Watching Ringed Plovers, Redshanks, Peewits, etc.
The pretty little ring-plover (_Ægialitis kiaticola_) belongs properly
to the sea-shore, but he haunts and breeds inland also, and is
especially the companion of the stone-curlew over the stony, sandy
wastes that they both love so well. These little birds have both a
nuptial flight and a courting action on the ground. In the former a
pair will keep crossing and recrossing as they scud about, or they
will sweep towards and then away from each other in the softest and
prettiest manner imaginable, or each will sweep first up to a height
and then swiftly down again and skim quite low along the ground, thus
delighting the eye with the contrast. Their flight is all in graceful
sweeps, for even when they beat the air with their slender, pointed
pinions, it is rather as though they kissed than beat it, and they
seem all the while to be sweeping on without effort, so soft is their
motion. Another salient feature is the varied direction of their
flight, for though this is in wide, spacious circles around their
chosen home, yet within this free limit they set their sails to all
points of the compass, veering from one to another with so joyous a
motion, each change seems an ecstasy--as indeed it is to behold. Their
mode of alighting on the ground after flight is very pretty, for they
do so as if they meant to continue flying. Sometimes the wings are
still raised, still make their little spear-points in the air as they
softly stop; or the bird will hold them drooped and but half-spread,
and skim like this, just above the ground. At once he is on it, but
there has been no jerk, no pause. He has been smooth in abruptness:
settling suddenly, there has been no sudden motion. These things are as
magic,--they are, and yet they cannot be. It is a contradiction, yet it
has taken place.
In formal courtship on the ground "the male approaches the female with
head and neck drawn up above the usual height, so that he presents for
her consideration a broader and fuller frontage of throat and breast
than upon ordinary occasions. He does not raise or otherwise disport
with his wings, but through the glasses one can see that his little
legs--which now that he is more upright are less invisible--are being
moved in a rapid vibratory manner, whilst he himself seems to be
trembling, quivering with excitement. The motion of the legs does not
belong to the gait, for the bird stands still whilst making it, and
then advances a few steps at a time, with little pauses between each
advance, during which the legs are quivered." The legs of the ringed
plover are of a fine orange colour, and the male's drawing himself up
so as to display them more fully, and then moving them quickly in this
way before the female, suggests that they are appreciated by her. But
it is not only the legs that are thus well exhibited. By drawing up the
head, the throat, in which soft pure white and velvet black are boldly
and richly contrasted, as well as the little smudged pug face and the
bright orange-yellow bill, are all shown off to advantage.
The wings, however, in the instance which I observed and noted at the
time, were kept closed. I can hardly think this is always the case.
If it is, it may be because, though pretty enough--indeed lovely to
an appreciative human eye--they yet do not in their colouring present
anything like so bold and salient an appearance as the parts mentioned,
with the display of which they might, perhaps, interfere, though I
confess I do not think they would.
With the redshank this is different, for "the redshank, when standing
with wings folded, is a very plain-looking bird, the whole of the
upper surface being of a drabby brown colour, and the under parts not
being seen to advantage. But as he rises in flight all is changed,
for the inner surface of his wings--with, in a less degree, the whole
under part of his body--are of a delicate, soft, silky white, looking
silvery, almost, as the light falls upon it and causes it to gleam.
This, with an upper quill-margin of bolder white on the wings, which,
when they are closed, is concealed, now catches the eye, and the bird
passes from insignificance into something almost distinguished, like
a homely face flashing into beauty by virtue of a smile and fine
eyes." Now the male redshank, when courting the female, makes the
most of his wings, whilst at the same time moving his legs--which are
coloured, as his name implies--in the same manner as does the ringed
plover. He did so at any rate in the following instance. "The male
bird, walking up to the female, raises his wings gracefully above his
back. They are considerably elevated, and for a little he holds them
thus aloft merely, but soon, drooping them to about half their former
elevation, he flutters them tremulously and gracefully as though to
please her. She, however, turned from him, walks on, appearing to be
busy in feeding. The male takes, or affects to take, little notice of
this repulse. He pecks about, as feeding too, but in a moment or so
walks up to the hen again, and now, raising his wings to the fluttering
height only, flutters them tremulously as before. She walks on a few
steps and stops. He again approaches and, standing beside her (both
being turned the same way), with his head and neck as it were curved
over her, again trembles his wings, at the same time making a little
rapid motion with his red legs on the ground, as though he were walking
fast, yet not advancing." Now here (and this, if I remember, was the
case with the ringed plovers also) the female did not appear to take
much notice of the male bird's behaviour. She was turned away and,
for some time, feeding. But it must not be forgotten that the eyes
of most birds are not set frontally in the head as are ours, but on
each side of it, so that their range of clear vision must be very much
wider, probably including all parts except directly behind them. They
also turn the head about with the greatest ease, and the slightest
turn must be very effective. They would, therefore, often see quite
plainly whilst appearing to us not to be noticing, and that the female
should get the general effect of the male's display is all that is
required by the theory of sexual selection--as conceived by Darwin.
Darwin has expressly said that he does not imagine that the female
birds consciously pick out the most adorned or best-displaying males,
but only that such males have a more exciting effect upon them, which
leads, practically, to their being selected. But though he has said
this, it seems hardly ever to be remembered by the opponents of his
view who, in combating it, almost always raise a picture of birds
critically observing patterns and colours, as we might stuffs in a
shop. However, having regard to the bower-birds, and especially that
species which makes an actual flower garden, even this does not seem so
absolutely impossible. The fact is, we are too conceited. With regard
to the female bird sometimes, as here, keeping turned from the male
while thus courted by him, this is, I think, capable of explanation in
a way not hostile but favourable to the theory of sexual selection. At
any rate, in both these instances, "_il faut rendre à cela_" either
was, or seemed to be, the final conclusion of the female.
As the nuptial season approaches, the peewits begin to "stand," singly
or in pairs, about the low, marshy land, or to fly "coo-ee-ing" over
it. "Coo-oo-oo, hook-a-coo-ee, coo-ee," is their cry, far more, to
my ear, resembling this than the sound "pee-weet" or "pee-wee-eet,"
as imitated in their name. At intervals one or another of them
will make its peculiar throw or somersault in the air. This, in its
completest form, is a wonderful thing to behold, though so familiar
that no attention is paid to it. The bird in full flight--in a rushing
torrent of sound and motion--may be seen to partially close the wings,
and fall plumb as though it had been shot. In a moment or two, but
often not before there has been a considerable drop, the wings are
again partially extended, and the bird turns right head over heels.
Then, sweeping buoyantly upwards, sometimes almost from the ground,
it continues its flight as before. Such a tumble as this is a fine
specimen. They are not all so abrupt and dramatic, but there is one
point common to them all, which is the impossibility of saying exactly
how the actual somersault is thrown. Do these tumblings add to the
charm of the peewit's flight? To the charm, perhaps; certainly to the
wonder and interest, but hardly (unless we are never to criticise
nature) to the grace. The contrast is too great, there is something of
violence, almost of buffoonery, about it. It is as though the clown
came tumbling right into the middle of the transformation scene.
As the birds sweep about, they begin to enter into their bridal dances,
pursuing each other with devious flight, pausing, hanging stationary
with flapping wings one just above the other, then sweeping widely
away in opposite directions. Shortly afterwards they are again flying
side by side, or the sun, "in a wintry smile," catches both the white
breasts as they make a little coquettish dart at each other. Then
again they separate, and again the joyous "coo-oo-oo, hook-a-coo-ee,
coo-ee" flits with them over marsh and moor. Sometimes a bird will
come flying alone, somewhat low over the ground, in a hurrying manner,
very fast, and making a sound with the wings, as they beat the air,
which is almost like the puffing of an engine--indeed, one may easily,
sometimes, imagine a train in the distance. As one watches him thus
scudding along, tilting himself as ever, now on one side, now on
another, all at once he will give a sharp turn as if about to make one
of his wide, sweeping circles, but almost instantly he again reverses,
and sweeps on in the same direction as before. This trick adds very
much to the appearance, if not to the reality, of speed, for the
smooth, swift sweep, close following the little abrupt twist back,
contrasts with it and seems the more fast-gliding in comparison. Or
one will fly in quick, small circles, several times repeated, a little
above the spot where he intends to alight, descending, at last, in the
very centre of his air-drawn girdle with wonderful buoyancy.
A hooded crow now flies over the marsh, and is pursued by first one
and then another of the peewits. There is little combination, nor does
there seem much of anger. It is more like a sport or a practical joke.
It is curious that the crow's flight has taken the character of the
peewit's, for they sweep upwards and downwards together, seeming like
master and pupil. I have never seen a crow fly so, uninfluenced, and
this, again, gives an amicable appearance. I have seen a peewit make
continual sweeps down at a hen pheasant as she stood in a wheat-field,
striking at her each time with its wings, in the air, obviously not
in play but in earnest. The pheasant dodged, or tried to dodge, each
time, and this lasted some while. Here it seems very different; and
now again a compact little flock of peewits is flying backwards and
forwards over the river with a hooded crow--not the same bird but
another--right amongst them. This continues for some little time, till
the peewits go down on the margin, and the crow then flies into a
tree hard by. After a little interval the peewits fly off again, and
almost directly the crow is with them, and again they fly backwards
and forwards over the water, for some time, as before. And again I
note--and this time it is still more marked and unmistakable--that the
crow is flying amongst the peewits exactly as they fly. At least he is
speaking French with them "after ye school of Stratford--at-y-Bow," for
who flies _exactly_ like a peewit _but_ a peewit? But he sweeps with
them--now upwards, now downwards--in smooth, gliding sweeps, a curious,
rusty-looking, black and grey patch in the midst of their gleaming
greens and whites. Yet he is a handsome bird too, is the hooded crow,
but not when he flies with peewits. Now the peewits again go down, and
the crow straightway flies into another tree. Shortly afterwards, a
moor-hen, feeding on the grass, is hustled by one of the peewits into
the water. Here, again, hostility was evident, whereas with the crow I
could see no trace of it. He seemed to be enjoying himself, whilst the
peewits, on their part, showed no objection to his company.
[Illustration: _Master and Pupil: Hooded-Crow flying with Peewits._]
"Late in the afternoon there is a pause and hush. The birds have ceased
flying till dusk, and are either standing still or walking over the
ground. One I can see motionless amidst the brown, tufted grass. No,
not quite motionless. Ever and anon there comes the strained, grating
call-note of another peewit, and then this one rears up the body and
jerks the head a little back, then jerks it flexibly forward again. At
first he does this in silence, but soon answering the cry. You see the
thin little black bill divide as he bobs, and the sound comes out of it
as though drawn by a wire--so roopy and raspy is it. Now he can contain
himself no longer, but begins to walk about through the grass, making a
devious course, and uttering the call at intervals. Very different is
this note from the joyous, musical 'coo-oo-oo, hook-a-coo-ee, coo-ee.'
Still, it is in harmony with nature, with the stillness, the sadness,
the loneliness. This standing or pacing about whilst calling roopily,
and, as it were, in a stealthy manner to each other, should be a very
prosaic affair, one would think, for a pair of peewits after such
glorious flying, but, no doubt, there is some excitement in it. Perhaps
it is thought a little fast, as some slow things with us are, and hence
the peculiar charm.
"Now these two birds are standing lazily on two of the black molehills
which are all about the marshy land--some of them of a size beyond
one's comprehension--and making the wire-drawn cry at intervals to each
other. Lazily they stand, lazily they utter it, and seem as though they
had taken up their roosting-place for the night. But when the night
falls they will be hurrying shadows in it, and their cries will come
out of the darkness, mingling with the bleatings of the snipe."
There is a sameness and yet a constant difference in the aerial sports
and evolutions of peewits. It is like a continual variation of the
same air or a recurrent thread of melody winding itself through a
labyrinth of ever-changing notes. Parts of the melody are where two
skim low over the ground in rapid pursuit of each other. One settles,
the other skims on, then makes a great upward sweep, turns, sweeps down
and back again, again rises, turns and sweeps again, and so on, rising
and falling over the same wide space with the regular motions and long
rushing swing of a pendulum. Each time it comes rushing down upon the
bird that has settled, and each time, at the right moment, this one
makes a little ascension towards it, sometimes floating above it as it
passes, sometimes beneath, alighting again immediately afterwards. This
may continue for some little time, the one bird passing backwards and
forwards over or under the other as long as he is received in the same
way. Gradually, however, these little sorties against him from being at
first hardly more than balloon-jumps--springs with aid of wings--become
more and more prolonged, and extended outwards into his own radius of
flight. The bird making them no longer alights in the same or nearly
the same place as where he went up, but farther and farther away from
it, the figure is lost, or becomes indistinct, "as water is in water,"
till at last the two are flying and chasing each other again.
This upward sweep from near the ground--sometimes from nearly touching
it--with its attendant sweep back again, is one of the greatest
beauties of the peewit's flight--a flight that is full of beauties. He
does it often, but not always in quite the same way; it is a varying
perfection, for each time it is perfect, and sometimes it seems to vie
with almost any aerial master-stroke. The bird's wings, as it shoots
aloft, are spread half open, and remain thus without being moved at
all. The body is turned sideways--sometimes more, sometimes less--and
the light glancing on the pure soft white of the under part, makes it
look like the crest of foam on an invisible and swiftly-moving wave.
As the uprush attains its zenith, there is a lovely, soft, effortless
curling over of the body, and the foam sinks again with the wave. Such
motions are not flight, they are passive abandonings and givings-up-to,
driftings on unseen currents, bird-swirls and feathered eddies in the
thin ocean of the air. It is, I think, the cessation of all effort
on the bird's part which makes the great loveliness here. The impetus
has been gained in flight before--acres of moorland away sometimes--it
"cometh from afar." The upward fall, the delicious, crested curl and
soft, sinking swoon to the earth are all rest--rhythmical, swift-moving
rest.
Another curious and extremely pretty performance--a familiar bar of
that thread of melody, that "main theme" of the "movement"--is when two
birds, one just a little behind the other, and at slightly different
elevations, both make the same movements, in quick succession, the
bird behind mimicking the one in front of him in a kind of aerial
follow-my-leadership. Does the one pause and hang on extended wings
that rapidly beat the air, the other does so too. Does it sail on a
little, and then make a sideway dive, it is imitated in the same way,
and thus, often for quite a little while, the two will understudy each
other--for each, I think, may alternately become the leader. Again--if
this is not merely a development of the above--two of them will hover
on outstretched wings directly over and almost touching each other.
Sometimes, indeed, they do touch, for the bird that is stretched above
is continually trying to strike down on the other one with his wings,
and often succeeds by making a sudden little drop on to him--a drop
which is only of an inch or so--quite covering him up for a moment.
Then, disjoining, they will flap along for some while, still close
together, flashing out alternately dark and silver, as if showing their
glints to each other, till in two "dying falls" they sweep apart, and
skim the ground and double-loop the heavens.
When peewits seem thus to battle together with their wings, in the air,
it may well be that they are really fighting, in which case we may
perhaps assume that they are two males, and not male and female. But as
what I shall have to say with regard to the stock-dove on this point
may be applied to the peewit, and as I have better evidence in the case
of the former bird, I will not dwell on it longer here.
But the question arises whether in many other cases, when the sporting
birds would seem to be male and female, this is really the case. One
is apt to think so at first, but when one sees, often, a third bird
associate itself with a pair who are thus behaving, and join for a
little in their antics, or when one of a pair desisting and alighting
on the ground, the other continues to sport in precisely the same way
with another bird, or when, again, the supposed lovers become two
of a small flock or band, and all sport thus together, crossing and
intermingling till they again separate: one must suppose that these
evolutions, though they may be mostly of a nuptial character, are not
sexual in the strictest sense of the term, but that the social element
enters more or less largely into them. But amongst savages there are,
I believe (if not, let us imagine that there are), dances, the theme
of which is marriage, where sometimes men, sometimes women, sometimes
men and women, dance together, all having in their mind the primitive
ideas suggested by that great institution, men thinking of women, women
of men, under every kind of grouping. One may suppose it to be thus
with the peewits, as they sport with one another in the air during the
nuptial season, in which case the social and sexual elements would be
a changing and varying factor. One may say, indeed, that there can be
no sexual sport or play into which the social element does not also,
and necessarily, enter. This is, no doubt, true, strictly speaking, but
the latter may be so merged in the former that practically it does not
exist.
Some of the peewits' nuptial and non-aerial bizarreries are of this
nature, but as they are peculiar, and seem to stand in some relation
to another great class of avian activities, I shall reserve them for a
future chapter.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]