The woodcock--Its habits in the forests of Le Morvan--Aversion of
dogs to this bird--Timidity of the woodcock--Its cunning--Shooting
in November--The Woodcock mates--The Woodcock fly.
In the last and preceding chapters, the imaginative and romantic have
predominated almost to the entire exclusion of any description of the
wild sports of Le Morvan, and I fear that the sporting reader, not
generally of a very sentimental taste, will ere this have become
impatient, and perhaps a little angry at the delay. I trust, however,
that I may be able to soften his indignation, and by the following
sketches gratify the expectations naturally raised in his mind by the
first words of the title-page. Of boar and wolf-hunting we shall speak
further on: my present object will be to give a description, not only of
the woodcock-shooting in Burgundy and Le Morvan, but also of the habits,
etc., of that bird.
In the forests of which we are writing, the woodcock is not a mere bird
of passage, as in other European countries; it does not fly beyond sea,
like the swallow and most of the emigrating feathered tribes, nor does
it disappear like the quail, at a fixed period, and reappear at a given
moment. Here the woodcock seldom if ever deserts the forests which have
been its constant abode, and the sportsman is sure to find it nearly all
the year round. I have said nearly, for though not seeking other climes,
it requires a change of locality to secure a certain temperature.
For instance, in the months of May, June, July, and August, woodcocks
are to be found in elevated spots, such as mountains covered with large
trees, or in warm open places on their slopes. At the first approach of
cold weather they leave the hills, and come down into the plains,
concealing themselves in the underwood, or the fern, or in the high
grass, when the snow begins to fall. The woodcock is a melancholy bird,
and somewhat misanthropic. Its habits are eminently anti-social; it
flies but little, so little indeed that its wings seem scarcely of any
use, and with the laziness already alluded to that forms its
characteristic feature, it seeks out a solitary spot, and having dug a
hole amongst the dry leaves, there it will squat for days together
without stirring. It likewise delights to cower under the gnarled roots
of an old oak, or to hide itself in a holly-bush, and apparently derives
so much satisfaction from its own meditations, and seems to hold all
other birds of the forest in such utter contempt, that it never by any
chance deigns to join their sports, or mingle in their joyous songs. The
woodcock seeks the darkest and most silent thickets, and likes a marly
soil, damp meadows, and the neighbourhood of brooks and stagnant water.
But though motionless and torpid, so long as the sun is above the
horizon, woodcocks are always on the alert, and wake and shake their
feathers the moment night comes; leaving the shady thickets and grassy
spots, they flock to the glades and little paths of the woods, and
thrust their long beaks into the soft, damp soil--for this bird, be it
remembered, never touches either corn or fruit, but lives entirely upon
grubs and earth-worms.
It naturally follows that the woodcock, which finds its food in slimy
marshes, with head bent, and eyes fixed upon the ground, possesses none
of the gaiety and vivacity of other birds, holds but a very low place in
the scale of animal intelligence, and possesses a large share of that
stupidity peculiar to the dull species that were formed to live in the
mire.
The size of the woodcock varies exceedingly; they are much smaller than
the domestic fowl, but heavier and larger than the heath partridge; yet
there are some which are as small as a wood-pigeon, and even less. Their
plumage is dark, and harmonizes admirably with the trunks of the trees
and moss amongst which they dwell. Even in the daylight, and at a
distance of only twenty paces, it is impossible to distinguish a
woodcock, as it lies motionless, with closed wings, and neck extended on
the ground, amongst the withered leaves.
When walking on the grass, there is a certain elegance in its movements,
while the beautiful _chiar' oscuro_ tints of its wings, the gray and
orange hues on its breast, its long black legs streaked with pink, its
large beak, small head, and symmetrical proportions, combine to render
it a bird of no ordinary beauty. Though its eyes are piercing and very
open, the woodcock only sees distinctly at twilight, and its flight is
never so even or so rapid, nor its motions so brisk, or its gait so
regular, as at nightfall or at dawn of day.
The flesh is black, firm, and of a game flavour, and, with the wise, is
a most dainty morsel, a royal tit-bit. But dogs think differently, and
have such an aversion to its smell, that they hunt, seize, and bring it
back much against their will; and, difficult as it may be to account
for this antipathy, it seems to be as inherent in canine nature, as the
antipathy which all ladies show to contradiction is in the human.
Far removed from the strife that occasionally rages amidst the feathered
tribes of the forest, or the more formidable struggles of its
four-footed inhabitants, whose howls occasionally startle the silence of
night, and quite indifferent as to whether a fox or a wolf is seated on
the sylvan throne, the woodcock, like a true philosopher, in the depths
of the thicket, leads a calm and sedentary life, requiring no other
elements of happiness than moonlight, rest, and a few worms. Its tastes
are so humble, its wants so few; it mixes so little with the world, and
is so ignorant of all intrigue, that nothing can exceed its innocence.
Like those honest country-folks who can never manage to shake off their
native simplicity, its instinct never puts it on its guard against a
snare, and consequently it falls into the first that is set for it.
A complete stranger to the fierce emotions that excite the savage nature
of those animals that live constantly at war with one another, the
peaceful woodcock--the bird of twilight--is startled by the least noise,
and stunned by the slightest accident. Many a time, at dawn of day, when
lying in wait for the passage of a fox, a roebuck, or a wolf, have I
seen two, three, four, even five woodcocks slowly issue from their leafy
covert, and advance with measured step towards the open glade,
apparently without imagining that by leaving the shade of the trees they
were exposing themselves to being seen. On they walked, searching by the
way, plunging from time to time their long beaks into the grass, and
shaking their heads right and left to enlarge the hole, they breakfasted
luxuriously on the worms that crept out of it.
Concealed behind an oak-tree, I have sometimes been highly amused by
watching their motions, nor had I the least wish to disturb them, not
caring to rouse the echoes of the forest for such insignificant game. So
the woodcocks went on with their manoeuvres, holding down their heads,
with eyes intent upon the grass, evidently engrossed by their own
occupation. In this manner they unconsciously advanced close to me, when
suddenly rising from the ground I gave a loud shout, at which the
startled birds were so panic-struck that they literally fell down, and
fluttering their wings, without having the power to fly, looked at me
with rolling eye-balls, while their beaks opened as if to call for help,
emitting nothing but inarticulate sounds, that seemed so many prayers
for mercy. Somewhat relieved of their worst fears, on perceiving that I
had no evil intentions, they rushed away head over heels, and sought
refuge under their favourite roots. The recollection of this scene,
which only lasted seven or eight seconds, has often made me laugh.
Yet notwithstanding this general want of presence of mind, the woodcock
displays some cunning in extreme danger,--such as when the shot is
whistling past its feathers, or when the hawk is wheeling about in the
air above its head; its faculties then seem to awaken, its blood
circulates more freely, a spark of intelligence seems to flash across
its usually obtuse brain, and the magnitude of the peril suggests an
excellent means of escaping from its enemies. During the daytime, for
instance, when, snugly ensconced in its hole, and with its ear close to
the ground, the woodcock hears you approach from afar, instead of rising
and taking refuge amongst the trunks of the surrounding trees, it first
reflects solemnly whether it is worth while to disturb itself for so
slight a noise, and quit its leafy bed, where it lies so warm and
comfortable. After all, it may be only a hare running past--or perhaps a
roebuck grazing in the neighbourhood--so the woodcock waits, then
listens, then stands up and begins to move; on hearing your thick shoes
trampling the withered branches, it stands motionless, not daring to
stir, nor can it make up its mind to fly until it feels the breath of
your dog. Then it rises rapidly enough.
It flies straight, but its flight is not even, and at the distance of
about fifty paces, and just as you are going to fire, the woodcock, well
aware that the sportsman's eye is upon it, and shrewdly guessing that
thunder and lightning is about to follow, changes his tactics, and
lowering its flight, so as to avoid the mortal aim, suddenly plunges
down behind a bush. The sportsman, who, not aware of this specious
manoeuvre, fires at this juncture, thinks the bird has fallen dead,
and forthwith runs to pick it up, but no woodcock can he find; for on
raising his eyes, lo! and behold, he sees the provoking bird some five
hundred paces distant, cleaving the air with sails full set; and as his
eyes follow it still further, he perceives it flying with all its might,
ever and anon prudently ducking down to avoid the second barrel.
This is one of the woodcock's best stratagems, and it succeeds ten times
out of twelve, at least with the tyros among sportsmen.
When fairly tired by its flight, the woodcock drops into the underwood,
and is then completely lost to the sportsman; for, once on the ground,
it runs with the greatest celerity, its wings working rapidly like a
couple of paddles, and vanishing beneath the leaves, falls fainting into
some snug corner.
In Brittany and in Lower Normandy this ornament of the table and delight
of the sportsman is found in great numbers at a certain season of the
year. In Picardy, and in the neighbourhood of Boulogne, I have sometimes
knocked over as many as twenty woodcocks in one day, while on the morrow
and the day following I could not flush three. Such is not the case in
Le Morvan, where they are, as we have before remarked, to be found all
the year round; the proper seasons, however, for shooting them are
three. These are, the month of November, before the rains set in; the
month of April, when they mate; and the sultry months of June and July;
the period of drought and of the dog-days. In the interim of these
epochs they are allowed to enjoy themselves, and suffered to fatten
quietly in their dark thickets. I shall, therefore, only notice these
three periods.
In foggy or cloudy nights, when the branches of the trees are dripping
wet, the woodcock, ensconced in its hole, feels no hunger, moves not,
and would not venture abroad for love or money; but should the sky
prove clear, and the moon shine forth, lighting up the forest paths, the
delighted bird steals from its dwelling, shakes its feathers, and
sallies forth on its adventures. For the woodcock, like poets and
lovers, is fond of the moonlight and the sweet perfumes of evening.
Hence it is that sportsmen in France call the full moon of November "the
woodcock's moon," and they hail its appearance with as much rejoicing as
do the foxes, wild cats, and poachers, all of whom make sad havoc
amongst the long-beaked tribe during this fatal period.
The woodcock has been described as an idle, heavy, timid, and stupid
bird, which passes the greater portion of the day in lethargic slumbers,
in gazing at the south, at the growing grass, or the falling leaves;
rejoicing only in silence and solitude; and such is the case during nine
months of the year. In the spring, however, it is quite otherwise; the
woodcock then mates, and, ere April showers have passed away, becomes
animated, sociable, and full of life; and, more extraordinary still, its
voice, till then mute, may actually be heard.
Yes, at this delightful season the woodcock is no longer silent, its
tongue is loosened, it breathes its tale of love, and, with joyful
notes, proclaims its happiness morning and night; and yet there are
those who would make us believe that the tender passion is useless, that
love is tom-foolery, or that it does not exist. To these blind
blasphemers, who thus deny its power, I would respectfully say, Come to
Le Morvan, and observe the woodcock, and then dare to say that love is
an untruth. Why, love is the great magician of the universe, the sun of
our minds, a path of fragrant violets, a perfect copse of _millefleurs_,
before which we all bend our hearts, aye, and, with vastly few
exceptions, our heads too. Yes, we all, at some period of our lives,
taste the delicious draught, and some drink deep of it, either to their
life-long happiness or the reverse. Love effects many a miracle, changes
everything, bows the neck of the proud, opens the eyes of the blind, and
shuts them for those who have very good sight; teaches the dumb to
speak, and those who are very loquacious to be silent. When the rosy and
naked little boy makes his appearance with his quiver, all is joy and
unreflecting happiness; when he is at home with his mamma, alas! the
world is all in shadow. The woodcocks, in like manner, are amiable,
eloquent, and engaging as long as the fumes of love affect their brain;
but when these are dissipated, they are dumb, and ten times more stupid
than they were before; and, dear me, how many human woodcocks, robed in
satin and balzarine, or sheathed in kerseymere trousers, are the same.
But, shades of Buffon and Linnæus! we must not thus rattle on, but
proceed to describe the nuptial couch of the delicious bird under our
consideration. The woodcock, like all those of the feathered tribe that
do not perch, makes its nest on the ground, which is composed of leaves,
fern, and dry grass, intermixed with little bits of stick, and
strengthened by larger pieces placed across it. This nest, made without
much art or care, in form like a large brown ball, is generally placed
under, and sheltered by the root of some old tree. Four or five eggs, a
little larger than those of the common pigeon, of a dirty gray and
yellow colour, and marked with little black spots, are the proofs of its
maternity. The woodcock, as I have before remarked, has only the gift of
talking in the spring season, when soft breezes fan the air, and they
educate their young. Nevertheless, it is in this season that
woodcock-shooting is the most amusing. Then is the time for gentlemen to
shoot; the _braconnier_ despises it. From the middle of April to that of
May is the important epoch at which the generality of animals marry,
and the woodcocks are not behindhand in this respect; they leave their
well-concealed retreats, become humanized, solicit the attentions of
their feathered ladies, and fly with gay inspirations amongst the
neighbouring bushes. But though as much in love as a widow, the woodcock
does not on that account forget its habitual prudence; like the usurer
who lends his money, and takes every precaution, the woodcock is equally
careful, and does not leave its nest till twilight has draped the earth
in the gray mantle of evening. When the humid atmosphere descends slowly
on the trees, when the cool breezes of night ascend the valleys, when
distant objects begin to assume a fantastic shape, when the branches of
the oak near you, like the arms of a giant, wave to and fro, and seem to
ask you to approach; when the withered tree, devoid of leaves, looks
like a brigand on the watch, or your comrade, ensconced against it,
seems to form a portion of it at a hundred yards off; when, in short,
the sportsman can see only a few yards before him, then is the moment
that the circumspect and wily woodcock leaves its abode, and pays a
nocturnal visit to his friends; and man, his enemy, and still more
cunning, is on the alert. The sport which we are about to describe, and
which does not last longer than from thirty to forty minutes, has
something particularly taking in it. At the close of day a universal
silence reigns in the forest, and every sportsman is at his post with
bated breath, and eyes dilated as wide as a woman's listening to a
neighbouring gossip's tale, when, all at once--pray note this well,
reader--a little fly, which plays a prominent part in all sport _à
l'affût_ (in ambush)--a little fly, about the size of a pea, regularly
makes its appearance, and wheeling round your head, fidgets you for five
minutes with its buzzing b-r-r-r-r-r-r-oo. In this way the little insect
informs you the woodcocks have left the underwood, that they are
approaching, and that it hears them coming; and odd or marvellous as it
may seem, this signal of the little fly, which never misleads you--this
signal which falls upon your ear just at the proper and precise moment,
is as certain as that two and two make four. Be not sceptical, and
imagine that this is chance; no such thing. Go when you will to the
_chasse à l'affût_, station yourself in whichever part of the forest you
like, be assured the fly will be there; it was never otherwise. The
question is, who sends the fly? how does it know the sportsman? and by
what mysterious chronometer does it regulate with such exactness its
movements? _Chi lo sa?_ He who doth not let a sparrow fall to the ground
without He willeth it. Equally incomprehensible is the departure of this
little insect, which, the concert over, and when you are thoroughly on
the _qui vive_, ceases its buzz, and is heard no more. At this very
moment, the silence in which you have till then remained is suddenly
broken by shouts of "They come! they come!" quickly followed by bang,
bang, bang along the glade; and here indeed they are, at first by twos
and threes, and then a compact flight, whirling along with appealing
cries of love, fluttering, and flapping their wings, and pursuing one
another from bush to bush. They show now neither fear nor
circumspection, and crazy, blind, and deaf, scarcely seem to notice the
noise, the flashes, or the cries of the sportsmen. At length all is in
complete confusion. They toss and twirl about like great leaves in a
hurricane, and finally fly, with their ranks somewhat diminished, to
their several homes. This sport lasts but a short half-hour; after
which, the woodcocks having said all they had to say, made and accepted
their engagements for the following day, vanish as if by magic, like the
puff of a cigar, a shadow, or a royal promise, and the same silence that
preceded their arrival reigns once more in the forest. No gun is loaded
after their departure; the sportsmen assemble, count the dead, never so
numerous, as one might suppose, and having bagged them, also retire from
the scene. I have known one person kill four couple of woodcocks in this
manner, but it was quite an exceptional case; two or three is nearer the
usual number. Chance, as in war, in marriage, in everything, is
frequently the secret of success; but if you are not cool and collected,
and handy with your gun, you will scarce carry a _salmi_ home to your
expectant friends. To the young sportsman, the novelty, confusion, and
hubbub of these evening shooting-parties are perfectly bewildering;
Parisian cockneys, above all, are quite beside themselves, shutting
first one eye and then the other, firing, of course, without having
taken any aim, and eventually beating a retreat without a feather in
their game-bags. But to the veteran, this fevered half-hour, this brief
_chasse_, is most delightful; everything conspires to make it lively and
exciting. The party, ten or twelve jolly dogs, have generally dined
together, and the onslaught over, they all return by the pale moonlight,
shoulder to shoulder, singing snatches of some old hunting-song, the
stars overhead and the woodcocks on their backs. A young Parisian and
college friend of mine, Adolphe Gustave de----, very rich and very
witty, whom, after many unsuccessful attempts, I induced to leave the
capital, and pass six months with me in the deserts, as he called them,
of Le Morvan, loved this species of sport intensely, though he never
shot anything. His bag, however, was always better filled than that of
any of his comrades, for though a wretched shot, he had the wit to stand
near a good one, and as he was wonderfully quick with his legs, eyes,
and fingers, he was constantly picking up his neighbour's birds, vowing
all the time they were his own shooting.