, she and her mate becoming so familiar with the
quarry-men as to fly in and out without showing the least sign of fear;
but if a stranger approached they would immediately fly off, nor return
till they saw him clear off from the place. Another nest was built
beneath a wooden platform at a coal-pit, where the noisy business of
unloading the hutches brought up from the pit, was continually going
forward. But soon the wagtails were quite at home, becoming familiar
with the colliers and other people connected with the work, and flew
in and out of their nest without showing the slightest sign of fear.
Again, another pair built close to the wheel of a lathe in a workshop
at a brass manufactory at Taunton amid the incessant din of the
braziers; yet here the young were hatched, and the mother-bird became
perfectly familiar with the faces of the workmen; but if a stranger
entered, or any one belonging to the factory, though not to what might
be called her shop, she quitted her nest instantly, nor would return
till they were gone. The male, however, had much less confidence, and
would not come into the room, but brought the usual supplies of food to
a certain spot on the roof whence she fetched it. All these anecdotes
prove how interesting would be the relationship between the animal
creation and man, if man ceased to be their tyrant or destroyer.
As regards this particular bird, it is not only elegant in its
appearance, but amiable and attractive in all its ways. “They are,”
says Bewick, “very attentive to their young, and continue to feed and
train them for three or four weeks after they can fly; they defend them
with great courage when in danger, or endeavour to draw aside the enemy
by various little arts. They are very attentive also to the cleanliness
of their nests, and so orderly as to have been known to remove light
substances, such as paper or straw, which have been placed to mark the
spot.” As regards this proof of their love of order, however, I would
rather suggest that it may be a proof of their sagacity and sense of
danger: they suspected that some human visitor, of whose friendly
character they were not convinced, was intending to look in upon them,
and they thought it best, therefore, to decline the honour of his
visit.
The ordinary note of this bird, uttered rapidly if alarmed, is a sort
of _cheep, cheep_. In the summer morning, however, it may be heard
singing a pleasant, mellow and modulated little song. Like the swallow,
for which it is a match in elegance, it lives entirely on insects. If
you would only stand silently for a few minutes by a water-side, where
it haunts, you would be delighted with the grace and activity of its
movements. “There it stands,” says one of its friends, “on the top of
a stone, gently vibrating its tail, as if balancing itself. An insect
flies near; it darts off, flutters a moment in the air, seizes its
prey, and settles on another stone, spreading and vibrating its tail.
Presently it makes another sally, flutters around for a while, seizes
two or three insects, glides over the ground, swerving to either side,
then again takes its stand on a pinnacle.” Not unfrequently too it
may be seen on the roof of a house, or in a village street, still in
pursuit of insects.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIV.
THE JACKDAW.
We have called the Rook and Jackdaw first cousins. They are so, and
are greatly attached to each other. There is a difference, however, in
their character; the rook is grave and dignified, the jackdaw is active
and full of fun. But they are fond of each other’s society, and agree
to associate for nine months in the year: during the other three they
are both occupied with their respective family cares.
[Illustration:
JACKDAWS AND NESTLINGS. [Page 82.
]
Rooks build in trees in the open air, the nests of the young being
exposed to all the influences of wind and weather. The jackdaw does not
approve of this mode. He likes to live under cover, and, therefore,
makes his nest in holes and crannies, amongst rocks, as in our picture;
in old and tall buildings, as church towers and steeples, old ruinous
castles, or old hollow trees. The traditional structure of the family
nest is certainly that of the rook; a strong frame-work of sticks upon
which the eggs can be laid, and the clamorous young jackdaws be brought
up. This our friend Mr. Weir has shown us plainly. But, after all, it
does not appear that the jackdaw, with all his sharpness, has much
scientific knowledge, the getting the sticks into the hole being often
a very difficult piece of work. Mr. Waterton amused himself by watching
the endless labour and pains which the jackdaw takes in trying to do
impossibilities. Thinking it absolutely necessary that a frame-work
of sticks should be laid in the hole or cavity as the foundation of
the nest, he brings to the opening just such sticks as the rook would
use in open spaces, and may be seen trying for a quarter of an hour
together to get a stick into a hole, holding it by the middle all the
time, so that the ends prop against each side, and make the endeavour
impossible. He cannot understand how it is; he knows that sticks ought
to go into holes, but here is one that will not; and, tired out at
length, and thinking perhaps that it is in the nature of some sticks
not to be got into a hole by any means, he drops it down and fetches
another, probably to have no better result, and this may happen several
times. But jackdaws have perseverance, and so, with trying and trying
again, he meets with sticks that are not so self-willed, and that can
be put into holes, either by being short enough or held the right way,
and so the foundation is laid, and the easier part of the work goes on
merrily; for the jackdaw is at no loss for sheets and blankets for his
children’s bed, though we cannot see them in our picture, the clamorous
children lying at the very edge of their bed. But if we could examine
it, we should most likely be amused by what we should find. The jackdaw
takes for this purpose anything soft that comes readily—we cannot say
to _hand_—but to _bill_. In this respect he resembles the sparrow,
and being, like him, fond of human society, gleans up out of his
neighbourhood all that he needs for the comfort of his nestlings. Thus
we hear of a nest, built in the ruins of Holyrood Chapel, in which,
on its being looked into for a piece of lace which was supposed to be
there, it was found also to be lined with part of a worsted stocking,
a silk handkerchief, a child’s cap, a muslin frill, and several
other things which the busy jackdaw had picked up in various ways; for
it must be borne in mind that he is own cousin to the magpie, whose
thievish propensities are well known.
The call of the jackdaw is much quicker and more lively than the rook,
somewhat resembling the syllable _yak_, variously modulated, and
repeated somewhat leisurely, but at the same time cheerfully. Its food
is similar to that of the rook, and going forth at early dawn it may be
seen in pastures or ploughed fields, busily searching for larvæ, worms,
and insects. They walk gracefully, with none of the solemn gravity
either of the rook or raven, and may occasionally be seen running along
and sometimes quarrelling amongst themselves.
Like the rook, the jackdaw stows away food in its mouth or throat-bag
to feed its young. Its plumage is black, with shining silvery grey
behind the head. Occasionally they are found with streaks or patches of
white, as are also rooks, but these are mere sports of nature.
[Sidenote: _Mr. Waterton’s Opinion._]
Mr. Waterton was of opinion that jackdaws lived in pairs all the year
round, as he had seen them sitting in November on the leafless branches
of a sycamore, side by side, pruning each other’s heads, and apparently
full of mutual affection; and as they mostly left the trees in pairs,
and so returned, he was inclined to think that it was their custom
always to remain paired.
I will now give you his _carte de visite_ from Macgillivray’s “British
Birds.” “He is a remarkably active, pert, and talkative little fellow,
ever cheerful, always on the alert, and ready either for business or
frolic. If not so respectable as the grave and sagacious raven, he
is, at least, the most agreeable of the family, and withal extremely
fond of society, for, not content with having a flock of his own folk
about him, he often thrusts himself into a gang of rooks, and in winter
sometimes takes up his abode entirely with them.”
As to _thrusting_ himself into a gang of rooks, I am, however, of
opinion that the rooks make him heartily welcome. How do we know what
amusement they, with their stolid gravity and solemn dignity, find in
him with all his fun and loquacity? That rooks are really fond of the
society of jackdaws is proved by an observation of Mr. Mudie. He says
that “in the latter part of the season, when the rooks from one of the
most extensive rookeries in Britain made daily excursions of about six
miles to the warm grounds by the sea-side, and in their flight passed
over a deep ravine, in the sunny side of which were many jackdaws, he
observed that when the cawing of the rooks in their morning flight was
heard at the ravine, the jackdaws, who had previously been still and
quiet, instantly raised their shriller notes, and flew up to join the
rooks, both parties clamouring loudly as if welcoming each other; and
that on the return, the daws accompanied the rooks a little past the
ravine as if for good fellowship; then both cawed their farewell: the
daws returned to their home and the rooks proceeded on their way.”
Jackdaws, like rooks, are said to be excellent weather-prophets.
If they fly back to their roost in the forenoon, or early in the
afternoon, a storm may be expected that evening, or early in the
morning.
[Sidenote: _The Rev. J. G. Wood’s Anecdote._]
The anecdotes of tame jackdaws are numerous. The Rev. J. G. Wood
speaks of one which had learnt the art of kindling lucifer matches,
and thus became a very dangerous inmate, busying himself in this way
when the family was in bed, though, fortunately, he seems to have done
nothing worse than light the kitchen fire which had been laid ready
for kindling over night. Clever as he was, however, he could not learn
to distinguish the proper ignitable end of the match, and so rubbed
on till he happened to get it right. He frightened himself terribly
at first by the explosion and the sulphur fumes, and burned himself
into the bargain. But I do not find that, like the burnt child, he
afterwards feared the fire and so discontinued the dangerous trick.
The jackdaw is easily domesticated, and makes himself very happy in
captivity, learns to articulate words and sentences, and is most
amusing by his mimicry and comic humour.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XV.
THE SPOTTED FLY-CATCHER.
This pretty little bird is also called the Beam or Pillar-Bird from the
position which it chooses for its nest. Building mostly in gardens,
it selects the projecting stone of a wall, the end of a beam or piece
of wood, under a low roof, or by a door or gateway, the nest being,
however, generally screened, and often made a perfect little bit
of picturesque beauty, by the leaves of some lovely creeping rose,
woodbine, or passionflower, which grows there.
This last summer, one of these familiar little birds, which, though
always seeming as if in a flutter of terror, must be fond of human
society, built in a rustic verandah, overrun with Virginian creeper, at
the back of our house.
[Illustration:
SPOTTED FLY-CATCHERS AND NEST. [Page 86.
]
According to her peculiar fancy she built exactly in the doorway,
though there were some yards of verandah on either hand; but here was
the convenient ledge, forming an angle with the upright support; and
here was placed, as in our picture, the small, somewhat flat nest,
beautifully, though slightly, put together, of dried grass and moss,
lined with wool and hair. Here the mother-bird laid her four or five
greyish-white eggs, with their spots of rusty red, and here she reared
her young. She had, however, it seemed to us, an uncomfortable time of
it, for, though we carefully avoided giving her needless disturbance
that we almost ceased to use the door, yet there was an unavoidable
passing to and fro to which she never seemed to get accustomed,
starting off her nest with a little flutter whenever we came in sight;
nor—although before she had finished sitting the quick-growing shoots
of the Virginian creeper, with its broadly-expanding leaves, hid her
nest so completely that, had it not been for her own timidity, we need
not have known of her presence—she never lost this peculiar trait of
character.
The nest which Mr. Harrison Weir has drawn is, doubtless, taken from
life. I wish, however, he could have seen ours, only about ten feet
from the ground, a little dome of love, embowered amongst young shoots,
vine-like leaves and tendrils—a perfectly ideal nest, in which our
friend, who has as keen a sense of natural beauty as any artist living,
would have delighted himself.
The colours of this bird are very unobtrusive: the upper parts
brownish-grey, the head spotted with brown, the neck and breast
streaked or spotted with greyish-brown. It is a migratory bird, and
arrives in this country about the middle or end of May, remaining with
us till about the middle of October, by which time the flies on which
it lives have generally disappeared.
[Sidenote: _How it takes its Prey._]
Its mode of taking its winged prey is curious. Seated, stock-still,
in a twig, it darts or glides off at the sight of an insect, like the
bird of our picture, and seizes it with a little snapping noise; then
returns to its perch ready for more, and so on; incessantly darting out
and returning to the same spot, till it has satisfied its hunger, or
moves off to another twig to commence the same pursuit.
When they have young, the number of flies consumed only by one little
family must be amazing. It is recorded[B] in one instance that a pair
of fly-catchers, beginning to feed their nestlings at five-and-twenty
minutes before seven in the morning, and continuing their labour till
ten minutes before nine at night, supplied them with food, that is to
say with flies, no less than five hundred and thirty-seven times. The
gentleman who made these observations says:—“Before they fed their
young they alighted upon a tree for a few seconds, and looked round
about them. By short jerks they usually caught the winged insects.
Sometimes they ascended into the air and dropped like an arrow; at
other times they hovered like a hawk when set on its prey. They drove
off most vigorously all kinds of small birds that approached their
nest, as if bidding them to go and hunt in their own grounds, where
there were plenty of flies for them. Sometimes they brought only one
fly in their bills, sometimes several, and flies of various sizes.”
[Footnote B: See Macgillivray’s “_British Birds_.”]
This bird seems to become attached to particular localities, where
he finds himself conveniently situated and undisturbed. Mr. Mudie
mentions, in his “Feathered Tribes,” “that a pair of these birds had
nested in his garden for twelve successive years.” What is the length
of life of a fly-catcher I cannot say; but probably if they were
not the same birds, they would be their descendants—birds hatched
there, and consequently at home. The Rev. J. G. Wood also speaks of
the same locality having been used by this bird for twenty successive
years; and he supposes that the young had succeeded to their ancestral
home. He gives also an interesting account of the commencement of a
nest-building by this bird. He says that the female, who seems to be
generally the active builder, placed, in the first instance, a bundle
of fine grass in some conveniently-forked branches, and after having
picked it about for some time, as if regularly shaking it up, she
seated herself in the middle of it, and there, spinning herself round
and round, gave it its cup-like form. She then fetched more grasses,
and after arranging them partly round the edge, and partly on the
bottom, repeated the spinning process. A few hairs and some moss were
then stuck about the nest and neatly woven in, the hair and slender
vegetable fibres being the thread, so to speak, with which the moss was
fastened to the nest.
[Sidenote: _Mr. Mudie on Nest-building._]
Mr. Mudie, also speaking of their nest-building, says that, in one
instance which came under his notice, “the bird began at seven o’clock
on a Tuesday morning, and the nest was finished in good time on Friday
afternoon.” This was certainly rapid work. Mr. Yarrell says that the
he-bird brings the materials to the hen, who makes use of them—which
is stated as a general fact by Michelet—and that in constructing her
nest the little fly-catcher, after she had rounded it into its first
form, moves backwards as she weaves into it long hairs and grasses with
her bill, continually walking round and round her nest. This, however,
can only be when the situation of the nest will allow of her passing
round it. Our fly-catcher’s nest, and the nest of our picture, are
placed as a little bed close to the wall, and in such situations the
nest has sometimes no back, but simply the lining. A very favourite
place with the fly-catcher for her nest is the hole in a wall, the
size of a half brick, in which the builder fixed the spar of his
scaffolding, and omitted to fill up when he had finished. In these
convenient little nooks the fly-catcher’s nest fills the whole front
of the opening, but has seldom any back to it. From all this, I think
it is clear that the fly-catcher is, in her arrangements, guided by
circumstances: only, in every case, her little home is as snug as it
can be.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XVI.
THE WOOD-PIGEON.
The wood-pigeon, ring-dove, or cushat is one of the most familiar and
poetical of our birds. Its low, plaintive coo-goo-roo-o-o is one of the
pleasantest sounds of our summer woods.
“Tell me, tell me, cushat, why thou moanest ever,
Thrilling all the greenwood with thy secret woe?
‘I moan not,’ says the cushat, ‘I praise life’s gracious Giver
By murmuring out my love in the best way that I know.’”
The wood-pigeon belongs to a large family of birds—_columbinæ_ or
doves. The earliest mention of them in the world is in Genesis,
when Noah, wearied with the confinement of the ark, and seeing
that the mountain tops were visible, selected from the imprisoned
creatures—first the raven, then the dove, to go forth and report to
him of the state of the earth. The raven, however, came not back, no
doubt finding food which tempted him to stay; whilst the dove, finding
no rest for the sole of her foot, returned, and Noah, putting forth his
hand, took her in. Again he sent her forth, and she came back in the
evening, and, lo, in her mouth was an olive leaf plucked off. A third
time she was sent forth, but now she returned no more. So Noah looked
out, and behold the face of the earth was dry. And he and his family,
and all the creatures, again went forth and possessed all things.
This dove might probably be of the carrier-pigeon tribe, which is more
nearly related to the rock-pigeon, also a native of this country,
or rather, of the northern parts of Scotland. These carrier-pigeons
were, in the old times, long enough before the invention of electric
telegraphs, or even before post-offices were established, used instead
of both. Anacreon, the Greek poet, speaks of them as being used to
convey letters; the pigeon, having, as it were, two homes, being fed in
each; thus, a letter from a friend in one home was tied to the wing,
and the bird turned into the air, probably without his breakfast, when
he immediately flew off to his distant home, where the letter was
joyfully received, and he fed for his pains. Whilst the answer was
prepared he would rest, and it, perhaps, taking some little time, he
grew hungry again; but they gave him nothing more, and, again securing
the letter on his little person, he was sent back, making good speed,
because he would now be thinking of his supper. Thus, the answer flew
through the air.
“Come hither, my dove,
And I’ll write to my love,
And I’ll send him a letter by thee!”
[Illustration:
WOOD-PIGEONS AND NEST. [Page 92.
]
So says the old song. And we are told that a young man named
Taurosthenes, one of the victors in the great Olympian games of Greece,
sent to his father, who resided at a considerable distance, the tidings
of his success, on the same day, by one of these birds. Pliny, the
Roman historian, speaks of them being used in case of siege; when the
besieged sent out these winged messengers, who, cleaving the air at
a secure height above the surrounding army, conveyed the important
intelligence of their need to their friends afar off. The crusaders
are said to have made use of them at the siege of Jerusalem, and the
old traveller, Sir John Maundeville—“knight, warrior, and pilgrim,” as
he is styled—who, in the reign of our second and third Edwards, made
a journey as far as the borders of China, relates that, “in that and
other countries beyond, pigeons were sent out from one to another to
ask succour in time of need, and these letters were tied to the neck of
the bird.”
But enough of carrier-pigeons. Let us come back to our ring-dove or
cushat, brooding on her eggs in the sweet summer woods, as Mr. Harrison
Weir has so truthfully represented her. She is not much of a nest-maker.
“A few sticks across,
Without a bit of moss,
Laid in the fork of an old oak-tree;
Coo-goo-roo-o-o,
She says it will do,
And there she’s as happy as a bird can be.”
The nest, however, is not at all insufficient for her needs. You see
her sitting brooding over her two white eggs in every possible bird
comfort; and whether her mate help her in the building of the nest
or not, I cannot say, but he is certainly a very good domesticated
husband, and sits upon the eggs alternately with her, so that the
hatching, whatever the building may be, is an equally divided labour.
[Sidenote: _Wordsworth’s Tribute of Praise._]
Wordsworth sees in this bird an example of unobtrusive home affection.
He says:—
“I heard a stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale this very day:
His voice was buried among the trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze;
He did not cease, but cooed and cooed,
And somewhat pensively he wooed;
He sung of love with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith and inward glee;
That was the song—the song for me.”
Wood-pigeons have immense appetites, and, being fond of all kinds of
grain, as well as peas and beans, are looked upon by the farmer with
great disfavour. They are, however, fond of some of those very weeds
which are his greatest annoyance—for instance, charlock and wild
mustard; so that they do him some good in return for the tribute which
they take of his crops. They are fond, also, both of young clover and
the young green leaves of the turnip, as well as of the turnip itself.
Either by instinct or experience, they have learned that, feeding
thus in cultivated fields, they are doing that which will bring down
upon them the displeasure of man. “They keep,” says the intelligent
author of “Wild Sports in the Highlands,” “when feeding in the fields,
in the most open and exposed places, so as to allow no enemy to come
near them. It is amusing to watch a large flock of these birds whilst
searching the ground for grain. They walk in a compact body; and in
order that all may fare alike—which is certainly a good trait in their
character—the hindermost rank, every now and then, fly over the heads
of their companions to the front, where they keep the best place for
a minute or two, till those now in the rear take their place. They
keep up this kind of fair play during the whole time of feeding. They
feed, also, on wild fruit and all kinds of wild berries, such as the
mountain-ash, and ivy; and where acorns abound, seem to prefer them to
anything else. At the same time, I must confess that they are great
enemies to my cherry-trees, and swallow as many cherries as they can
hold. Nor are strawberries safe from them, and the quantity of food
they manage to stow away in their crops is perfectly astonishing.”
[Sidenote: _Its Necessary Watchfulness._]
Besides man, the wood-pigeon has its own bird-enemies. “In districts
where the hooded crow abounds,” says the author whom I have just
quoted, “he is always on the look-out for its eggs, which, shining out
white from the shallow, unsubstantial nest, are easily seen by him.
The sparrow-hawk seizes the young when they are half-grown and plump;
he having been carefully noticed watching the nest day by day as if
waiting for the time when they should be fit for his eating. The larger
hawks, however, prey upon the poor wood-pigeon himself.”
With all his pleasant cooings in the wood, therefore, and all
his complacent strutting about with elevated head and protruded
breast—with all his gambols and graces, his striking the points of
his wings together as he rises into the air, to express a pleasure to
his mate beyond his cooing, he has not such a care free life of it. He
is always kept on the alert, therefore, and, being always on the watch
against danger, is not at all a sound sleeper. The least disturbance at
night rouses him. “I have frequently,” continues our author, “attempted
to approach the trees when the wood-pigeons were roosting, but even
on the darkest nights they would take alarm. The poor wood-pigeon
has no other defence against its enemies than its ever watchful and
never sleeping timidity; not being able to do battle against even the
smallest of its many persecutors.”
Gilbert White says that the wood-pigeons were greatly decreasing, in
his time, in Hampshire, and there were then only about a hundred in the
woods at Selborne, but in former times the flocks had been so vast, not
only there, but in the surrounding districts, that they had traversed
the air morning and evening like rooks, reaching for a mile together,
and that, when they thus came to rendezvous there by thousands, the
sound of their wings, suddenly roused from their roosting-trees in an
evening, rising all at once into the air, was like a sudden rolling of
distant thunder.
Although the wood-pigeon is considered to be the original parent of
the tame pigeon, yet it does not seem possible to tame the young of
this bird, though taken from the nest quite young. It is a bird which
appears to hate confinement, and, as soon as it has the opportunity,
spite of all kindness and attention, it flies away to the freedom of
the woods.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XVII.
THE WHITE-THROAT.
With none of our migratory birds, our spring visitants from southern
lands, is the lover of the country more familiar than with the
White-throat, which, with its nest, is here so beautifully and livingly
depicted by Mr. Harrison Weir.
This bird, with its many names—White-throat, Peggy-white-throat,
Peggy-chaw, Charlie-mufty, Nettle-creeper, Whishey-whey-beard or
Pettichaps—comes to us in April, about the same time as the cuckoo and
the swallow; the male bird, like his cousin the nightingale, coming
before the female, but he does not make himself very conspicuous till
the hedges and bushes are well covered with leaves; then he may be
found in almost every lane and hedge the whole country over.
As soon as the female is here, and the birds have paired, the business
of nest-building begins, and they may then be seen flying in and out
of the bushes with great alertness, the he-bird carolling his light
and airy song, and often hurling himself, as it were, up into the air,
some twenty or thirty feet, in a wild, tipsy sort of way, as if he
were fuller of life than he could hold, and coming down again with a
warble into the hedge, where the little hen-wife is already arranging
her dwelling in the very spot probably where she was herself hatched,
and her ancestors before her, for ages. For I must here remark that
one of the most remarkable properties of birds is, that facility by
which they so regularly disperse themselves over the whole country on
their arrival after their far migration, each one, in all probability,
attracted by some attachment of the past, stopping short at, or
proceeding onward to, the exact spot where he himself first came into
the consciousness of life. This is one of the wonderful arrangements of
nature, otherwise of God, by which the great balance is so beautifully
kept in creation. If the migratory bird arrives ever so weary at Dover,
and its true home be some sweet low-lying lane of Devonshire, a thick
hedgerow of the midland counties, or a thickety glen of Westmoreland,
it will not delay its flight nor be tempted to tarry short of that
glen, hedgerow, or lane with which the experience of its own life and
affection is united.
At this charming time of the year none of the various performers in
nature’s great concert bring back to those who have passed their youth
in the country a more delicious recollection of vernal fields and lanes
than this bird of ours, the little white-throat.
[Illustration:
WHITE-THROAT AND NEST. [Page 98.
]
Yes, along those hedges, fresh and fragrant with their young leaves,
along those banks studded with primroses, campions, blue-bells and
white starwort, and through the thick growth of the wild rose bushes,
all of which have a beauty especially their own, the white-throat
salutes you as you pass, as if to recognise an old acquaintance. He
is brimful of fun; out he starts and performs his series of eccentric
frolics in the air, accompanied by his mad-cap sort of warble; or,
almost as if laughing at you, he repeats from the interior of the
bushes his deep grave note, _chaw! chaw!_ whence comes the name
of peggy-chaw. This, however, is to tell you—and to those who
understand bird-language it is intelligible enough—that he has now a
family to attend to, and he begs, very respectfully, that you will not
trouble yourself about it.
[Sidenote: _Description of the Bird._]
A Scotch naturalist says that “the peasant boys in East Lothian imagine
that the bird is mocking or laughing at them, as it tumbles over the
hedge and bushes in the lane, and, therefore, they persecute it at all
times, even more mercilessly than they do sparrows.”
The white-throat is an excitable little bird, rapid in all its
movements; and though it will apparently allow a person to come near,
it incessantly flits on, gets to the other side of the hedge, warbles
its quaint little song, flies to a short distance, sings again, and so
on, for a long time, returning in the same way. It erects the feathers
of its head when excited, and swells its throat so much when singing,
that the feathers stand out like a ruff, whence it has obtained the
name of _Muffety_, or Charlie-mufty, in Scotland.
Its colour, on the upper parts of the body, is reddish-brown,
brownish-white below, with a purely white throat. Its food is
principally insects and larvæ of various kinds, for which it is always
on the search amongst the thick undergrowth of the plants and bushes
where it builds. One of its many names is Nettle-creeper, from this
plant growing so generally in the localities which it haunts.
Its nest—one of the most light and elegant of these little abodes—may
truly be called “gauze-like,” for being constructed wholly of fine
grasses, and very much of the brittle stems of the Galnim aparine, or
cleavers, which, though slender, are not pliant, and bend only with an
angle; they prevent the whole fabric from being closely woven, so that
it maintains a gauzy texture; the inside, however, is put together more
closely of finer and more pliant materials, delicate root-filaments,
and various kinds of hair. The eggs, four or five in number, are of a
greenish-gray colour, often with a tawny hue, blotched and spotted over
with dark tints of the same colour.
A correspondent of the author of “British Birds” says that, one morning
in June, when walking in his shrubbery within about eighty yards of a
White-throat’s nest, which he was taking great interest in, he found a
portion of the shell of one of the eggs of this bird, and, fearing that
a magpie had been plundering it, hastened to the spot, but found to his
satisfaction that the nest was then full of newly-hatched birds. “The
shell had,” he says, “been instinctively taken away by the mother in
order to prevent the discovery of the place of her retreat.” He adds
that the mother-bird was very shy, and usually dropped from her nest
with the most astonishing rapidity, and, treading her way through the
grasses and other entanglements, disappeared in a moment. The young,
too, seemed greatly to dislike observation, and on his taking one into
his hand to examine it, it uttered a cry, no doubt of alarm, on which
all the other little things leapt out of their abode, although not more
than half-fledged, and hopped amongst the grass. It is a singular fact
that almost every kind of young bird, if they be caused to leave their
nest through alarm, or by being handled, can never be induced to stay
in the nest again, though they may be put back into it time after time.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE BULL-FINCH.
This bird, which is common to all parts of the country, is very shy,
and for the greater part of the year haunts the woods and thickets.
In spring, however, its fondness for tender fruit-buds tempts it into
gardens and orchards, where, being considered an enemy, it is destroyed
without mercy. It is a question, however, whether it devours these
young buds as favourite food, or whether it may not be the equally
distinctive grub or insect which is the temptation; and thus, that
it ought rather to be regarded as the friend than the enemy of the
gardener and fruit-grower. At all events, the general opinion is
against the poor bull-finch. He is declared to be a devourer of the
embryo fruit, and no mercy is shown to him. The Rev. J. G. Wood, always
a merciful judge where birds are concerned, thinks that public opinion
is unfairly against him. He says that a gooseberry tree, from which it
was supposed that the bull-finches had picked away every blossom-bud,
yet bore the same year an abundant crop of fruit, which certainly
proved that they had picked away only the already infected buds, and so
left the tree in an additionally healthy state, doubly able to mature
and perfect its fruit.
Bull-finches seldom associate with other birds, but keep together in
small flocks as of single families. Its flight, though quick, is
somewhat undulating or wavering; and in the winter it may sometimes
be seen in large numbers flitting along the roadsides and hedges,
being probably forced out of some of its shyness by the stress of
hunger. Its ordinary note is a soft and plaintive whistle; its song,
short and mellow. It is, in its native state, no way distinguished as
a singing-bird, but at the same time it is possessed of a remarkable
faculty for learning tunes artificially, of which I may have more to
say presently.
The bull-finch begins to build about the beginning of May. She places
her nest, as we see in our illustration, in a bush, frequently a
hawthorn, at no great distance from the ground. The nest is not very
solidly put together; the foundation, so to speak, being composed of
small dry twigs, then finished off with fibrous roots and moss, which
also form the lining. The eggs, five or six in number, are of a dull
bluish-white, marked at the larger end with dark spots.
Although there is so little to say about the bull-finch in his natural
state—excepting that he is a handsome bird, with bright black eyes,
a sort of rich black hood on his head; his back, ash-grey; his breast
and underparts, red; wings and tail, black, with the upper tail-coverts
white—yet when he has gone through his musical education, he is not
only one of the most accomplished of song-birds, but one of the most
loving and faithfully attached little creatures that can come under
human care. These trained birds are known as piping bull-finches.
[Illustration:
BULL-FINCH AND NESTLINGS. [Page 102.
]
[Sidenote: _How it is taught to pipe._]
Bishop Stanley, in his “History of Birds,” thus describes the method by
which they are taught:—
“In the month of June, the young ones, which are taken from the nest
for that purpose, are brought up by a person, who, by care and
attention, so completely tames them that they become perfectly docile
and obedient. At the expiration of about a couple of months, they first
begin to whistle, from which time their education begins, and no school
can be more diligently superintended by its master, and no scholars
more effectually trained to their own calling, than a seminary of
bull-finches. They are formed first into classes of about six in each,
and, after having been kept a longer time than usual without food, and
confined to a dark room, the tune they are to learn is played over
and over again, on a little instrument called a bird-organ, the notes
of which resemble, as nearly as possible, those of the bull-finch;
sometimes, also, a flageolet is used for this purpose, and birds so
taught are said to have the finer notes. For awhile the little moping
creatures will sit in silence, not knowing what all this can mean; but
after awhile one by one will begin to imitate the notes they hear, for
they have great power of imitation as well as remarkably good memories.
As soon as they have said their lesson all round, light is admitted
into the room, and they are fed.
“By degrees the sound of the musical instrument—be it flageolet or
bird-organ—and the circumstance of being fed, become so associated in
the mind of the hungry bird, that it is sure to begin piping the tune
as soon as it hears it begin to play. When the little scholars have
advanced so far they are put into a higher class, that is to say, are
turned over each to his private tutor; in other words, each bird is put
under the care of a boy who must carry on its education, and who plays
on the little instrument from morning to night, or as long as the bird
can pay attention, during which time the head-master or feeder goes
his regular rounds, scolding or rewarding the little feathered scholars
by signs and modes of making them understand, till they have learned
their lessons so perfectly, and the tune is so impressed on their
memories, that they will pipe it to the end of their days; and let us
hope, as I believe is the fact, that they find in it a never-ending
delight.
“Just as in human schools and colleges, it is only the few out of the
great number who take the highest honours or degrees, or become senior
wranglers, so it is not above five birds in every hundred who can
attain to the highest perfection in their art! but all such are valued
at a very high price.”
It is allowable to hope that the poor bull-finch, which has thus
industriously applied himself to learn, and has thus become
artificially gifted with the power of pleasing, takes great
satisfaction in his accomplishment. Perhaps also the association with
his human teacher calls forth his affection as well as his power of
song, for it is a fact that the piping bull-finch is, of all birds,
given to attach itself to some one individual of the family where it
is kept, expressing, at their approach, the most vehement delight,
greeting them with its piping melody, hopping towards them, and
practising all its little winning ways to show its love, and to court a
return of caresses.
“An interesting story,” says the bishop, “was told by Sir William
Parsons, who was himself a great musician, and who, when a young man,
possessed a piping bull-finch, which he had taught to sing, ‘God save
the king.’ On his once going abroad, he gave his favourite in charge
to his sister, with a strict injunction to take the greatest care of
it. On his return, one of his first visits was to her, when she told
him that the poor little bird had been long in declining health, and
was, at that moment, very ill. Sir William, full of sorrow, went into
the room where the cage was, and, opening the door, put in his hand,
and spoke to the bird. The poor little creature recognised his voice,
opened his eyes, shook his feathers, staggered on to his finger, piped
‘God save the king,’ and fell down dead.”
[Sidenote: _The Devoted Affection of Birds._]
We see in the piping bull-finch—a bird which in its education is
closely associated with man—the deep and devoted affection of which
it is capable; and if we could only live with the animal creation as
their friends and benefactors, we should no longer be surprised by such
instances of their intelligence and love.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIX.
THE MISSEL-THRUSH.
This is the largest of our British song birds. It remains with us
through the whole year, not being migratory, excepting in so far as it
moves off in considerable flocks into Herefordshire and Monmouthshire
for the sake of the mistletoe which abounds in the orchards there,
on the viscous berries of which it delights to feed, and whence it
has obtained its familiar name of missel, or mistletoe thrush. It is
generally believed that this curious parasitic plant was propagated or
planted upon the branches of trees, by this bird rubbing its bill upon
the rough bark to clean it from the sticky substance of the berry, and
thus introducing the seeds into the interstices of the bark.
[Illustration:
MISSEL-THRUSHES AND NEST. [Page 106.
]
The Missel-thrush is a handsome bird; the head, back, and upper coverts
of the wings olive-brown, the latter tipped with brownish-white,
spotted with brown; the breasts and under parts pale yellow, covered
with black spots; the legs are yellow and the claws black.
It is a welcome bird, being the earliest harbinger of spring, the first
singer of the year. Long before the swallow is thought of, before even
the hardy familiar robin has begun his song, its clear rich voice
may be heard on Christmas or New Year’s day, often amidst wild winds
and winterly storms, whence its also familiar name, the storm-cock.
It is known by different names in different parts of the country.
The origin of its more general appellation—the missel-thrush—I have
already mentioned. In the midland counties it is called the thrice
cock, but why I know not. In Wales it is known as _Pen-y-llwyn_, which
means the head or master of the coppice. Why it is so called I will
mention presently.
[Sidenote: _A Description of the Nest._]
The nest of the missel-thrush is large and well constructed, being
made of almost every material ordinarily used for nest-making
purposes—moss, and hay, and straw, and dry leaves, and little twigs,
and locks of wool, with occasional odds and ends of every possible
kind. All these are woven and wrought together very compactly; not,
however, without loose straws and little tangles of wool hanging about.
Within is a smooth casing of mud, as in the nest of the throstle, and
within that a second coating of dry grass. Our picture represents all
as being now complete. The busy labours of the year are now over; the
eggs, four or five in number, of a greenish-blue, marked with reddish
spots, are laid, and the mother-bird has taken her patient seat upon
them, whilst her mate, from the branch above, sings as if he never
meant to leave off again.
The song of this bird is loud, clear, and melodious—a cheering,
hopeful song; and when heard amidst the yet prevailing winter-storms,
as if in anticipation of better times, it well deserves our admiration.
It resembles, to a certain degree, the song of the blackbird and the
thrush, and is often mistaken for them; but it has not the short,
quick, and varied notes of the one, nor the sober, prolonged, and
eloquent melody of the other. On the contrary it is of an eager,
hurrying character, as if it could not sufficiently express its
emotion, and yet was trying to do so.
The missel-thrush is a bird of very marked character, and is both bold
and chivalrous. Its harsh, jarring note of anger and defiance is the
first to be heard when a bird-enemy is at hand. If a cuckoo or hawk is
anywhere near meditating mischief, the missel-thrush is vehement in his
expression of displeasure. In our own neighbourhood, where the jays in
summer come from the wood to carry the young of the sparrows from their
nests in the ivied boles of the trees round our garden, the outcry of
the parent sparrows instantly arouses the sympathetic missel-thrushes,
who, with a scolding defiance, rush to the rescue. Of course these
birds, which are of so militant a character, and so loud in protesting
against a wrong done to another, will be equally alive to their own
rights, and active in defending their own nests and young. Some
naturalists have suggested that this combatant temper and extraordinary
courage are but the natural consequence of the bird finding its nest
open to common attack; for, being of a large size, and built early in
the year whilst the trees are yet leafless, it is visible to every
enemy and depredator.
Mr. Thompson says: “Often have I seen a pair of these birds driving off
magpies, and occasionally fighting against four of them. One pair which
I knew attacked a kestrel which appeared in their neighbourhood when
the young were out. One of them struck the hawk several times, and made
as many more fruitless attempts, as the enemy, by suddenly rising in
the air, escaped the cunning blow. They then followed the kestrel for a
long way, until they were lost to our sight in the distance.”
The old Welsh name of “master, or head of the coppice,” refers to the
same warlike spirit. “The missel-thrush,” says Gilbert White, “suffers
no magpie, jay, or blackbird to enter the garden where he haunts, and
is, for the time, a good guardian of the new-sown crops. In general, he
is very successful in defence of his family. Once, however, I observed
in my garden that several magpies came determined to storm the nest of
the missel-thrush. The parent-birds defended their mansion with great
vigour, and fought resolutely. But numbers at last prevailed, and the
poor missel-thrushes had the pain of seeing their nest torn to pieces,
and their young carried off.”
[Sidenote: _The Gardeners’ Enemy._]
The missel-thrushes, however, as the year goes on, make for themselves
enemies even more formidable than hawks or magpies; these are the
gardeners. Towards the end of summer, when the young have flown,
and they and the parent-birds congregate in large flocks, having
then nothing to do but to enjoy themselves, like human families when
children are all home for the holidays, they too go abroad on their
excursions of pleasure; not, however, to sea-side watering places, but
into gardens where the cherries and raspberries are ripe. Poor birds!
Little aware of their danger, or if they be so, defiant of it in the
greatness of the temptation, they make sad havoc amongst the fruit,
and many unfortunates are shot or snared, and then hung up amidst the
cherry-boughs or the raspberry-canes as a terror to their associates.
It is a pity we cannot make them welcome to some and yet have enough
left for ourselves.
The berries of the mountain-ash and the arbutus, and later on in the
year those of the holly and ivy, supply them with food, as do also
in the spring and summer insects of various kinds—caterpillars and
spiders—so that in this respect they are good friends to the gardener,
and might, one thinks, be made welcome to a little fruit in return.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XX.
THE YELLOW-HAMMER, OR YELLOW-HEAD.
This, though an extremely pretty bird, is so common that very
little notice is taken of it. Its colours are varied and beautiful:
the back and wings, bright red; the central part of each feather,
brownish-black; the head and throat, bright yellow; the feathers of the
upper part tipped with black; the breast, brownish-red. The colours of
the female are much duller.
The yellow-hammer resembles linnets, finches, and sparrows in character
and habits, and often associates with them, resorting to the fields in
open weather, and often perching in hedges and bushes as well as in
trees. In the winter, when the weather is severe, it congregates, with
other birds, about houses, farm-buildings, and stack-yards.
One of the most pleasing features of autumn is, to my mind, these
flocks of kindred birds, which are at that time all abroad and yet
together, circling in their flight, all rising as you approach, and
wheeling away into the stubble-field, or into the distant hedges, now
rich with their wild fruits—the blackberry, the wild rose hip, and the
bunches of black-privet berries—and then away again, as you approach,
with their variously modulated notes, through the clear air into the
yet more distant stubble or bean-field.
The flight of the yellow-hammer is wavy and graceful, and, alighting
abruptly, he has a curious way of jerking out his tail feathers like
a little fan. All at once a whole flock of them will descend from a
considerable height and settle on the twigs of a tree, clothing it as
with living leaves. Whatever number the flock may consist of, there
is no impatient hurry or jostling among them to get the best perch,
every individual settling as if on its own appointed place. As I have
already observed, nothing is more charming at this season than these
congregated companies of small birds. All the cares of life are now
over, their young broods are around them, and now, with nothing to
do but to enjoy themselves in the freedom of nature, where—on every
hand, on every bush and tree, and in every outlying field—though the
crops are now carried, all except, perhaps, here and there a solitary
field in which the bean-shocks stand up black in the golden autumnal
sunshine; but here, and there, and everywhere, a full table is spread,
and they are welcome to enjoy.
In spring and summer, the yellow-hammer sings a peculiar but
mournful sort of little ditty, composed of a few short, sonorous
notes, concluding with one long drawn out. In the midland
counties, where stocking-weaving is the business of the people,
the note of the bird is said to resemble the working of the
machine—ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-e-e-chay—the prolonged latter syllable being
what the stockinger calls, in the machine movement, “pressing over the
arch.” In other parts of the country this bird’s song is interpreted as
“A little bit of bread, and—no-cheese!” which may just as well be “A
little bird am I, and—no thief!”
[Illustration:
YELLOW-HAMMER AND NEST. [Page 112.
]
The food of this bird consists of the seeds of all kinds of grasses,
chickweeds, polygonums, and other such weeds; also, in summer, when
food is needed for the young, insects and larvæ.
[Sidenote: _Its Picturesque Nest._]
The winter congregations break up in April, and then the yellow-hammer
begins to think of family joys and cares. But, unlike their relations
the sparrows and finches, the he-birds take everything quietly, without
having their little skirmishes to show their spirit and prowess, like
the knights of old, at the tournament, before the admiring ladies. The
yellow-hammer does everything quietly, choosing his mate in an orderly
way; and now that the buds are swelling on the trees, the primroses
gemming the hedge-banks, and the golden catkins hanging on the willows
by the watersides, hither come the little yellow-hammers, and, having
selected some sweet, hidden spot, under a bush, or on the fieldy banks
amongst the thick herbage—we see it a month later in our picture,
when the buds have expanded into leaves, in a wild growth of beautiful
grasses and herbage—begin to make their nest. How picturesque it is!
William Hunt never painted anything more beautiful. The nest itself
is somewhat large, and of simple construction, woven externally of
coarse bents and small pliant twigs, and lined with hair and wool. Here
the hen lays four or five eggs of a purplish white, marked with dark,
irregular streaks, often resembling musical notes.
These poor little birds are extremely attached to their home and their
young, so much so, that if these be taken by the pitiless bird-nester,
they will continue for some days about the place uttering the most
melancholy plaint, which, though still to the same old tune as the song
of their spring rejoicing, has now the expression of the deepest woe.
The author of “British Birds” thus sums up their various characteristic
actions:—“When perched on a tree, especially in windy weather, they
crouch close to the twigs, draw in their necks, and keep their tails
declined. After pairing, the male is generally seen on a bush or tree,
raising his tail by sudden jerks, and slightly expanding it. His notes
are then usually two chirps, followed by a harsher note—cit, chit,
chirr—with considerable intervals. When feeding in the stubble-fields,
they advance by very short leaps, with their breasts nearly touching
the ground; when apprehensive of danger they crouch motionless, and
when alarmed give information to each other by means of their ordinary
short note.”
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXI.
THE MAGPIE.
You have here a living portrait of the Magpie, sitting, so to speak, on
his own door-sill, and contemplating it with rather a sentimental air,
perhaps rather with tender admiration; and as to his dwelling, it is,
we must confess, a wonderful structure—a half-timbered edifice, so to
speak, walled-round and roofed-in, with its front-door and all complete.
The magpie is one of our most beautiful as well as most amusing and
characteristic birds. He is cousin to the jackdaw, and has, like him,
odd ways of his own. In all countries where he is found, he is just the
same. An old Greek poet, who lived two thousand years ago, speaks of
him as a great mimic, and such an inordinate talker, that, in his own
satirical humour, he pretends to believe that magpies were originally a
family of young ladies, in Macedonia, who were noted for the volubility
of their tongues. Handsome he is, as well as talkative, and very droll
and mischievous.
Being such, we need not wonder that his nest is very original. He likes
to place it in a secure angle of branches, on some lofty tree, as we
see it here, fifty feet or so from the ground; and prefers to have it
on a tree bare of branches to a considerable height, knowing that it
is then more inaccessible. He is wise in all this, for its bulk being
so large it is discernible to a great distance. As magpies, however,
are found almost everywhere, and in some parts of the country, the
north of Scotland for instance, where there are no trees, the poor
magpie is then obliged to build in a bush, and do the best he can. In
such a case, in Norway, he was known to barricade his nest with thorny
branches, brought thither by himself for that purpose, till it was next
to impossible for the domicile to be invaded. A cat could not get to
it, and a man only with hedging-mittens on his hands, and by help of a
bill-hook.
Like the rook, the magpie inhabits the same nest for several years,
perhaps for the whole of his life, putting it into repair every year
before he again needs it for family use—like a wealthy country family
taking possession of their ancestral mansion in the spring.
And now, turning to our picture, we find our magpie in excellent
circumstances. Every thing has gone well with him. Here he is, and I
will have the pleasure of giving you a bit of every-day magpie life,
as sketched by that true pen-and-ink artist, the author of “British
Birds.” Our scene opens a few minutes before the time indicated in our
picture:—
[Illustration:
MAGPIE AND NEST. [Page 116.
]
[Sidenote: _A Search for Food._]
“There, on the old ash-tree, you may see a pair, one perched on the
topmost twig, the other hopping on the branches below, keeping up an
incessant chatter. How gracefully she, on the topmost twig, swings in
the breeze! Off she starts, and directs her flight to the fir-woods
opposite, chattering all the way, seemingly to call her mate after her.
But he prefers remaining behind. He is in a brown study, or something
of that kind, as we can plainly see. Now, having spied something
below, he hops downwards from twig to branch, and descends to the
ground. His ash-tree, you must understand, grows close to, and in part
overshadows, a farmyard; so now he is on ground which, as is customary
in such places, is not over clean; therefore, lifting up his tail to
prevent it being soiled or wet, as the farmer’s wife might hold up her
Sunday gown, and raising his body as high as possible, he walks a few
paces, and, spying an earth-worm half out of his hole, drags it forth
by a sudden jerk, breaks it in pieces, and swallows it. Now, under the
hedge, he has found a snail, which he will presently pick out of its
shell, as an old woman would a periwinkle. But now something among the
bushes has startled him, and he springs lightly upwards, chattering
the while, to regain his favourite tree. It is a cat, which, not less
frightened than himself, for both are intent on mischief, runs off
towards the barn. The magpie again descends, steps slowly over the
grassy margin of the yard, looking from side to side, stops, listens,
advances rapidly by a succession of leaps, and encounters a whole brood
of chickens, with their mother at their heels. If she had not been
there he would have had a delicious feast of one of those chickens;
but he dare not think of such a thing now, for, with fury in her eye,
bristled plumage, and loud clamour, the hen rushes forward at him,
overturning two of her younglings, and the enemy, suddenly wheeling
round to avoid the encounter, flies off to his mate.
“There again you perceive them in the meadow, as they walk about with
their elevated tails, looking for something eatable. By the hedge, afar
off, are two boys, with a gun, endeavouring to creep up to a flock of
plovers on the other side. But the magpies see them, for there are not
many things which escape their sharp eyes, and presently rising, they
fly directly over the field, chattering vehemently, and the flock of
plovers on this take wing, and the disappointed young sportsmen sheer
off in another direction.”
Magpies always make a great chattering when they are disturbed, or
when they apprehend that danger is near. Waterton says that they
are vociferous at the approach of night, and that they are in truth
valuable watchmen on that account. “Whoever enters the wood,” he
says, “is sure to attract their notice, and then their challenge is
incessant. When I hear them during the night, or even during the
day, I know that mischief is on the stir. Three years ago, at eleven
o’clock in the day, I was at the capture of one of the most expert
and desperate poachers, to whose hiding-place we were directed by the
chatter of the magpies.”
The poor magpie has many enemies, and, knowing this, is always on the
watch, and easily alarmed.
Its mode of walking is like that of the rook, but not having any
dignity to maintain, it every now and then leaps in a sidelong
direction. When alarmed itself, or wishing to announce danger to other
birds, it utters a sort of chuckling cry or chatter. If a fox or cat,
or any other unfriendly animal, approaches, it hovers about it, and
alarms the whole neighbourhood by its cries till the enemy is out of
sight.
Like the jackdaw, it generally keeps in pairs the whole year round;
and, indeed, when birds continue to inhabit the same nest, season after
season, it is quite natural that they should do so. It is a curious
fact, however, that if by any accident the hen-magpie is killed, whilst
sitting on her eggs, her mate sets off at once and brings home another
wife, who takes to the nest and eggs, just as if she had laid them; and
if by another mischance she too should come to an untimely end, the
widower again goes off, and, without any loss of time, brings back a
third wife, and she takes to her duties quite as naturally and lovingly
as the other did; but where all these surplus mothers come from is a
question which no naturalist has yet answered, and the magpie, with all
his chattering, is not clever enough to explain the wonder.
[Sidenote: _Its Beautiful Plumage._]
The beauty of this bird’s plumage is familiar to all; and although it
is simply black and white, yet the exquisitely-coloured gloss of green,
blue, and purple, with their varying and intermingling tints, produce
such a charming effect that one cannot sufficiently admire them.
With the external structure of the magpie’s nest we are acquainted: the
lower part, inside, is neatly plastered with mud, “and is furnished,”
says Bewick, “with a sort of mattress, formed of wool or fibrous roots,
on which from three to six eggs are laid.” The eggs frequently vary,
both in size and colour; sometimes they are of a pale green, freckled
over with amber-brown and light purple; sometimes pale blue, with
smaller spots of the same dark colours.
The nest is, so to speak, a sort of little domed chamber, of a good
size for its purpose; but then comes the question—What does the magpie
do with her long tail as she sits on her eggs? It would certainly
poke a hole through the wall if left to its full extent; she must,
therefore, lift it up, as she does when walking amongst the wet grass,
and sit with it laid flat against the wall, which probably is not
inconvenient to her.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE NUTHATCH.
This bird is almost an entire stranger to most people. It belongs to
the rather large family of creepers; birds which, like the woodpecker
and the little golden-crested wren, run up the holes and branches of
trees in search of food. The nuthatch, however, has an advantage over
all its other creeping relatives, by being gifted with the power of
coming down the tree head foremost, which none of them have. It can
also sleep with its head downwards; neither in its rapid ascent has it
occasion to press its tail against the tree for help; so that it is the
most accomplished little acrobat of the whole race of creepers.
[Illustration:
NUTHATCH AND NEST. [Page 120.
]
The nuthatch cannot be called a rare bird, and yet it is not often
seen, being of a shy and retiring disposition, though naturally lively
and active. The plumage is very pleasing in colour; the upper parts
of the body are bluish-grey; a black line passes from the corners of
the mouth to the back of the neck; the breast and under parts light
reddish-yellow, and the sides reddish-brown.
It delights in woods and trees; nor need it be looked for elsewhere,
as it derives its food entirely amongst them, either of insects and
larvæ, hidden in the bark, or of fruits and nuts, as kernels of
fir-cones, beech, and other nuts, the shells of which it breaks in
a very ingenious manner, as I shall presently describe. Now and then
it alights on the ground, and then advances by short leaps. It has no
song; but in winter, when living in small companies, perhaps the whole
summer-family associating together, it has a little piping note, which,
however, is supposed to be simply the call to each other. It is said to
be sensitive to the cold, and always feeds on the side of the wood or
of the tree which is defended from the wind. In spring, however, when
all nature is renovated with a quicker pulse of life—for, as Tennyson
says:—
In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin’s breast;
In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest;
In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove—
then, also, the silent nuthatch sends forth through the awakening
solitude of the woods his two little notes, one short and twittering,
the other a low, mellow, flute-like whistle, which is so clear that it
may be heard to a considerable distance.
[Sidenote: _Its Favourite Food._]
The graphic author of the “British Birds” says, “It is, at all times,
a busy and cheerful bird, particularly at nesting-time. Its favourite
food is nuts of any kind. It builds and roosts in hollow trees, and
is seldom seen in the open fields, unless when in quest of the stones
of the white-thorn or sloe. It may, therefore, be properly called a
forester. Its dexterity in opening nuts and the stones of fruit is
curious. It fixes the nut in a crack, on the top of a post, or in the
bark of a tree, and, placing itself above it, head downwards, striking
with great force and rapidity, with its strong, wedge-shaped bill on
the edge of the shell, splits it open. When their food is plentiful,
they have a favourite crack for unshelling the kernels, as sometimes a
peck of broken shells may be seen under this crack.”
The Rev. W. T. Bree tells us that “the tapping of the bird on the hard
shell may be heard at a considerable distance, and that during the
operation it sometimes happens that the nut swerves from its fixture
and falls towards the ground. It has not descended, however, for the
space of more than a few yards, when the nuthatch, with admirable
adroitness, recovers it in the fall, and, replacing it in its former
position, commences the attack afresh. The fall of the nut in the air,
and the recovery by the bird on the wing, I have seen repeated several
times in the space of a few minutes.”
This is a little act of skill in the bird which it would be charming to
observe; and here again I would remark, as I have so often done before,
that this is but a single instance of what many of us, living in the
country, might witness in some woodland nook near at hand, if we would
only be lovingly still and patient, and interest ourselves in the ways
and means of the innocent animal-life around us.
The nest of the bird also deserves our notice; and let me here call
your attention to the beautiful and living little portrait of the bird
at home, given us by Mr. Harrison Weir, than which we have nothing more
truthful from his pencil. The home of the nuthatch is nothing more, to
begin with, than the hole in an old tree, which, probably, has been
deserted by the woodpecker. As, however, the woodpecker either requires
a more enlarged entrance to her nursery, or considers it more seemly,
the nuthatch, who merely likes a snug little hole to creep in at, and
nothing more, walls up the opening with a plastering of clay or mud,
leaving only just room enough for herself to enter. Perhaps she may be
afraid of the old tenants returning and again taking possession, so
builds up a little defence in front; but of that I cannot say; certain
it is she makes herself comfortably at home in rather an untidy nest,
composed mostly of dead oak-leaves, and here she lays six or seven
white eggs, with ruddy spots on them.
[Sidenote: _Her Defence of her Young._]
If the plaster wall be by any chance removed, the poor bird loses not
a moment in replacing it; and though she has apparently great dread
of any enemy—the woodpecker, snake, man, or whatever else he may be,
disturbing her—yet so faithfully devoted is she to her duties, that
scarcely anything will induce her to leave the eggs or young. She
fights vigorously in defence of her home and its treasures, striking
out with her bill and wings, and making a hissing, angry noise. Nay,
timid and shy as she naturally is, she will suffer herself to be
carried off captive rather than desert her charge.
Let me conclude with one of Bechstein’s anecdotes of the nuthatch:—
“A lady amused herself in the winter by throwing seeds on the terrace,
below the window, to feed the birds in the neighbourhood. She put some
hemp-seed and cracked nuts even on the window-sill, and on a board, for
her particular favourites, the blue-tits. Two nuthatches came one day
to have their share of this repast, and were so well pleased that they
became quite familiar, and did not even go away in the following spring
to get their natural food and to build their nest in the wood. They
settled themselves in the hollow of an old tree near the house.
“As soon as the two young ones which were reared here were ready to
fly, they brought them to the hospitable window, where they were to be
nourished, and soon after disappeared entirely. It was amusing to see
these two new visitors hang or climb on the walls or blinds, whilst
their benefactress put their food on the board. These pretty creatures
as well as the tits, knew her so well, that when she drove away the
sparrows, which came to steal what was not intended for them, they did
not fly away also, but seemed to know what was done was only to protect
and defend them. They remained near the house for the whole summer,
rarely wandering, till one fatal day, at the beginning of the sporting
season, in autumn, on hearing the report of a gun, they disappeared and
were never seen again.”
[Illustration]
Watson & Hazell, Printers, 28, Charles Street, Hatton Garden.
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