A PACK OF STOATS. BIRDS.
The sweet scent from a beanfield beside the road caused me to linger
one summer morning in a gateway under the elms. A gentle south wind
came over the beans, bearing with it the odour of their black-and-white
bloom. The Overboro' road ran through part of the Okebourne property
(which was far too extensive to be enclosed in a ring fence), and the
timber had therefore been allowed to grow so that there was an
irregular avenue of trees for some distance. I faced the beanfield,
which was on the opposite side, leaning back against the gate which
led into some of Hilary's wheat. The silence of the highway, the soft
wind, the alternate sunshine and shade as the light clouds passed
over, induced a dreamy feeling; and I cannot say how long I had been
there when something seemed as it were to cross the corners of my
half-closed eyes.
Looking up I saw three stoats gallop across the road, not more than
ten yards away. They issued from under the footpath, which was raised
and had a drain through it to relieve the road of flood-water in
storm. The drain was faced with a flat stone, with a small round hole
cut in it. Coming from the wheat at my back, the stoats went down into
the ditch; thence entered the short tunnel under the footpath, and out
at its stone portal, over the road to the broad sward on the opposite
side; then along a furrow in the turf to the other hedge, and so into
the beanfield. They galloped like racehorses straining for the
victory; the first leading, the second but a neck behind, and the
third not half a length. The smooth road rising slightly in the centre
showed them well; and thus, with the neck stretched out in front and
the tail extended in the rear, the stoat appears much longer than on a
mound or in the grass.
A second or so afterwards two more started from the same spot; but I
was perhaps in the act to move, for before they had gone three yards
they saw me and rushed back to the drain. After a few minutes the
larger of these two, probably the male, ventured forth again and
reached the middle of the road, when he discovered that his more
timorous companion had not followed but was only just peeping out. He
stopped and elevated his neck some five or six inches, planting the
fore-feet so as to lift him up high to see round, while his
hindquarters were flush with the road, quite flat in the dust in which
his tail was trailing. His reddish body and white neck, the clear-cut
head, the sharp ears, and dark eye were perfectly displayed in that
erect attitude. As his companion still hesitated he cried twice, as if
impatiently, 'check, check'--a sound like placing the tongue against
the teeth and drawing it away. But she feared to follow, and he
returned to her. Thinking they would attempt to cross again presently,
I waited quietly.
A lark came over from the wheat, and, alighting, dusted herself in the
road, hardly five yards from the mouth of the drain, and was there
some minutes. A robin went still closer--almost opposite the hole;
both birds apparently quite unconscious of the bloodthirsty creatures
concealed within it. Some time passed, but the two stoats did not come
out, and I saw no more of them: they probably retreated to the wheat
as I left the gateway, and would remain there till the noise and jar
of my footsteps had ceased in the distance. Examining the road, there
was a trail where the first three had crossed in quick succession. In
the thick white dust their swift feet had left a line drawn roughly
yet lightly, the paws leaving not an exact but an elongated,
ill-defined impression. But where the fourth stopped, elevated his
neck, and cried to his mate, there was a perfect print of the
fore-feet side by side. So slight a track would be obliterated by the
first cart that came by.
Till that day I had never seen so many as five stoats together hunting
in a pack. It would seem as if stoats and weasels had regular routes;
for I now recollected that in the previous winter, when the snow was
on the ground, I surprised two weasels almost exactly in the same
spot. At other times, too, I have seen solitary stoats and weasels
(which may have had companions in the hedge) hunting along that mound,
both before and since. I was at first going to tell Hilary about the
pack, but afterwards refrained, as he would at once proceed to set up
gins in the run, while I thought I should like to see the animals
again. But I got him to talk about stoats and weasels, and found that
he had not himself seen so many together. There was, however, a man
about the place who told a tale of some weasels he had seen. It was
'that rascal old Aaron;' but he could not listen to such a fellow.
Hilary would tell me nothing further, having evidently a strong
dislike to the man.
It seems there were two Aarons--uncle and nephew: old Aaron was the
arch-poacher of the parish, young Aaron worked regularly at Lucketts'
Place. This young labourer (the man who fell asleep on the
milking-stool) was one of the best of his class--a great, powerful
fellow, but good-natured, willing, and pleasant to speak to. He was a
favourite with many, and with reason, for he had a gentleness of
manner beyond his station; and, till you knew his weakness, you could
not but take an interest in him. His vice was drink. He was always
down at Lucketts' Place; and through him I made acquaintance with his
disreputable uncle, who was at first rather shy of me, for he had seen
me about with Hilary, and between the two there was a mortal feud. Old
Aaron could not keep out of Okebourne Chace, and Hilary was 'down'
upon him. Hilary was, indeed, keener than the keepers.
The old poacher saw the weasels in the 'Pitching.' This was a private
lane, which ran through the recesses of the Chace where the wood was
thickest and most secluded. It had been made for the convenience of
communication between the upper and lower farms, and for hauling
timber; the gates at each end being kept locked. In one place the lane
descended the steepest part of the wooded hill, and in frosty weather
it was not easy even to walk down it there. Sarsen stones, gathered
out of the way of the plough in the arable fields, had been thrown
down in it at various times with the object of making a firm bottom.
Rounded and smooth and very hard, these stones, irregularly placed,
with gaps and intervals, when slippery with hoar frost were most
difficult to walk on. Once or twice men out hunting had been known to
gallop down this hill: the extreme of headlong bravado; for if there
was any frost it was sure to linger in that shady lane, and a slip of
the iron-shod hoof could scarcely fail to result in a broken neck. It
was like riding down a long steep flight of steps.
Aaron one day was engaged with his ferret and nets in the Pitching,
just at the bottom of the hill, where there grew a quantity of
brake-fern as tall as the shoulder. It was shrivelled and yellow, but
thick enough to give him very good cover. Every now and then he looked
out into the lane to see if any one was about, and on one of these
occasions saw what he imagined at first to be a colony of rats
migrating; but when they came near, racing down the lane, he found
they were weasels. He counted fourteen, and thought there were one or
two more.
Aaron also told me a curious incident that happened to him very early
one morning towards the beginning of spring. The snow was on the
ground and the moon was shining brightly as he got on the railway (a
few miles from Okebourne) and walked some distance up it: he did not
say what for, but probably as the nearest way to a cover. As he
entered a deep cutting where the line came round a sharp curve he
noticed strange spots upon the snow, and upon examination found it was
blood. For the moment he thought there had been an accident; but
shortly afterwards he picked up a hare's pad severed from the leg, and
next a hare's head, and presently came on a quantity of similar
fragments, all fresh. He collected them, and found they had belonged
to six hares which had been cut to pieces by a passing train. The
animals were so mutilated as not to be of the least use.
When I told Hilary of this, he at once pronounced it impossible, and
nothing but one of Aaron's lies. On reflection, however, I am not so
sure that it is impossible, nor can I see any reason why the old
poacher should invent a falsehood of the kind. It was just a time of
the year when hares are beginning to go 'mad,' and, as they were not
feeding but playing together, they might have strayed up the line just
as they do along roads. Most persons must have observed how quietly a
train sometimes steals up--so quietly as to be inaudible: a fact that
has undoubtedly been the death of many unfortunates. Now, just at this
spot there was a sharp curve, and if the driver shut off steam as he
ran round it the train very likely came up without a sound. The sides
of the cutting being very steep, the hares, when at last they
perceived their danger, would naturally rush straight away along the
metals. Coming at great speed, the engine would overtake and destroy
them: a miserable end for the poor creatures in the midst of their
moonlight frolic. But what Aaron laid stress on was the fact that he
could not even sell the skins, they were so cut to pieces.
The rooks' nests in the Chace were very numerous, and were chiefly
built in elm trees, but some in tall spruce firs. It was easy to know
when the birds had paired, as a couple of rooks could then be often
seen perched gravely side by side upon an old nest in the midst of
leafless boughs, deliberating about its repair. There were some
poplars near a part of the rookery, and when the nests were fully
occupied with young the old birds frequently alighted on the very top
of an adjacent poplar. The slender brush-like tip of the tree bent
with their weight, curving over like a whip, to spring up when they
left.
The rooks were fond of maize, boldly descending among the poultry kept
in a rickyard within a short distance of their trees. If any one has a
clump of trees in which rooks seem inclined to build and it is desired
to encourage them, it would appear a good plan to establish a
poultry-yard in the same field. They are certain to visit the spot.
One day I watched a rook pursuing a swift and making every effort to
overtake and strike it. The rook displayed great power of wing,
twisting and turning, now descending or turning on one side to glide
more rapidly, and uttering short 'caws' of eagerness or anger; but,
just eluding the heavy rush of its pursuer, the swift doubled and
darted away before it, as if tempting the enemy to charge, and then
enjoying his disappointment. Several other swifts wheeled above at a
distance, apparently watching. These evolutions lasted some minutes,
rook and swift rising higher and higher into the air until, tired of
being chased, the swift went straight away at full speed, easily
outstripping the rook, which soon desisted from the attempt to follow.
When birds are thus combating, the chief aim of each is to get above
the other, as any elevation gives an advantage. This may be
continually noticed in spring, when fighting is always going on, and
is as characteristic of the small birds as the larger. At first I
thought it was a crow after the swift, but came to the conclusion that
it must be a rook because the battle began over the rookery and
afterwards the aggressor sailed away to where some rooks were feeding.
Nor would a crow have exhibited such agility of wing. Swallows often
buffet a crow; but this was a clear case of a rook attacking.
In the country rooks never perch on houses, and but seldom on sheds,
unless fresh thatched, when they come to examine the straw, as also on
the ricks. But in Brighton, which is a treeless locality, a rook may
sometimes be seen on a chimney-pot in the midst of the town, and the
pinnacles of the Pavilion are a favourite resort; a whole flock of
rooks and jackdaws often wheel about the domes of that building. At
the Chace a rook occasionally mounted on a molehill recently thrown up
and scattered the earth right and left with his bill--striking now to
one side and now to the other. Hilary admitted that rooks destroyed
vast quantities of grubs and creeping things, but was equally positive
that they feasted on grain; and indeed it could not be denied that a
crop of wheat almost ripe is a very favourite resort of a flock. He
had seen rooks carry away ears of wheat detached from the stalk to an
open spot for better convenience. They would follow the dibbling
machine, taking each grain of seed-wheat in succession, guided to the
exact spot by the slight depression made by the dibble.
Every evening all the rooks of the neighbourhood gathered into vast
flocks and returned to roost in the woods of the Chace. But one winter
afternoon there came on the most dense fog that had been known for a
length of time, and a flock of rooks on their way as usual to the
Chace stopped all night in a clump of trees on the farm a mile from
the roosting-place. This the oldest labourer had never known them do
before. In the winter just past (1879-80) there were several very
thick fogs during sharp frost. One afternoon I noticed a small flock
of starlings which seemed unable to find their way home to the copse
where I knew vast numbers of them roosted. This flock as it grew dusk
settled in an elm by the roadside, then removed to another, shaking
down the rime from the branches, and a third time wheeled round and
perched in an oak. At that hour on ordinary days the starlings would
all have been flying fast in a straight line for the copse, but these
were evidently in doubt and did not know which direction to take.
Hilary disliked to see the wood-pigeons in his wheat-fields: the
wood-pigeon beats the grains out of a wheat-ear with the bill,
striking it while on the ground. The sparrows, again, clear the
standing wheat-ears, which at a little distance look thin and
disarranged, and when handled are empty.
There were many missel-thrushes about the Chace; they are fond of a
wooded district. They pack together in summer and part in winter--just
opposite in that respect to so many other birds, which separate in
warm weather and congregate as it grows cold, so that the lower the
temperature the larger the flock. In winter and spring the
missel-thrushes fly alone or not more than two together. After their
young have left the nest they go in small packs. I saw ten or twelve
rise from an arable field on the 18th of June last year; there do not
often seem to be more than a dozen together. I have counted ten in a
pack on the 16th of September, and seven together as late as the 2nd
of October. Soon after that they appear to separate and act on their
individual wishes. Starlings in like manner pack after their young can
fly, but then they do not separate in autumn.
It may be remarked that by autumn the young missel-thrushes would not
only fly well, but would have been educated by the old birds, and
would have come to maturity. Their natural independence might then
come into play. But these are effects rather than causes, besides
which I think birds and animals often act from custom rather than for
advantage. Among men customs survive for centuries after the original
meaning has been lost. I had always been told by country people that
the missel-thrush was a solitary bird, and when I first observed a
pack and mentioned it some incredulity was expressed. Very naturally
in summer people do not see much but hay and wheat. It was noticed on
the farms about the Chace in the springs of 1878 and 1879 that the
corncrakes, which had formerly been so numerous and proclaimed their
presence so loudly, were scarcely heard at all.
It is a little outside my subject, since it did not occur in the
Chace, but the other day a friend was telling me how he had been
hunted by bucks while riding a bicycle. He was passing through a
forest in the summer, when he suddenly became aware of six or seven
bucks coming down a glade after him. The track being rough he could
not ride at full speed--probably they would have outstripped him even
if he had been able to do so--and they were overtaking him rapidly. As
they came up he saw that they meant mischief, and fearing a bad fall
he alighted by a tree, behind which he thought to dodge them. But no
sooner did he touch the ground than the bucks so furiously rushing
after him stopped dead in their career; he stepped towards them, and
directly they saw him walking they retreated hastily to a distance.
The first berries to go as the autumn approaches are those of the
mountain-ash. Both blackbirds and thrushes began to devour the
pale-red bunches hanging on the mountain-ashes as early as the 4th of
September last year. Starlings are fond of elder-berries: a flock
alighting on a bush black with ripe berries will clear the bunches in
a very short time. Haws, or peggles, which often quite cover the
hawthorn bushes, are not so general a food as the fruit of the briar.
Hips are preferred; at least, the fruit of the briar is the first of
the two to disappear. The hip is pecked open (by thrushes, redwings,
and blackbirds) at the tip, the seeds extracted, and the part where it
is attached to the stalk left, just as if the contents had been sucked
out. Greenfinches, too, will eat hips.
Haws are often left even after severe frosts; sometimes they seem to
shrivel or blacken, and may not perhaps be palatable then.
Missel-thrushes and wood-pigeons eat them. Last winter in the stress
of the sharp and continued frosts the greenfinches were driven in
December to swallow the shrivelled blackberries still on the brambles.
The fruity part of the berries was of course gone, and nothing
remained but the seeds or pips, dry and hard as wood; they were
reduced to feeding on this wretched food. Perhaps the last of the
seeds available are those of the docks.
This is well known to bird-fowlers, and on a dry day in January they
take two large bunches of docks--'red docks' they call them--tied
round the centre like faggots and well smeared at the top with
birdlime. These are placed on the ground, by a hedge, and near them a
decoy goldfinch in a cage. Goldfinches eat dock-seed, and if any
approach the decoy-bird calls. The wild bird descends from the hedge
to feed on the dock-seed and is caught. Goldfinches go in pairs all
the winter and work along the hedges together. In spring the young
green buds upon the hawthorn are called 'cuckoo's bread and cheese' by
the ploughboys.