Fresh and sweet from its many springs among the moors, where the Curlew
and the Golden Plover were nesting, the river came swiftly down under
the steep slopes of the hills; pausing here and there in a deep, dark
pool under the trees, into which the angler would wade silently to throw
his fly to the opposite bank, and then hurrying on for a while in a
rapid flow of constant cheerful talk. Then making for the other side of
its valley, it quieted down again in another deep pool of still water:
and, as the valley opened out, it too spread itself out over a pebbly
bed, welcoming here another stream that rushed down from the hills to
the west.
Just here, where winter floods had left a wide space of stones and
rubbish between the water and the fields, and before the river gathered
itself together again for a swift rush into another pool, a pair of
Sandpipers had made their scanty nest and brought up their young in
safety for two years running. And here they were again, this last June,
safely returned from all the perils of travel, and glorying in a nestful
of four large and beautiful eggs of cream colour spotted with
reddish-brown blotches. The nest was out of reach even of the highest
flood, but within hearing of the river’s pleasant chat: for without that
in their ears the old birds could not have done their work, nor the
young ones have learnt the art of living. It was placed among the
bracken under an old thorn-bush, on the brink of a miniature little
precipice some four feet high, the work of some great flood that had
eaten out the shaly soil.
The Sandpipers felt no fear, for there was no village at hand, and
hardly a boy to hunt for nests: the fishermen kept to the bank of the
river or waded in it, and only glanced for a moment in admiration at the
graceful figure of the male bird, as he stood bowing on a stone in
mid-stream, gently moving body and tail up and down in rhythmical
greeting to the water that swirled around him, and piping his musical
message to the wife sitting on her eggs near at hand.
[Illustration: The Sandpipers.]
One day when he was thus occupied, before making a fresh search for food
for her, an answering pipe from the nest called him to her side. He
guessed what it was, for hatching time was close at hand. When he
reached the nest, he found that inside the first egg that had been laid
a tiny echo of his own clear pipe was to be heard. Whether you or I
could have heard it I cannot say; but to the keen ears of the parents it
was audible enough, and made their hearts glow with the most delightful
visions of the future. And this hidden chick was wonderfully lively and
talkative, more so than any chick of theirs had been before he came out
into the world. It was quite unusual for a Sandpiper, and both the
parents looked a little serious. Nor was their anxiety allayed when the
egg-shell broke, and a little black eye peered out full of life and
mischief.
Then out came a head and neck, and then a sticky morsel of a mottled
brown body, which almost at once got its legs out of the shell, and
began to struggle out of the nest. Was ever such a thing known before?
The old birds knew not whether to laugh or cry, but they hustled him
back into the nest in double quick time, and made him lie down till the
sun and air should have dried him up a little. Hard work the mother had
of it for the next day or two to keep that little adventurer under her
wing while the other eggs were being hatched. When he was hungry he
would lie quiet under her wing; but no sooner had his father come with
food for him than he would utter his little pipe and struggle up for
another peep into the wide world. Terrible stories his mother told him
of infant Sandpipers who had come to untimely ends from disobeying their
parents.
One, she told him, had made off by himself one day while his mother was
attending to his brothers and sisters, and before he had gone many yards
along the pleasant green sward, a long red creature with horrible teeth
and a tuft to his tail, had come creeping, creeping, through the grass,
and suddenly jumped upon him. His mother heard his cries, and flew
piping loudly to the spot; but it was too late, and she had to watch the
cruel stoat bite off his head and suck his blood. Another made off
towards the water and was crushed under foot by an angler who was
backing from the river to land a fish, and never even knew what he had
done. Another fell into a deep hole at nightfall and could not get out
again, and was found starved and dead when morning came.
After each of these stories the little bird shuddered and crouched under
his mother’s wing again: but the mastering desire to see the world
always came back upon him, and great was the relief of the parents when
the other eggs were hatched and education could begin. Then the nest was
soon abandoned, and the little creatures trotted about with their
mother; for they are not like the ugly nestlings that lie helpless and
featherless in their nests for days and days, as human babies lie in
their cradles for months. Life, and manners, and strength, and beauty,
come almost at once on the young Sandpipers, as on the young pheasants
and partridges and chickens. And their education is very easy, for they
seem to know a good deal already about the things of the world into
which they have only just begun to peep.
So one lovely day in June the whole family set out for the bank of the
river, the young ones eager to learn, and the old ones only too anxious
to teach. For what they had to learn was not merely how to find their
food—that they would soon enough discover for themselves—but what to do
in case of danger; and as they tripped along, the mother in her delicate
grey dress, white below with darker throat and breast, and the young
ones in mottled grey and brown, so that you could hardly tell them among
the pebbles and their shadows, she gave them their first lesson, while
the father flew down the river and back again to exercise his wings and
to look for food.
They had not gone far when suddenly their mother cried “wheet whee-t”
with an accent they already knew, and flew away from them, calling
loudly as she went. The little ones, unable to fly, did the first thing
that came into their heads (and it seemed to come into all their little
heads at one moment), and dropped down among the pebbles motionless,
with eyes shut. There they stayed some time, and the eldest, getting
tired of this, at last opened a bright black eye, and turned it upwards.
There, far up above them, hovering with poised wings, was a Kestrel
clearly marked against the sky. The little black eye closed again, and
there they waited without moving till at last the mother returned.
“Well done, my dears,” she said, “that was a good beginning; there was
no great danger, for the Kestrel would hardly be looking for you among
these stones; but do that as you did it then whenever I make that call
to you; drop exactly where you may be, and shut your eyes. All together
and side by side, if you are together when I call; and when I fly round
above you, still calling, creep into any holes you see, or under a stone
or a tuft of grass, and wait there till I come again. Now the hawk has
gone, so we may go on to the water.”
There was no need to bid them go; had not the noise of that water been
in their ears ever since they broke their shells, telling them all the
secrets of their life? And had not their mother told them wonderful
things of it—of the food about its banks, and on its stones, and in its
shallows, the cool refreshing air that breathes from it, the lights and
shadows that play on it, and above all, the endless music without which
a Sandpiper could hardly live?
“You cannot fly yet,” she told them, “but we will go to the water’s
edge, and then your father and I will show you how to enjoy it.” And as
just then it came in sight, she opened her wings and flew out on it
piping, while the little ones opened their wings too in vain, and
hurried on to the edge, and watched her as she alit on a stone, and
bowed gracefully to the dancing water. And they too bowed their tiny
bodies and felt the deliciousness of living.
All that livelong day, a day no one of them ever forgot, they spent by
the river side, dabbling their little dark-green legs in the water when
an eddy sent it gently up to them, learning to find the sweetest and
wholesomest insects lurking among the pebbles, with now and then a
little worm, or caterpillar that had fallen from the bushes above:
watching the trout turning up their golden sides in the dark water of
the pool as they rose to the flies: practising their voices in a feeble
piping, and always moving bodies and tails as they saw their parents do
it.
They had very few alarms, but quite enough for practice in hiding. Once
as they were following their mother by the very edge of the deep pool, a
huge silver creature, flashing in the sunlight, leapt clean out of the
water and fell in again with a splash. The little ones all dropped to
ground and lay silent, but their mother never uttered a note, and they
soon got up again. She told them it was only a salmon, who could not
possibly do them any harm, and would not if he could; that she and their
father were good friends with the salmon, and often sat on the big
boulder under which he loved to lie; but that it was only a bowing
acquaintance, because the salmon could not talk their language.
Once or twice an angler came along slowly, and then they had to drop
while their parents flew up and down stream loudly calling; but there
was always plenty of time for them to get into holes and corners safely,
and the anglers passed on again without noticing either young or old. At
last the light began to fade, the young ones were tired and sleepy—even
the eldest, who had distinguished himself by trying to fly, and actually
getting out on a stone half a foot from the shore, where he stood bowing
with great pride till his father came and shoved him into the water to
scramble ashore in a fright—and so this delightful day came to an end,
and they all went back to the shelter where the nest was placed.
The next day was a Sunday, and they spent half the morning in great
happiness without seeing a single fisherman. But after all they were to
learn this day that life has its troubles: for a huge heron took it into
his head to fish while human beings could not, and alighted at the
water’s edge within a dozen yards of the spot where they were already
motionless in obedience to their mother’s signal pipe. And there the
great bird kept standing on one leg for a full hour, and would not move
a muscle, except when now and then he darted his long bill into the
water, and then heaved it up into the air with a trout struggling at the
end of it. At last, as his back was turned to them, their parents
whistled them away, and they crept back to the nest in deep
disappointment.
“Why should we be afraid of that creature?” asked the eldest: “he eats
fish, not Sandpipers.”
“Let him see you, my child,” said the father, “and he’ll snap you up
with that long bill of his as quick as a trout can snap a fly. There was
a wild duck up the stream which had a nice little family just learning
to swim, when down came a heron before they could hide themselves—and
indeed they can’t hide themselves so well, poor things, as you have
learnt to—and he just took those ducklings one after another, and made
such a good meal of them that he went away without stopping to fish, and
the poor parents had to make another nest and go through their work all
over again.”
So they had to stop at home while the heron was there, and it was past
midday when at last he flew away. Then out they came again, and were
making their way with glad hearts down to the water, when the warning
“wheet-whee-et” was heard very loud indeed. Down they all went, in a row
together, on the bit of shaly bank where they were running at the
moment. And now they knew that there was indeed danger; for the old
birds flew piping wildly up and down as they had never yet heard them,
and close by they could hear some great creature trampling about all
around, and searching every bit of stone and grass and bush. Once they
felt its shadow come over them, and could hear it breathing within a
yard or two of them. Then it went away, letting the sun come on them
again; but their parents kept up their wild piping, and they knew that
the danger was still there. Then more searching and shuffling and
routing, and once more the shadow came upon them, and the footsteps
crunched the shale on which they lay. And now, as ill-luck would have
it, the eldest opened one black eye and looked out of the corner of it.
In another moment he felt himself seized in a mighty grasp, but not
ungently, and lifted high into the air, while in wildest consternation
the old birds flew close around him.
It was a terrible moment, but the little bird was plucky, and something
in the way he was held told him that he was not going to be eaten. He
opened both eyes, and saw one of those human anglers, without his rod.
The great animal handled him gently, stroked his plumage, and looked him
all over, and then put him softly down beside his brothers and sisters,
who were still motionless but palpitating. He stood there for a minute
or two gazing at them, no doubt in wonder and admiration, and then
hastened away towards the farmhouse under the hill. The little birds
began to move again.
“Whisht, wheet, wheet,” cried their mother; “it’s not all over yet. He
wouldn’t have gone so fast if he hadn’t meant to come back again. Get
into holes and corners, quick!”
“I don’t mind if he does come back again,” said the eldest. “He didn’t
hurt me. His great claw was warm and comfortable, and he stroked my down
the right way. I looked up and saw his great eye: it was like the
salmon’s, only pleasanter.”
“Holes and corners, quick, quick, quick, wheet, whee-et,” cried both
parents again in dismay at the folly of their eldest; and all four crept
up the shaly ledge and hid themselves under tufts of grass and bits of
stick. It was none too soon, for the footsteps were now heard again, and
the creaking of a gate as the angler got over it. And this time he was
not alone; another human creature was with him. They came up to the
spot, glanced at the frightened parents with admiration, and then looked
for the young ones.
“Well, this is provoking,” said the one who had been there before; “if
they haven’t gone and hid themselves away! Here have I dragged you from
your comfortable pipe for nothing at all! They’re not far off, though,
or the old birds would not be here.” And stooping down, he examined the
ground carefully.
At that moment that perverse eldest chick, conscious that his right leg
was sticking out into the sunshine, instinctively drew it in under him,
and doing so, he again caught the angler’s eye. And he had to be pulled
out of his hiding-place with rather more force than he liked. The angler
put him into his friend’s hands, and for a moment the audacious chick
was frightened. But he was soon down in his cover again safe and sound;
and then the rest were found and admired, and the big creatures turned
to go away.
“Wait a minute, though,” said the angler, pausing; “let us sit down a
bit and see what they will do. My dears,” (addressing the old birds,)
“you must put up with a little more anxiety, and then you shall be happy
for ever afterwards, if you can.” So the two human beings sat down on
the stones and watched, while the old birds flew round piping, perching
here and there and bowing, and giving them such pictures of grace and
beauty as they were not likely soon to see again. And neither of them
can ever forget the charm of that quarter of an hour; the music of the
river, the fragrance of the scented fern, the outlines of the rocky
hills against the sky, and the gentle grace of the pair of little grey
fairies that flew around them piping, less timid now that they saw no
chance of harm to their brood.
At last, urged by some signal from the parents, the little birds all
came out of their holes and corners, and trotted along one after
another, the eldest leading, right under the very eyes of the two men.
Piping faintly as if to call attention to their beauty, and moving tails
and bodies like their parents, they passed along the shaly bank till
they reached the roots of an old battered thorn-bush, where they
disappeared into a hole and were seen no more by the human eyes.
After this adventure the old Sandpipers had a long talk. All had gone
well so far; but it would not do to run these risks any longer if they
could help it. And not without some misgivings as to the difficulty of
the task, they determined to get the young ones across the river without
delay; for on the further side some jutting rocks made it impossible for
anglers to pass, and they were seldom seen there.
So next morning at break of day the little family was called down to the
water’s edge, and told that they must do exactly as they were bid, and
not be frightened. The father crouched down among the pebbles, and the
mother bade the eldest chick mount upon his back, and stick his three
long toes, whose claws were already beginning to get strong, fast into
the soft and yielding plumage. This he did in a moment, and the next one
found him shooting across the narrow head of the pool, with its rush of
tumbled water, and landed safely at the foot of the rock. It was a
delightful sensation, and as the father opened his wings and sped back
again to fetch the others, the little one opened his too, and felt
almost as if he could do it by himself. Then one after another the three
younger ones were carried over, piping faintly from fear, and clinging
for their lives to their perilous perch. And lastly came the mother with
kind words of praise for all, and they set out to enjoy themselves for a
whole long day of peace and plenty.
And indeed in peace and plenty they passed many days without further
troubles or adventures, while the little wings began to put out their
quill feathers, and the little voices to gain in strength and tone. And
all this time the sun shone and the river sang a quiet song, as it
slowly sank for want of rain, leaving new and varied margins of sand and
pebbles for the Sandpipers to search for food.
But one morning the sun did not greet them as usual with his warmth; the
sky was grey and streaky, and seemed to hang lower over the hills than
when it was all clear blue. At first all was still and silent, but
presently a gust of wind came up the river, and then another as suddenly
came down, worrying the early angler on the opposite bank, and teasing
the little Sandpipers as it blew their soft plumage the wrong way. And
then a large white bird sailed gracefully up the valley, balancing
itself against the wind, to the great admiration of the chicks.
“That is a Seagull, children,” said the mother, “and you will see plenty
of them when you cross the sea to the warm southern lands for the
winter. And he is telling us that there is a storm coming—listen!”
And they listened to the melancholy wail of the great bird, but felt no
fear of him, for the parent birds showed none. But the old ones knew the
meaning of that sad music, and thought of the weary waste of sea over
which they would soon have to pass, and the sudden squall at night, and
the loss of old friends and comrades.
Before the morning was out the storm began in earnest, and the chicks,
after enjoying the first soothing rain for a while, were hustled under
the shelter of the big rock, and crept into a hole to leeward. The
eldest of course was the last to go in; for as a sudden strong gust
swept past him, he opened his growing wings, and to his great delight
found himself carried off his legs and almost flying. But the watchful
father had seen him, and in a moment was ahead of him, just as he was
being carried out upon the stream.
“Back into the hole!” he called with real anger; “look at the river!
Even if you could use those wings as you think you can, it would be
unsafe for you in wind and flood.” And the little bird looked at the
water, and saw that it was coming much faster than he had ever seen it,
and its voice was deeper and hoarser; for far away up on the hills the
great storm was already travelling round and round, and the growling of
its thunder mixed ominously with the deepening tone of the river. So he
crept into the hole and lay down by the others; and they all listened to
the fearful splashing of the rain, and the scream of the tearing gusts,
and the sighing of the trees on the hill above them. From time to time
the old birds went out to get food for themselves and the young, and
perhaps, too, to enjoy the freshening moisture, and the towzling worry
of the wind, as old birds can and may after a long calm and drought. It
might have been wiser if one of them had stayed at home; but the young
ones were quiet and overawed, and, what was more, they were hungry.
During one of these absences the violence of the storm seemed to abate a
little, and the flashes of sudden fire which had been making them shut
their eyes came now but very faintly. It was getting towards evening,
and the restless eldest chick wanted badly to be out again, and all the
more because he heard the roar of the river below him, and could hear
its waves leaping and splashing on the rocky promontory in the side of
which they were sheltered. So, without saying a word to the rest, he got
up and went out of the hole on to a little ledge of rock which overhung
the water.
What a sight it was! Dark-brown water rushing madly down into the pool,
carrying with it logs and branches of trees with all the glory of fresh
foliage wasted, and then the pool itself no longer golden-brown and
clear, but black as ink, and flecked with creamy patches of surf. But
the wind seemed lighter, and there were the Sandmartins, who had their
nests in the cliff, flitting up and down just over the water as if
nothing had happened, and there too was the friendly Grey Wagtail, with
his long tail going up and down just the same as ever. Feeling that he
might safely see more still, that adventurous young bird trotted round
the corner of the ledge.
In a twinkling the wind had carried him off his feet, and he was
flying—really flying for the first time in his life. He needed no
teaching in the art—whether he would or no, fly he must. Those growing
quills were big enough to carry him along with the wind, and he had only
to guide himself as well as he could. It was glorious, and he felt no
terror, for there was no time to feel it. Over the black pool, past the
foot-bridge, over which he shot like one of the Sandmartins which he had
so often watched with envy and admiration; over the ford, now
impassable, and then, as the river made a sharp curve, over field and
hedge to the roaring flood again where it turned once more in the wind’s
direction. But those weak wings were getting tired, and piping loudly
for help, he looked for some safe place to drop upon.
Suddenly the wind fell for an instant, and a puff from the opposite
direction brought him to. He was over the very middle of the river: a
great boulder, water-splashed, lay just under him. How he managed it I
cannot tell, but he dropped exhausted on the rough damp surface of the
stone, and felt himself safe at last.
Safe! for the moment perhaps, but what was to become of him? The water
was surging and roaring against his boulder: was it going to rise upon
him and carry him away helpless? The wind was so strong that to fly up
stream was hopeless, and as he sat there exhausted, he felt that he
could not even use his wings to get to shore. Uttering from time to time
a plaintive “wheet,” he clung to the stone with all his might, balancing
himself with body and tail against the gusts: not reflecting, nor
despairing, but just wondering what would happen.
The Sandmartins shot by overhead, but not one of them seemed to notice
him, or to be the least inclined to perch on his stone. A Dipper came
slowly up stream against the wind, perched on another stone not far off,
bowed repeatedly and went on again. A Grey Wagtail coming down stream in
graceful waves of flight, poised himself over the stone, and for a
moment actually alighted on it: then, seeing his mate pass down after
him, opened his wings and was gone. The Sandpiper opened his too, but
his heart sank within him, and he clung still more passionately to his
stone.
Two figures came rapidly up the river-bank,—two drenched human
creatures, fighting against the wind, but enjoying it. Just as they came
level with the boulder they caught the sound of a faint “whee-et.” The
angler turned sharp round, and after some search with a fieldglass,
discovered the little brown object on the boulder.
“It’s a young one,” he said to his companion: “it’s a veritable infant!
And see, it can’t fly,—it’s clutching at the stone like grim death! By
all that’s feathered, it must be one of our young friends blown away,
for there’s no brood between them and this, and the wind’s been down
stream pretty well all day. I say, we must have him off that somehow.”
They looked at each other and at the swollen river.
“I’ll go,” said the friend the next moment: “I’m taller and stronger. I
should rather like a towzle, but it won’t be easy. I can’t try it from
above, or I shall come with a bang on the stone: but there are the
stepping-stones just below. I can get out there if I can see them
through the flood, and then I sha’n’t have above twenty yards to swim.”
While he said this he was pulling off his clothes, and then he leapt
exuberantly down the bank to the water. Suddenly he stopped. “How am I
to bring him back?” he shouted.
The angler was puzzled. To swim in a current like that with a bird in
your hand was impossible without crushing it; and a naked man has no
pockets. But necessity is the mother of invention. Quick as thought he
whipped a casting-line off his hat, taking two flies off it and sticking
them into his coat: this he wound round his friend’s wrist, and making
the end fast, told him to tie it round the bird’s leg if he reached him.
Carefully into the water his companion descended, feeling with his hand
for the first stepping-stone; then balancing himself between this and
the rushing water, he went on to the second. It was teasing work, but he
managed the third, the fourth, the fifth, and then it was high time to
swim, for the water was up to his middle and higher, and swayed him to
and fro in a way that made the angler watch him eagerly. Then came a
splash and a plunge, and his head was seen working up against the
current, zigzagging to diminish the force of it. Twenty yards is a long
way in such a stream, but if he could once get under the lee of that
great boulder he would do. And in something like five minutes he was
under the stone, and then on it.
A strange sight it was to see a naked human creature sitting
cross-legged on a boulder in such a flood! But he has caught the truant,
and now he is tying that handy gut line round his leg. And then,
standing up on the boulder, he flings the bird shorewards, one end of
the line being still fast round his wrist.
The bird sank on the water, and the man plunged in; fighting with the
current that was sweeping him down, he made for the shore, and reached
it breathless far below the stepping-stones, where the angler pulled him
out of the water as joyfully as he ever pulled a trout. Then they wound
up the line, and sure enough there came ashore at the end of it, a
draggled, exhausted, and almost lifeless Sandpiper.
To be carried in a human pocket is not pleasant for a bird, but our
young scapegrace was too far gone to trouble himself about it. At his
birthplace he was taken out, and there the angler stayed with him,
sending his companion home to change. It was getting dark fast, but the
old birds were still flying wildly up and down the river, piping loudly
in a forlorn hope of finding their young one ere night should wrap the
river in darkness. The angler put him down near the water and waited at
a little distance.
Ere long his wits came back to him, as the well-known notes told him
that he was indeed again near home. And weak as he was, he found
strength to send out over the river his own little feeble pipe. In a
moment his mother was by his side.
The angler watched them for a moment, and then left them to tell his
friend of the good result of a kindly deed. The next day they had to
leave the river and all its delights, and to return to work and duty:
but they cannot forget the Sandpipers, nor, when the birds return after
their winter sojourn in the far south, will they fail to look out
without misgiving for their human friends.