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The Haddon Hall
[Illustration]
Library
[Illustration]
Edited by the Marquess Of Granby
and
Mr. George A. B. Dewar
_All rights reserved_
[Illustration: _Male Oyster-Catchers Piping to the Female._]
BIRD WATCHING
by
EDMUND SELOUS
[Illustration]
London
J. M. Dent & Co., Aldine House
29 & 30 Bedford Street, W.C.
1901
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
TABLE OF CONTENTS v
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS vii
PREFACE ix
I. WATCHING GREAT PLOVERS, ETC. 3
II. WATCHING RINGED PLOVERS, REDSHANKS, PEEWITS, ETC. 21
III. WATCHING STOCK-DOVES, WOOD-PIGEONS, SNIPE, ETC. 35
IV. WATCHING WHEATEARS, DABCHICKS, OYSTER-CATCHERS, ETC. 67
V. WATCHING GULLS AND SKUAS 96
VI. WATCHING RAVENS, CURLEWS, EIDER-DUCKS, ETC. 129
VII. WATCHING SHAGS AND GUILLEMOTS 163
VIII. WATCHING BIRDS AT A STRAW-STACK 199
IX. WATCHING BIRDS IN THE GREENWOODS 225
X. WATCHING ROOKS 257
XI. WATCHING ROOKS--_CONTINUED_ 274
XII. WATCHING BLACKBIRDS, NIGHTINGALES, SAND-MARTINS, ETC. 301
INDEX 338
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_Male Oyster-catchers piping to the Female_ _Frontispiece_
_Photogravure_
_Dancing of Great Plovers in Autumn_ _facing page_ 12
_Photogravure_
_Great Plovers: A Nuptial Pose_ _Page_ 19
_Master and Pupil: Hooded-Crow flying with Peewits_ " 29
_Stock-Doves: A Duel with Ceremonies_ " 40
_Turtle Doves: The Nuptial Flight_ _facing page_ 50
_Photogravure_
_Great Skuas: Nuptial Flight and Pose_ " " 100
_Photogravure_
_Ravens: The Game of Reversi_ _Page_ 135
_Habet! Great-Crested Grebe Attacked by Another Under Water_ " 150
_Love on a Rock: Shags During the Breeding Season_ _facing page_ 168
_Photogravure_
_On a Guillemot Ledge_ " " 192
_Fairy Artillery: Willow-Warbler Pecking Catkins in Flight_ _Page_ 254
_Rooks: A Winter Scene_ " 279
_In a Sand-Pit_ _facing page_ 328
_Photogravure_
_All the above from Drawings by_ J. SMIT.
PREFACE
I should like to explain that this work, being, with one or two
insignificant exceptions, a record of my own observations only, it
has not been my intention to make general statements in regard to
the habits of any particular bird. In practice, however, it is often
difficult to write as if one were not doing this, without its having a
very clumsy effect. One cannot, for instance, always say, "I have seen
birds fly." One has to say, upon occasions, "Birds fly." Moreover, it
is obvious that in much of the more important business of bird-life,
one would be fully justified in arguing from the particular to the
general: perhaps (though this is not my opinion) one would always be.
But, whether this is the case or not, I wish it to be understood that,
throughout, a remark that any bird acts in such or such a way means,
merely, that I have, on one or more occasions, seen it do so. Also, all
that I have seen which is included in this volume was noted down by me
either just after it had taken place or whilst it actually was taking
place; the quotations (except when literary or otherwise explicitly
stated) being always from my own notes so made. For this reason I call
my work "Bird Watching," and I hope that the title will explain, and
even justify, a good deal which in itself is certainly a want and
a failing. One cannot, unfortunately, watch all birds, and of those
that one can it is difficult not to say at once too little and too
much: too little, because one may have only had the luck to see well a
single point in the round of activities of any species--one feather in
its plumage, so to speak--and too much, because even to speak of this
adequately is to fill many pages and deny space to some other bird. All
I can do is to speak of some few birds as I have watched them in some
few things. Those who read this preface will, I hope, expect nothing
more, and I hope that not much more is implied in the title which I
have chosen. Perhaps I might have been more explicit, but English is
not German. "Of-some-few-birds-the-occasional-in-some-things-watching"
does not seem to go well as a compound, and "Observations on," etc.,
sounds as formidable as "Beobachtungen über." It matters not how one
may limit it, the word "Observations" has a terrific sound. Let a man
say merely that he watched a robin (for instance) doing something, and
no one will shrink from him; but if he talks about his "Observations on
the Robin-Redbreast" then, let these have been ever so restricted, and
even though he may forbear to call the bird by its Latin name, he must
expect to pay the penalty. The very limitations will have something
severe--smacking of precise scientific distinction--about them, and the
implied preference for English in such a case will appear affected and
to be a clumsy attempt, merely, to make himself popular. Therefore, I
will not call my book "Observations on," etc. I have _watched_ birds
only, I have not _observed_ them. It is true that, in the text itself,
I do not shrink from the latter word, either as substantive or verb,
or even from the Latin name of a bird, here and there, when I happen
to know it (for is there not such a thing as childish pride?). But
that is different. I do not begin at once in that way, and by the time
I get to it anyone will have found me out, and know that I am really
quite harmless. Besides, I have now set matters in their right light.
But I was not going to handicap myself upon my very cover and trust
to its contents, merely, for getting over it. That would have been
over-confidence.
Again, in the following pages there are some points which I just
touch upon and leave with an undertaking to go more fully into, in a
subsequent chapter. This I have always meant to do, but want of space
has, in some instances, prevented me from carrying out my intention.
For this, I will apologise only, leaving it to my readers to excuse me
should they think fit. Perhaps they will do so very readily.
Also,--but I cannot afford to point out any more of my shortcomings.
That, too, I must leave to "the reader," who, I hope, will in this
matter but little deserve that epithet of "discerning" which is often
so generously--not to say boldly--bestowed upon him.
[Illustration]
BIRD WATCHING
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I
Watching Great Plovers, etc.
If life is, as some hold it to be, a vast melancholy ocean over which
ships more or less sorrow-laden continually pass and ply, yet there lie
here and there upon it isles of consolation on to which we may step out
and for a time forget the winds and waves. One of these we may call
Bird-isle--the island of watching and being entertained by the habits
and humours of birds--and upon this one, for with the others I have
here nothing to do, I will straightway land, inviting such as may care
to, to follow me. I will speak of birds only, or almost only, as I have
seen them, and I must hope that this plan, which is the only one I have
found myself able to follow, will be accepted as an apology for the
absence of much which, not having seen but only read of, I therefore
say nothing about. Also, if I sometimes here record what has long
been known and noted as though I were making a discovery, I trust that
this, too, will be forgiven me, for, in fact, whenever I have watched
a bird and seen it do anything at all--anything, that is, at all
salient--that is just how I have felt. Perhaps, indeed, the best way to
make discoveries of this sort is to have the idea that one is doing so.
One looks with the soul in the eyes then, and so may sometimes pick up
some trifle or other that has not been noted before.
However this may be, one of the most delightful birds (for one must
begin somewhere) to find, or to think one is finding things out about,
is the great or Norfolk plover, or, as it is locally and more rightly
called--for it is a curlew and not a plover[1]--the stone-curlew.
These birds haunt open, sandy wastes to which but the scantiest of
vegetation clings, and here, during the day, they assemble in some
chosen spot, often in considerable numbers--fifty or more I have
sometimes seen together. If it is early in the day, and especially if
the weather be warm and sunny, most of them will be sitting, either
crouched down on their long yellow shanks, or more upright with these
extended in front of them, looking in this latter attitude as if they
were standing on their stumps, their legs having been "smitten off"
and lying before them on the ground. Towards evening, however--which
is the best time to watch these birds--they stand attending to their
plumage, or walk with picked steps in a leisurely fashion, which,
with their lean gaunt figure, sad and rusty coloured, and a certain
sedateness, almost punctiliousness, of manner, fancifully suggests to
one the figure of Don Quixote de la Mancha, the Knight of the rueful
countenance, with a touch or two, perhaps, thrown in of the old Baron
of Bradwardine of Tullyveolan. One can lie on the ground and watch them
from far off through the glasses, or, should a belt of bracken fringe
the barren area, one has then an excellent opportunity of creeping up
to within a short or, at least, a reasonable distance. To do this one
must make a wide circuit and enter the bracken a long way off. Then
having walked, or rather waded for some way towards them, at a certain
point--experience will teach the safety-line--one must sink on one's
hands and knees, and the rest is all creeping and wriggling, till at
length, lying flat, one's face just pierces the edge of the cover and
the harmless glasses are levelled at the quarry one does not wish to
kill. The birds are standing in a long, straggling line, ganglion-like
in form, swelling out into knots where they are grouped more thickly
with thinner spaces between. As they preen themselves--twisting the
neck to one or the other side so as to pass the primary quill feathers
of the wings through the beak--one may be seen to stoop and lay one
side of the head on the ground, the great yellow eye of the other side
staring up into the sky in an uncanny sort of way. The meaning of this
action I do not know. It is not to scratch the head, for the head is
held quite still; and, moreover, as, like most birds, they can do this
very neatly and effectively with the foot, other methods would seem to
be superfluous. Again, and this is a more characteristic action, one
having stood for some time upright and perfectly still, makes a sudden
and very swingy bob forward with the head, the tail at the same time
swinging up, just in the way that a wooden bird performs these actions
upon one's pulling a string. This again seems to have no special
reference to anything, unless it be deportment.
[1] I understand Professor Newton to say this.
All at once a bird makes a swift run forward, not one of those short
little dainty runs--one and then another and another, with little
start-stops between--that one knows so well, but a long, steady run
down upon something, and at the same moment the glasses--if one is
lucky and the distance not too great--reveal the object which has
occasioned this, a delicate white thing floating in the air which one
takes to be a thistle-down. This is secured and eaten, and we may
imagine that the bird's peckings at it after it is in his possession
are to disengage the seed from the down. But all at once--before you
have had time to set down the glasses and make the note that the great
plover (_Œdicnemus Crepitans_) will snap at a wandering thistle-down,
and having separated the delicate little seed-sails from the seed,
eat the latter, etc., etc.--a small brown moth comes into view flying
low over a belt of dry bushy grass that helps, with the bracken, to
edge the sandy warren, for these wastes are given over to rabbits and
large landowners, and are marked "warrens" on the map. Instantly the
same bird (who seems to catch sight of the moth just as you do) starts
in pursuit with the same rapid run and head stretched eagerly out. He
gets up to the moth and essays to catch it, pecking at it in a very
peculiar way, not excitedly or wildly, but with little precise pecks,
the head closely and guardedly following the moth's motions, the
whole strongly suggestive of professional skill. The moth eludes him,
however, and the bird stops rigidly, having apparently lost sight of
it. Shortly afterwards, after it has flown some way, he sees it again
and makes another swift run in pursuit, catching it up again and making
his quick little pecks, but unsuccessfully, as before. Then there is
the same pause, followed by the same run, then a close, near chase, and
finally the moth is caught and eaten. Other moths, or other insects,
now appear upon the scene, or if they do not appear--for even with the
best of glasses such pin-points are mostly invisible--it is evident
from the actions of the birds that they are there. Chase after chase is
witnessed, all made in the same manner, with sometimes a straight-up
jump into the air at the end and a snap that one seems almost to
hear--a last effort, but which, judging by the bird's demeanour
afterwards, fails, as last efforts usually do.
A social feeling seems to pervade these hunting-scenes, a sort of "Have
_you_ got one? _I_ have. That bird over there's caught two" idea.
This may be imaginary, still the whole scene with its various little
incidents suggests it to one. The stone-curlew, therefore, besides his
more ordinary food of worms, slugs, and the like--I have seen him in
company with peewits, searching for worms, much as do thrushes on the
lawn--is likewise a runner down and "snapper up of" such "unconsidered
trifles" as moths and other insects on the wing. I had seen him chasing
them, indeed, long before I knew what he was doing, for I had connected
those sudden, racing runs--seen before from a long distance--with
something or other on the ground, imagining a fresh object for each
run. Often had I wondered, first at the eyesight of the bird, which
seemed to pierce the mystery of a worm or beetle at fifty or sixty
yards distance, and then at its apparent want of interest each time
it got to the place where it seemed to have located it. Really it had
but just lost sight of what it was pursuing, but aerial game had not
occurred to me, and the tell-tale spring into the air, which would have
explained all, had been absent on these occasions. I have called such
leaps "last efforts," but I am not quite sure if they are always the
last. More than once I have thought I have seen a stone-curlew rise
into the air from running after an insect, and continue the pursuit on
the wing. This is a point which I would not press, yet birds often act
out of their usual habits and assume those proper to other species. I
remember once towards the close of a fine afternoon, when the air was
peopled by a number of minute insects, and the stone-curlews had been
more than usually active in their chasings, a large flock of starlings
came down upon the warrens and began to behave much as they were doing,
running excitedly about in the same manner and evidently with the same
object. But what interested me especially was that they frequently
rose into the air, pursuing and, as I feel sure, often catching the
game there, turning and twisting about like fly-catchers, though with
less graceful movements. Often, too, whilst flying--fairly high--from
one part of the warrens to another, they would deflect their course
in order to catch an insect or two _en passant_. I observed this
latter action first, and doubted the motive, though it was strongly
suggested. After seeing the quite unmistakable fly-catcher actions I
felt more assured as to the other. Yet one may watch starlings for
weeks without seeing them pursue an insect in the air. Their usual
manner of feeding is widely different--viz. by repeatedly probing and
searching the ground with their sharp spear-like bills, as does a
snipe (with which bird they will sometimes feed side by side) with his
longer and more delicate one. This is well seen whilst watching them
on a lawn. They do not study to find worms lying in the holes and then
seize them suddenly as do thrushes and blackbirds. With them it is
"blind hookey"; each time the beak is thrust down into the grass it may
find something or it may not. The mandibles are all the time working
against each other, evidently searching and biting at the roots of the
grass, and at intervals, but generally somewhat long ones, they will be
withdrawn, holding within their grasp a large, greyish grub.
Returning to the stone-curlews. During the day, as I have said,
these birds are idle and lethargic--sitting about, dozing, often, or
sleeping--but as the air cools and the shadows fall, they rouse into
a glad activity, and coming down and spreading themselves over the
wide space of the warrens, they begin to run excitedly about, raising
and waving their wings, leaping into the air, and often making little
flights, or rather flittings, over the ground as a part of the disport.
As a part of it I say advisedly, for they do not stop and then fly, and
on alighting recommence, but the flight arises out of the wild waving
and running, and this is resumed, without a pause, as the bird again
touches the ground. All about now over the warrens their plaintive,
wailing notes are heard, notes that seem a part of the deepening gloom
and sad sky; for nature's own sadness seems to speak in the voice of
these birds. They swell and subside and swell again as they are caught
up and repeated in different places from one bird to another, and
often swell into a full chorus of several together. Deeper now fall
the shadows, "light thickens," till one catches, at last, only "dreary
gleams about the moorland," as now here, now there, the wings are
flung up--showing the lighter coloured inner surface--till gradually,
first one and then another, or by twos or threes or fours, the birds
fly off into the night, wailing as they go. But this note on the
wing is not the same as that uttered whilst running over the ground.
The ground-note is much more drawn out, and a sort of long, wailing
twitter--called the "clamour"--often precedes and leads up to the final
wail. In the air it comes just as a wail without this preliminary.
But it must not be supposed that all the birds perform these antics
simultaneously. If they did the effect would be more striking, but
it is generally only a few at a time over a wide space, or, at most,
some two or three together--as by sympathy--that act so. The eye does
not catch more than a few gleams--some three or four or five--of the
flung-up wings at one time over the whole space. It is a gleam here
and a gleam there in the deepening gloom. "Dreary gleams about the
moorland"--for warren, here, purples into moor and moor saddens into
warren--is, indeed, a line that exactly describes the effect.
These birds, then, stand or sit about during the day in their chosen
places of assemblage, and, if not occupied in catching insects or
preening themselves, they are dull and listless. But as the evening
falls and the air cools, they cast off their lassitude, think of the
joys of the night, there is dance and song for a little, and then forth
they fly. Sad and wailing as are their notes to our ears, they are no
doubt anything but so to the birds themselves, and as the accompaniment
of what seems best described by the word "dance" may, perhaps, fairly
be called "song." The chants of some savages whilst dancing, might
sound almost as sadly to us, pitched, as they would be, in a minor
key, and with little which we would call an air. Again, if one goes by
the bird's probable feelings, which may not be so dissimilar to the
savage's--or indeed to our own--on similar occasions "song" and "dance"
seems to be a legitimate use of words.
But whatever anyone may feel inclined to call this performance--"dance"
or "antics" or "display"--it varies very much in quality, being
sometimes so poor that it is difficult to use words about it without
seeming to exaggerate, and at other times so fine and animated, that
were the birds as large as ostriches, or even as the great bustard,
much would be said and written on the subject. Moreover, so many
variations and novelties and little personal incidents are to be
noticed on the different occasions, that any general description must
want something. I will therefore give a particular one of what I
witnessed one afternoon when the dancing was especially good. It was
about 5.30 when I got to the edge of the bracken, which to some extent
rings round the birds' place of assembly.
"A drizzling rain soon began, and this increased gradually, but not
beyond a smart drizzle. The birds, as though stimulated by the drops,
now began to come down from where they had been standing on the edge of
the amphitheatre, and to spread all over it till there were numbers of
them, and dancing of a more pronounced, or, at least, of a more violent
kind than I had yet seen, commenced. Otherwise it was quite the same,
but the extra degree of excitement made it much more interesting. It
was, in fact, remarkable and extraordinary. Running forward with wings
extended and slightly raised, a bird would suddenly fling them high up,
and then, as it were, _pitch_ about over the ground, waving and tossing
them, stopping short, turning, pitching forward again, leaping into the
air, descending and continuing, till, with another leap, it would make
a short eccentric flight low over the ground, coming down in a sharp
curve and then, at once, _même jeu_. I talk of their 'pitching' about,
because their movements seemed at times hardly under control, and, each
violent run or plunge ending, in fact, with a sudden pitch forward of
the body, the wings straggling about (often pointed forward over the
head) in an uncouth dislocated sort of way, the effect was as if the
birds were being blown about over the ground in a violent wind. They
seemed, in fact, to be crazy, and their sudden and abrupt return, after
a few mad moments, to propriety and decorum, had a curious, a bizarre
effect. Though having just seen them behave so, one seemed almost to
doubt that they had. One bird that had come to within a moderate
distance of me, made three little runs--advancing, retiring, and again
advancing--all the time with wings upraised and waving, then took a
short flight over the ground, describing the segment of a circle, and,
on alighting, continued as before. Half-a-dozen others were gathered
together under a solitary crab-apple tree--a rose in the desert--less
than 100 yards off, and both with the naked eye and the glasses I
observed them all thoroughly well. One of them would often run at or
pursue another with these antics. I saw one that was standing quietly,
caught and, as it were, covered up in a little storm of wings before it
could run away and begin waving its own.
[Illustration: _Dancing of Great Plovers in Autumn._]
"This and the general behaviour of the group makes it evident that the
birds are stimulated in their dance-antics by each other's presence.
For these little chases were in sport, clearly, not anger. Very
different is the action and demeanour of two birds about to fight. This
is by far the finest display of the sort that I have yet seen, and
must be due, I think, to the rain, which the birds obviously enjoyed.
They had been quite dull and listless before, but as soon as it fell
they spread themselves over the plateau, and the dancing began. It was
not only when the birds threw up their wings and, as one may say, let
themselves go, that they seemed excited. The constant quick running
and stopping whilst the wings were folded appeared to me to be a
part--the less excited part--of the general emotion out of which the
sudden frenzies arose. There was also the usual vocal accompaniment.
The wailing note went up, and was caught and repeated from one part to
another at greater or lesser intervals, the whole ending in flight as
before."
When I first saw these dances I thought that they arose out of
the excitement of the chase--that chase of moths or other insects
flying low over the ground which I have noticed--that they were
hunting-dances, in fact. I thought the motions of the wings were to
beat down the escaping quarry, and I confounded the little springs
and leaps into the air, arising out of the dance and being a part
of it, with those other ones made with a snap and an object not to
be mistaken; but I soon discovered my error. Insect-hunting is only
indulged in occasionally, when a wandering moth or so happens to fly
by. The general hunt which I have described was incident, I think, to
an unusually large number of insects in the air over the warrens, by
which not only a band of starlings--as before mentioned--was attracted,
but, afterwards, swallows and martins. On such occasions, dancing might
conceivably grow out of the excitement of the chase, so as to appear
a part of it, but though the two forms of excitement may sometimes
intermingle, the tendency would probably be for the one to diminish and
interfere with the other. At any rate, almost every dance which I have
witnessed has been a dance pure and simple.
What, then, is the meaning of this dancing, of these strange little
sudden gusts of excitement arising each day at about the same time
and lasting till the birds fly away? We have here a social display as
distinct from a nuptial or sexual one, for it is in the autumn that
these assemblages of the great plovers take place, after the breeding
is all over; the deportment of the courting or paired birds towards
each other--their nuptial antics--is of a different character. With
birds, as with men, all outward action must be the outcome of some
mental state. What kind of mental excitement is it which causes the
stone-curlews to behave every evening in this mad, frantic way? I
believe that it is one of expectancy and making ready, that these odd
antics--the mad running and leaping and waving of the wings--give
expression to the anticipation of going and desire to be gone which
begins to possess the birds as evening falls. They are the prelude to,
and they end in, flight. The two, in fact, merge into each other, for
short flights grow out of the tumblings over the ground, and it is
impossible to say when one of these may not be continued into the full
flight of departure. They are a part of the dance, and, as such, the
birds may almost be said to dance off. Surely in actions which lead
directly up to any event there must be an idea, an anticipation of it,
nor can the idea of departure exist in a bird's mind (hardly, perhaps,
in a man's) except in connection with what it is departing for--food,
namely, in this case, a banquet. So when I say that these birds "think
of the joys of the night" need this be merely a figure? May it not be
true that they do so and dance forth each night, to their joy?
I have said that the social or autumn antics of the
stone-curlews--their dances, as I have called them, using the usual
phraseology--are distinct from the nuptial or courting ones which they
indulge in in the spring. These latter are of a different character
altogether, but much more interesting to see than they are easy to
describe. The birds are now paired, or in process of becoming so, and
it is fashionable for two of them to walk side by side, and very close
together, with little gingerly steps, as though "keeping company."
They seem very much _en rapport_ with each other--_sehr einig_ as the
Germans would say--also to have a mutual sense of their own and each
other's importance, of the seemly and becoming nature of what they are
doing, and (this above all) of the great value of deportment. Something
there is about them--now even more than at other times--very odd,
quaint, old-world, old-fashioned. The last best describes it; they are
old-fashioned birds. Were the world occupied in watching them, and were
they occasionally to over-hear themselves being talked about, they
would catch that word as often as did little Paul Dombey.
Whilst watching a couple walking side by side in this way that I have
described, one of them may be seen to bend stiffly forward till the
beak just touches the ground, the tail and after part of the body being
elevated in the air. The other stands by, and appears both interested
in and edified by the performance, and when it is over both walk on
as before. Or a bird may be seen to act thus whilst walking alone,
upon which another will come running from some distance towards it, as
though answering to a summons or to some quite irresistible form of
appeal. Upon coming close up to the rigid bird this other one stops,
and turning suddenly, but also setly and rigidly, round, makes a
curious little run away from it with lowered head and precise formal
steps, full of a peculiar gravity and importance. Having thus played
his part he again stops, and, standing idly about, seems lapsed into
indifference. Meanwhile, the rigid one having remained in its set
attitude for some little time longer at length comes out of it, and
advancing with the same little picked, careful, gingerly steps that
I have noticed, before long assumes it again, and then, relaxing,
crouches low on the ground as though incubating. Having remained thus
for a minute or two it rises and stands at ease. "A third bird now
appears upon the scene (for this, I must say, was a little witnessed
drama), advancing towards the two. As he approaches, one of them--the
one which has run up in response to the appeal, and which I take to be
the male--becomes uneasy as recognising a rival. He first either runs
or walks (the pace, though it may be quick, is solemn) to the female,
and makes her some kind of bow or obeisance of a very formal nature.
Then, straightening and turning, he instantly becomes a different bird,
so changed is his appearance. He is now drawn up to his full height,
with the head thrown a little back, the tail is fanned out into the
shape of a scallop-shell (looking very pretty), the broad, rounded end
of which just touches the ground at the centre, and thus 'set,' as
it were, for action, he advances upon the intruding bird with quick
little stilty steps, prepared, evidently, to do battle. The would-be
rival, however, retreats before this display, and the accepted suitor,
having followed him thus for some little way--not rushing upon him
or forcing a combat, but more as gravely and seriously prepared for
one--turns and with his former formal pace goes back to his hen." Or
shall we not, rather, say to his Dulcinea del Toboso? for never does
this strange, gaunt, solemn, punctilious-looking bird, with the tall
figure and the strain of madness in the great glaring eyes, more remind
one--fancifully--of Cervantes' creation than now. Surely in that formal
approach and deep reverence to his mistress, before entering upon
this, perhaps, his first "emprise," we have the very figure and high
courteous action of the knight, and seem almost to hear those words
of his spoken on a similar occasion: "Acorredme, señora mia, en esta
primera afrenta que a este vuestro avasallado pecho se le ofrece; no me
desfallezca en este primera trance vuestro favor y amparo." ("Sustain
me, lady mine, in this first insult offered to your captive knight.
Fail me not with your favour and countenance in this my first emprise.")
[Illustration: _Great Plovers: A Nuptial Pose._]
In the above case it was, presumably, the female bird who assumed
the curious rigid attitude, with the tail raised and head stooped
forward to the ground. The attitude, however, assumed by the male,
which I have described as a bow or obeisance--and, indeed, it has this
appearance--was much of the same nature, if it was not precisely the
same, and as far as I have been able to observe, none of the many and
very singular attitudes and posturings in which these birds indulge are
peculiar to either sex. At any rate, that one which would seem _par
excellence_ to appertain to courtship or matrimony, and which is often
(as it was in the instance I am about to give) immediately followed
by the actual pairing of the birds, is common to both the male and
the female. The following will show this:--"A bird which has for some
time been sitting now rises and shakes itself a little, presenting,
as it does so, a very 'mimsy' and 'borogovy' appearance (for which
adjectives, with descriptive plate, see 'Through the Looking-Glass').
It then begins uttering that long, thin, 'shrilling' sound, which
goes so far and pierces the ear so pleasantly. This is answered by a
similar cry, quite near, and I now see, for the first time, another
bird advancing quickly to the calling one, who also advances to meet
it. They approach each other, and standing side by side, with, perhaps,
a foot between them, but looking different ways, each in the direction
in which it has been advancing, both of them assume, at the same time,
a particular and very curious posture, worth waiting days to see. First
they draw themselves tall-ly up on their long, yellow, stilt-like
legs, then curving the neck with a slow and formal motion, they bend
the head downwards--yet still holding it at a height--and stop thus,
set and rigid, the beak pointing to the ground. Having stood like
this for some seconds, they assume the normal attitude. This wonderful
pose, conceived and made in a vein of stiff formality, but to which
the great, glaring, yellow eye gives a look of wildness, almost of
insanity, has in it, both during its development and when its acme has
been reached, something quite _per se_, and in vain to describe. But
again one is reminded of what is past and old-fashioned, of chivalry
and knight-errantry, of scutcheons and heraldic devices, of Don Quixote
and the Baron of Bradwardine."
It is not only when two birds are by themselves that these or other
attitudes are assumed. They will often break out, so to speak, amongst
three or four birds running or chasing each other about. All at once
one will stop, stiffen into one of them--that especially where the head
is lowered till the beak touches, or nearly touches, the ground--and
remain so for a formal period. But all such runnings and chasings are,
at this time, but a part of the business of pairing, and one divines at
once that such attitudes are of a sexual character. The above are a few
of the gestures or antics of the great plover or stone-curlew during
the spring. I have seen others, but either they were less salient, or,
owing to the great distance, I was not able to taste them properly,
for which reason, and on account of space, I will not further dwell
upon them. What I would again draw attention to, as being, perhaps, of
interest, is that here we have a bird with distinct nuptial (sexual)
and social (non-sexual) forms of display or antics, and that the former
as well as the latter are equally indulged in by both sexes.
[Illustration]