Watching Shags and Guillemots
I have referred once or twice before to the cormorant (including under
this title the shag), and once to the guillemot. In this chapter I
shall treat of both these birds a little more at large, for in the
first place they are salient amongst sea fowl, giving a distinctive
character to the wild places that they haunt, and secondly, I have
watched them closely and patiently. Both are interesting, and the
cormorant especially has a winning and amiable character, which I shall
the more enjoy bringing before the public because I think that up to
the present scant justice has been done to it. Something, perhaps, of
the wild and fierce attaches to the popular idea of this bird, due,
no doubt, both to its appearance, which has in it something dark and
evil-looking, and to the stern, wild scenery of rock and sea with which
this is in consonance, and by which it is emphasised. Perhaps the mere
name even, which has by no means a harmless sound, has something to do
with it.
"As with its wings aslant
Sails the fierce cormorant
Seeking some rocky haunt,"
says Longfellow--lines which, to me at least, call up a graphic picture
of the bird, though I do not know that the first contains anything
which is specially characteristic of it; and Milton has recorded--as
we may, perhaps, assume--the way in which its uncouth shape appealed
to him by making it that which his grand angel-devil chooses, on one
occasion, to assume. On another one, it may be remembered, Satan takes
for his purposes the form of a toad, and on each, no doubt, the poet,
who never appears to yield to the strong temptation (as one would
imagine) of loving his great creation, has intended to convey a general
idea of fitness and symbolical similarity as between the disguised
being and the disguise taken.
It has been conjectured that the habit which the cormorant has of
standing for a length of time with its wings spread out and loosely
drooping, suggested to Milton its appropriateness, and certainly there
is an o'er-brooding, possession-taking appearance in this attitude of
the bird, in keeping with the ideas which may be supposed to reign in
Satan's breast as he looks down from the high tree of life upon the
garden of Eden and its two newly created inhabitants. Independently of
this, however, the bird, as it stands in its ordinary posture, firmly
poised, the body not quite upright but inclined somewhat forward, with
the curved neck and strong hooked beak thrown into bold relief--the
dark webbed feet grasping firmly on the rock--has in it something
suggestive both of power and evil, which may well have struck Milton,
as it must, I think, anyone who is appreciative and either not an
ornithologist or who, if he is one, will suppress for the time being
his special scientific knowledge and _se laisser prendre aux choses_,
as did the less (falsely) critical portion of Moliere's audiences.
For, whatever the cormorant may look, he is in reality--except from
the fish's point of view, which is, no doubt, a strong one--both a
very innocent and, as I have said, a very amiable bird. He shines
particularly in scenes of quiet domestic happiness--in the home circle
both giving and receiving affection--and it is in this light that the
following pictures will for the most part reveal him. I must premise
that they all refer to that smaller and handsomer species of our two
cormorants adorned with a crest, and whose plumage is all of a deep
glossy, glancing green, called the shag. If I speak of him sometimes
by his family name, it is because he has a clear right to it, and also
because it has a more pleasing sound than the one which distinguishes
him specifically. The habits of the two birds are almost the same, if
not quite identical. They fish together in the sea, stand together on
the rocks, and in the earlier stages of its plumage the more ornate
one closely resembles the other in its permanent dress. One might
think that they were not merely the co-descendants of a common and
now extinct ancestor, but the modified form and its actual living
progenitor. But I am aware of the arguments which could be used against
such a conclusion.
I will now give my observations as taken down at the time, and should
they be thought minute to the point of tediousness, I can only in
extenuation plead the title of this book, whilst assuring the reader,
that however it may lie between us two, the bird, at any rate, is in no
way to blame.
_Courtship, love-making._--"The way in which the male cormorant makes
love to the female is as follows:--Either at once from where he stands,
or after first waddling a step or two, he makes an impressive jump or
hop towards her, and stretching his long neck straight up, or even a
little backwards, he at the same time throws back his head so that it
is in one line with it, and opens his beak rather widely. In a second
or so he closes it, and then he opens and shuts it again several times
in succession, rather more quickly. Then he sinks forward with his
breast on the rock, so that he lies all along it, and fanning out his
small, stiff tail, bends it over his back whilst at the same time
stretching his head and neck backwards towards it, till with his beak
he sometimes seizes and, apparently, plays with the feathers. In this
attitude he may remain for some seconds more or less, having all the
while a languishing or ecstatic expression, after which he brings his
head forward again, and then repeats the performance some three or
four or, perhaps, half-a-dozen times. This would seem to be the full
courting display, the complete figure so to speak, but it is not always
fully gone through. It may be acted part at a time. The first part,
commencing with the hop--the _simple aveu_ as it may be called--is not
always followed by the ecstasy in the recumbent posture, and the last
is still more often indulged in without this preliminary, whilst the
bird is sitting thus upon the rock. Again, a bird whilst standing,
but not quite erect, will dart his head forward and upward, and make
with his bill as though snapping at insects in the air. Then, after a
second or two, he will throw his head back till it touches or almost
touches the centre of his back, and whilst at the same time opening and
shutting the beak, communicate a quick vibratory motion to the throat.
It looks as though he were executing a trill or doing the _tremulo_ so
loved of Italian singers, of which, however, there is no vocal evidence.
"When the male bird makes the great pompous hop up to the female, and
then, after the preliminaries that I have described, falls prone in
front of her, he is, so to speak, at her feet; but by throwing his head
backwards he gets practically farther off, nor can he well see her
whilst staring up into the sky behind him, which is what he appears to
be doing. Thus the first warmth of the situation is a little chilled,
and on the stage we should call it an uncomfortable distance. The
female shag seems to think so too, for all that she does--that is to
say, all that I have then seen her do--is to stand and look about,
conduct which, as it is uninteresting, we may perhaps assume to be
correct. But when the antics begin, as one may say, from the second
figure, the male not rising from his recumbent position (a quite usual
one) on the rock to make the first display, the bird towards whom his
attentions are directed will often be standing behind him, and it then
appears as if he had brought back his head in order to gaze up at her
_con expressione_. In this case she, on her part, will sometimes
cosset the feathers of his throat or neck with the tip of her hooked
bill, a courtesy which you see him acknowledge by sundry little pleased
movings of his head to one side and to another. It must, however, be
understood that when I say it is the male bird who thus pays his court
to the female, I am only inferring that this is the case. There was
nothing beyond likelihood and analogy to guide me in what I saw, and
from some subsequent observations I have reason to think that these
antics are common to both sexes. As a rule, however, one may safely
assume that the bird which in such matters both takes the initiative
and does so in a very decided manner, is the male."
I will add that the waddling step with which the male bird (as I
believe) approaches the female may become quickened and exaggerated
into a sort of shuffling dance. But I only use the word "dance,"
because I can think of no slighter, yet sufficient, one. It is not, I
should imagine, intentional, but only the result of nervous excitement.
[Illustration: _Love on a Rock: Shags During the Breeding Season._]
These seem to be odd antics, but it is in the nature of antics to be
odd, and when such a bird as a cormorant indulges in them one may
expect something more than ordinarily peculiar. The hop, however,
which is very pronounced, is not confined to such occasions, but is
made to alternate with the customary waddle when the bird is moving
about on the rocks, and especially when getting up on to any low ledge
or projection. I do not know of any other British bird which adopts
this recumbent position in courtship, but this is just what the male
ostrich does, as I have over and over again seen. He first pursues
the hen, who flies before him, and then, having followed her for a
short distance, flings himself down, throws back his head upon his back
and rolls from side to side, each time slowly passing the splendid
white feathers of first one and then another wing over the velvet
black plumage of his body, by which, of course, they are shown to the
very best advantage. The hen commonly stops whilst he is doing this,
and may be supposed to pay some attention, but as to the amount, as I
write from memory after many years, I will not here express an opinion.
After a while the male bird rises, again pursues the hen, again flings
himself down, and this is continued for a greater or lesser number of
times, till either he gives up the chase, or the two have come to a
thorough understanding. When thus rolling with wings spread out and
head thrown back upon himself the bird is in a kind of ecstasy, and it
is easy to go right up to him--as I have myself done--and seize him by
the neck before he becomes aware of one's presence.
These antics therefore--though in a bird so different as the
ostrich[14]--bear a considerable resemblance to those of the shag,
though the latter does not at any time make use of his wings. This,
again, is interesting, for there is nothing specially handsome in the
wings of a cormorant. The crest, however, is conspicuous as the head
is flung up, and by the opening of the bill, which is a very marked
feature, the brilliant yellow gule which matches in colour the naked
outer skin at the base of the mandibles becomes plainly visible. This
habit of opening the bill as it were _at_ each other I have remarked
in several sea-birds, and also that in all or most of these cases the
interior part thus disclosed is brightly or, at least, pleasingly
coloured.
[14] Having been led to speak of the ostrich, I will take this
opportunity of challenging the statement to be met with in several
works of standing, that the male bird alone performs the duties of
incubation. I have lived on an ostrich-farm and (unless I am dreaming)
ridden round it every afternoon in order to feed the hens, who had till
then been sitting on the eggs, and were often still to be seen so doing.
_Bathing._--But whether the following be bathing or a kind of aquatic
exercise either of or not of the nature of sexual display, I will leave
to the reader to decide. Birds which live habitually in the water do
yet bathe, I believe, in the proper sense of the word.
"The cormorant, when bathing, raises himself a little out of the water
whilst still maintaining a horizontal position, and in this attitude,
supported as it would seem on the feet, he commences violently to beat
the sea with his wings, moving also the tail and, I think, treading
down with the feet upon the water. The sea is soon beaten all into
foam, and when he has accomplished this, desisting, he begins to sport
about in the whiteness of it in an odd excited manner, making little
turns and darts and often being just submerged, but no more. He does
this for a few minutes, stops, and commences again after a short
interval, and thus continues alternately sporting and resting for a
quarter of an hour or, perhaps, even as long as half-an-hour. I think
this must be bathing or washing, for other birds act in the same way,
though less markedly, so that it does not occur to one to wonder what
they are about. The little black guillemot, for instance, beats the
water briskly and rapidly with his wings, but whereas the cormorant
beats it into foam so that it looks like the wake of a steamer, he
raises only a little silvery sprinkling of spray, for he but just flips
the surface of it with the tips of his quill feathers. All the while
his little, upturned, fanned tail keeps waggle-waggling, but this, too,
acts more like a light shuttlecock than a powerful screw. Nor does he
dip so much or make such violent motions as of a mad water-dance. The
cormorant's performance is strong--an epic. His is lyrical rather. No
lofty genius but a pretty little minor poet is the black guillemot, and
after each little water-verselet he rises pleasedly and gives his wings
an applausive little shake. You might think he was clapping them--and
himself."
_Gargoyle idylls._--"Now I have found a nest with the bird on it, to
see and watch. It was on a ledge, and just within the mouth of one of
those long, narrowing, throat-like caverns into and out of which the
sea with all sorts of strange, sullen noises licks like a tongue. The
bird, who had seen me, continued for a long time afterwards to crane
about its long neck from side to side or up and down over the nest, in
doing which it had a very demoniac appearance, suggesting some evil
being in its dark abode, or even the principle of evil itself. As it
was impossible for me to watch it without my head being visible over
the edge of the rock I was on, I collected a number of loose flat
stones that lay on the turf above, and, at the cost of a good deal of
time and labour, made a kind of wall or sconce with loopholes in it,
through which I could look, yet be invisible. Presently the bird's mate
came flying into the cavern, and wheeling up as it entered, alighted
on a sloping slab of the rock just opposite to the nest. For a little
both birds uttered low, deep, croaking notes in weird unison with the
surroundings and the sad sea-dirges, after which they were silent for a
considerable time, the one standing and the other sitting on the nest
_vis-à-vis_ to each other. At length the former, which I have no doubt
was the male, hopped across the slight space dividing them on to the
nest, which was a huge mass of seaweed. There were now some more deep
sounds and then, bending over the female bird, the male caressed her by
passing the hooked tip of his bill through the feathers of her head and
neck, which she held low down the better to permit of this. Afterwards
the two sat side by side together on the nest.
"The whole scene was a striking picture of affection between these
dark, wild birds in their lonely, wave-made home.
"Here was love unmistakable, between so strange a pair and in so wild
a spot. But to them it was the sweetest of bowers. How snug, how cosy
they were on that great wet heap of 'the brown seaweed,' just in the
dark jaws of that gloom-filled cavern, with the frowning precipice
above and the sullen-heaving sea beneath. Here in this gloom, this
wildness, this stupendousness of sea and shore, beneath grey skies
and in chilling air, here was peace, here was comfort, conjugal love,
domestic bliss, the same flame burning in such strange gargoyle-shaped
forms amidst all the shagginess of nature. The scene was full of charm,
full of poetry, more so, as it struck me, than most love-scenes in
most plays and novels--having regard, of course, to the _prodigious_
majority of the bad ones.
"The male bird now flies out to sea again, and after a time returns
carrying a long piece of brown seaweed in his bill. This he delivers
to the female, who takes it from him and deposits it on the heap, as
she sits. Meanwhile, the male flies off again, and again returns with
more seaweed, which he delivers as before, and this he does eight times
in the space of one hour and forty minutes, diving each time for the
seaweed with the true cormorant leap. Sometimes the sitting bird, when
she takes the seaweed from her mate, merely lets it drop on the heap,
but at others she places and manipulates it with some care. All takes
place in silence for the most part, but on some of the visits the heads
are thrown up and there are sounds--hoarse and deeply guttural--as of
gratulation between the two.
"Once the male bird, standing on the rock, pulls at some green seaweed
growing there, and after a time gets it off.
('It was rather tough work to pull out the cork,
But he drew it at last with his teeth.')
"The female is much interested, stretches forward with her neck over
the nest and takes the seaweed as soon as it is loose, before the other
can pass it to her. Then she arranges it on the nest, the male looking
on the while as though she were the bride cutting the cake. Now he hops
on to the nest again, and both together (for I think the male joins)
arrange or pull the seaweed about with their beaks. One would think
that the nest was still a-building and that the eggs were not yet laid.
This last, however, is not the case. Several times, whilst waiting
alone, the female bird rises a little on the nest, and each time there
is a gleam like snow and the gloom seems deeper against the cut outline
of a pure white egg. How full of poetry and interest it is lying there;
how unmeaning and, one may almost say, absurd in a cabinet!"
The nest of the shag is continually added to by the male, not
only whilst the eggs are in process of incubation, but after they
are hatched, and when the young are being brought up. In a sense,
therefore, it may be said to be never finished, though to all practical
purposes it is, before the female bird begins to sit. That up to this
period the female as well as the male bird takes part in the building
of the nest I cannot but think, but from the time of my arrival on
the island I never saw the two either diving for or carrying seaweed
together. Of course, if all the hen birds were sitting this is
accounted for, but from the courting antics which I witnessed, and for
some other reasons, I judged that this was not the case. Once I saw
a pair of birds together high up on the cliffs, where some tufts of
grass grew in the niches. One of these birds, only, pulled out some
of the grass, and flew away with it accompanied by the other one. It
is not only seaweed that is used by these birds in the construction
of the nest. In many that I saw, grass alone was visible (though I
have no doubt seaweed was underneath it); and one, in particular, had
quite an ornamental appearance, from being covered all over with some
land-plant having a number of small blue flowers; and this I have
observed in other nests, though not to the same extent. A fact like
this is interesting when we remember the bower-birds, and the way in
which they ornament their runs. I think it was on this same nest that
I noticed the picked and partially bleached skeleton--with the head
and wings still feathered--of a puffin. It had, to be sure, a sorry
appearance to the human--at least to the civilised human--eye, but if
it had not been brought there for the sake of ornament I can think of
no other reason, and brought there or, at least, placed upon the nest
by the bird, it must almost certainly have been. The brilliant beak and
saliently marked head of the puffin must be here remembered. Again,
fair-sized pieces of wood or spar, cast up by the sea and whitened by
it, are often to be seen stuck amongst the seaweed, and on one occasion
I saw a bird fly with one of these to its nest and place it upon it. In
all this, as it seems to me, the beginnings of a tendency to ornament
the nest are clearly exhibited. It would be interesting to observe if
the common cormorant exhibits the same tendency, or to the same degree.
The shag being a handsome and adorned bird, we might, on Darwinian
principles, expect to find the æsthetic sense more developed in it than
in its plainer and unadorned relative.
Both the sexes share in the duty and pleasure of incubation, and (as in
some other species) to see them relieve each other on the nest is to
see one of the prettiest things in bird life. The bird that you have
been watching has sat patiently the whole morning, and once or twice as
it rose in the nest and shifted itself round into another position on
the eggs, you have seen the gleam of them as they lay there
"As white
as ocean foam in the moon."
At last when it is well on in the afternoon, the partner bird flies
up and stands for some minutes preening itself, whilst the one on the
nest, who is turned away, throws back the head towards it and opens
and shuts the bill somewhat widely, as in greeting, several times. The
newcomer then jumps and waddles to the further side of the nest, so as
to front the sitting bird, and sinking down against it with a manner
and action full both of affection and a sense of duty, this one is half
pushed, half persuaded to leave, finally doing so with the accustomed
grotesque hop. As it comes down on the rock it turns towards the other
who is now settling on to the eggs, and, throwing up its head into the
air, opens the bill so as to show (or at any rate showing) the brightly
coloured space within.
All this it does with the greatest--what shall we say? Not exactly
_empressement_, but character--it is a character part. There is an
indescribable expression in the bird--all over it--as of something
vastly important having been accomplished, of relief, of satisfaction,
of _summum bonum_, and, also, of a certain grotesque and gargoyle-like
archness--but as though all these were only half-consciously felt. She
then (for I think it is the female), before flying away, picks up a
white feather from the ledge and passes it to the male, now established
on the nest, who receives and places it. It has all been nearly in
silence, only a few low, guttural notes having passed between the
birds, whilst they were close together.
Just in the same way the birds relieve each other after the eggs have
been hatched and when the young are being fed and attended to.
"A shag (I think the female bird) is sitting on her nest with the
young ones, whilst the male stands on a higher ledge of the rock a
yard or so away. He now jumps down and stands for a moment with head
somewhat erected and beak slightly open. Then he makes the great
pompous hop which I have described before, coming down right in front
of the female, who raises her head towards him and opens and closes
the mandibles several times in the approved manner. The two birds then
nibble, as it were, the feathers of each other's necks with the ends
of their bills, and the male takes up a little of the grass of the
nest, seeming to toy with it. He then very softly and persuadingly
pushes himself against the sitting bird, seeming to say, 'It's my
turn now,' and thus gets her to rise, when both stand together on the
nest, over the young ones. The male then again takes up a little of
the grass of the nest, which he passes towards the female, who also
takes it, and they toy with it a little together before allowing it to
drop. The insinuating process now continues, the male in the softest
and gentlest manner pushing the female away and then sinking down into
her place, where he now sits, whilst she stands beside him on the
ledge. As soon as the relieving bird has settled itself amidst the
young, and whilst the other one is still there--not yet having flown
off to sea--it begins to feed them. Their heads--very small, and with
beaks not seeming to be much longer in proportion to their size than
those of young ducks--are seen moving feebly about, pointing upwards,
but with very little precision. Very gently, and seeming to seize
the right opportunity, the parent bird takes first one head and then
another in the basal part, or gape, of his mandibles, turning his
own head on one side in order to do so, so that the rest of the long
bill projects sideways beyond the chick's head without touching it. In
this connection, and whilst the chick's head is quite visible, little,
if any more than the beak being within the gape of the parent bird,
the latter bends the head down and makes that particular action as of
straining so as to bring something up, which one is familiar with in
pigeons. This process is gone through several times before the bird
standing on the ledge flies away, to return again in a quarter of an
hour with a piece of seaweed, which is laid on the nest." Here again,
as throughout, the sexes of the birds can only be inferred or merely
guessed at. Both share in incubation, both feed the young, both (I
think) bring seaweed to the nest, and both are exactly alike.
As the chicks become older they thrust the head and bill farther
and farther down the throat of the parent bird, and at last to an
astonishing extent. Always, however, it appeared to me that the
parent bird brought up the food into the chick's bills in some state
of preparation, and was not a mere passive bag from which the latter
pulled out fish in a whole state. There were several nests all in
unobstructed view, and so excellent were my glasses that, practically,
I saw the whole process as though it had been taking place on a table
in front of me. The chicks, on withdrawing their heads from the
parental throat, would often slightly open and close the mandibles as
though still tasting something, in a manner which one may describe as
smacking the bill; but on no occasion did I observe anything projecting
from the bill when this was withdrawn, as one would expect sometimes
to be the case if unmodified fish were pulled up, but not if these were
in a soft, porridgey condition. Always, too, the actions of the parent
bird suggested that particular process which is known as regurgitation,
and which may be observed with pigeons, and also--as I have seen and
recorded--with the nightjar.
Cormorants, as they sit on the nest, have a curious habit of twitching
or quivering the muscles of the throat, so that the feathers dance
about in a very noticeable manner, especially if that rare phenomenon,
a glint of sunshine, should happen to fall upon them. Whilst doing
so they usually sit quite still, sometimes with the bill closed, but
more frequently, perhaps, with the mandibles separated by a finger's
breadth or so. I have watched this curious kind of St Vitus's dance
going on for a quarter of an hour or more, and it seems as though it
might continue indefinitely for any length of time. All at once it will
cease for a while, and then as suddenly break out again. It is not
only the old birds that twitch the throat in this manner. The chicks
do so too in just as marked a degree, and on account of the skin of
their necks being naked it is, perhaps, more noticeable in their case
than with the parent birds. I have observed exactly the same thing,
though it was not quite so conspicuous, in the nightjar, so that I
cannot help asking myself the question whether it stands in any kind of
connection with the habit of bringing up food for the young from the
crop or stomach--the regurgitatory process. I will not be sure, but I
think that the same curious _tremulo_ of the throatal feathers may be
observed in pigeons as they sit on the nest. It is that portion of the
throat which lies just below the bird's gape (I am here speaking of
the shag), including both the feathered and the naked skin between the
cleft of the lower mandible, and extending to the sides of the neck,
which is principally twitched or quivered.
The above, perhaps, is a trivial observation, but no one can watch
these birds very closely without being struck by the habit.
Young shags are, at first, naked and black--also blind, as I was able
to detect through the glasses. Afterwards the body becomes covered with
a dusky grey down, and then every day they struggle more and more into
the likeness of their parents. They soon begin to imitate the grown-up
postures, and it is a pretty thing to see mother and young one sitting
together with both their heads held stately upright, or the little
woolly chick standing up in the nest and hanging out its thin little
featherless wings, just as mother is doing, or just as it has seen her
do. At other times they lie sprawling together either flat or on their
sides. They are good-tempered and playful, seize playfully hold of
each other's bills, and will often bite and play with the feathers of
their parent's tail. In fact, they are a good deal like puppies, and
the heart goes out both to them and to their loving, careful, assiduous
mother and father. As pretty domestic scenes are enacted daily and
hourly on this stern old rock, within the very heave and dash of the
waves, as ever in Arcadia, or in any neat little elegant bower where
the goddess of such things presides--or does not. The sullen sea itself
might smile to watch its pretty children thus at play, and to me it
seemed that it did.
_Guarding the nest and affairs of honour._--When both birds are at
home, the one that stands on the rock, by or near the nest, is ready
to guard it from all intrusion. Should another bird fly on to the
rock and alight, in his opinion, too near it, he immediately advances
towards him, shaking his wings, and uttering a low, grunting note
which is full of intention. Finding itself in a false position, the
intruding bird flies off; but it sometimes happens that when two nests
are not far apart, the sentinels belonging to each are in too close a
proximity, and begin to cast jealous glances upon one another. In such
a case, neither bird can retreat without some loss of dignity, and, as
a result, there is a fight. I have witnessed a drama of this nature. As
in the case of the herring-gulls, the two locked their beaks together,
and the one which seemed to be the stronger endeavoured with all his
might to pull the other towards him, which the weaker bird, on his
part, resisted as desperately, using his wings both as opposing props,
and also to push back with. This lasted for some while, but the pulling
bird was unable to drag the other up the steeply-sloping rock, and
finally lost his hold. Instead of trying to regain it, he turned and
shuffled excitedly to the nest, and when he reached it the bird sitting
there stretched out her neck towards him, and opened and shut her beak
several times in quick succession. It was as if he had said to her, "I
hope you observed my prowess. Was it well done?" and she had replied,
"I should think I _did_ observe it. It was _indeed_ well done." On the
worsted bird's ascending the rock to get to _his_ nest, the victorious
one ran, or rather waddled, at him, putting him to a short flight up
to it. But, though defeated, this bird was cordially received by his
own partner, who threw up her head and opened her bill at him in the
same way, as though sympathising, and saying, "Don't mind him; he's
rude." In such affairs, either bird is safe as soon as he gets within
close distance of his own nest, for it would be against all precedent,
and something monstrous, that he should be followed beyond a certain
charmed line drawn around it.
Nothing is more interesting than to look down from the summit of some
precipice on to a ledge at no great distance below, which is quite
crowded with guillemots. Roughly speaking, the birds form two long
rows, but these rows are very irregular in depth and formation, and
swell here and there into little knots and clusters, besides often
merging into or becoming mixed with each other, so that the idea of
symmetry conveyed is of a very modified kind, and may be sometimes
broken down altogether. In the first row, a certain number of the birds
sit close against and directly fronting the wall of the precipice,
into the angle of which with the ledge they often squeeze themselves.
Several will be closely pressed together so that the head of one is
often resting against the neck or shoulder of another, which other will
also be making a pillow of a third, and so on. Others stand here and
there behind the seated ones, each being, as a rule, close to his or
her partner. There is another irregular row about the centre of the
ledge, and equally here it is to be remarked that the sitting birds
have their beaks pointed towards the cliff, whilst the standing ones
are turned indifferently. There are generally several birds on the
edge of the parapet, and at intervals one will come pressing to it
through the crowd in order to fly down to the sea, whilst from time to
time, also, others fly up and alight upon it, often with sand-eels in
their beaks. On a ledge of, perhaps, some dozen or so paces in length,
there may be from sixty to eighty guillemots, and as often as they are
counted the number will be found to be approximately the same.
Most of the sitting birds are either incubating or have young ones
under them, which, as long as they are little, they seem to treat very
much as though they were eggs. Others, however, when they stand up are
seen to have nothing underneath them, for as with other sea-birds, so
far as I have been able to observe, there seems to be a great disparity
in the time at which different individuals begin to lay. In the case
of the puffin, for instance, some birds may be seen collecting grass
and taking it to their burrows, whilst others are bringing in a regular
supply of fish to their young. Much affection is shown between the
paired birds. One that is sitting either on her egg or young one--for
no difference in the attitude can be discovered--will often be very
much cosseted by the partner who stands close behind or beside her.
With the tip of his long, pointed beak he, as it were, nibbles the
feathers (or perhaps, rather, scratches and tickles the skin between
them) of her head, neck, and throat, whilst she, with her eyes half
closed, and an expression as of submitting to an enjoyment--a "Well,
I suppose I must" look--bends her head backwards, or screws it round
sideways towards him, occasionally nibbling with her bill, also, amidst
the feathers of his throat, or the thick white plumage of his breast.
Presently, she stands up, revealing the small, hairy-looking chick,
whose head has from time to time been visible, just peeping out from
under its mother's wing. Upon this the other bird bends its head down
and cossets in the same way--but very gently, and with the extreme tip
of the bill--the little tender young one. The mother does so too, and
then both birds, standing together side by side over the chick, pay it
divided attentions, seeming as though they could not make enough either
of their child or each other. It is a pretty picture, and here is
another one. "A bird--we will think her the female, as she performs the
most mother-like part--has just flown in with a fish--a sand-eel--in
her bill. She makes her way with it to the partner, who rises and
shifts the chick that he has been brooding over from himself to her.
This is done quite invisibly, as far as the chick is concerned, but you
can see that it is being done.
"The bird with the fish, to whom the chick has been shifted, now takes
it in hand. Stooping forward her body, and drooping down her wings, so
as to make a kind of little tent or awning of them, she sinks her bill
with the fish in it towards the rock, then raises it again, and does
this several times before either letting the fish drop or placing it in
the chick's bill--for which it is I cannot quite see. It is only now
that the chick becomes visible, its back turned to the bird standing
over it, and its bill and throat moving as though swallowing something
down. Then the bird that has fed it shifts it again to the other, who
receives it with equal care, and bending down over it, appears--for it
is now again invisible--to help or assist it in some way. It would be
no wonder if the chick had wanted assistance, for the fish was a very
big one for so small a thing, and it would seem as if he swallowed it
bodily. After this the chick is again treated as an egg by the bird
that has before had charge of him--that is to say, he is sat upon,
apparently, just as though he were to be incubated--or suppressed, like
the guinea-pigs in 'Alice in Wonderland.'"
On account of the closeness with which the chick is guarded by the
parent birds, and the way in which they both stand over it, it is
difficult to make out exactly how it is fed; but I think the fish is
either dropped at once on the rock or dangled a little, for it to seize
hold of. It is in the bringing up and looking after of the chick that
one begins to see the meaning of the sitting guillemots being always
turned towards the cliff, for from the moment that the egg is hatched,
one or other of the parent birds interposes between the chick and the
edge of the parapet. Of course I cannot say that the rule is universal,
but I never saw a guillemot incubating with its face turned towards
the sea, nor did I ever see a chick on the seaward side of the parent
bird who was with it. It seems probable that the relative positions
of the sitting bird and the egg would be continued from use after the
latter had become the young one; and if we suppose that in a certain
number of cases where these positions were reversed the chick perished
from running suddenly out from under the parent and falling over the
edge of the rock, we can understand natural selection having gradually
eliminated the source of this danger. But natural selection may have
acted in another direction, which would have been still more conducive
to the safety of the chick. I observed that the latter--even when, as I
judged by its tininess, it had only been quite recently hatched--was as
alert and as well able to move about as a young chicken or partridge;
but whilst possessing all the power, it appeared to have little will
to do so. Its lethargy--as shown by the way in which, even when a
good deal older, it would sit for hours without moving from under the
mother--struck me as excessive; and it would certainly seem that on a
bare narrow ledge, to fall from which would be certain death, chicks of
a lethargic disposition would have an advantage over others who were
fonder of running about. If we suppose that a certain number of chicks
perished even amongst those whose parents always stood between them
and the sheer edge, we can understand both the one and the other step
towards security having been brought about, either successively or side
by side with each other.
From the foregoing it would appear that the young guillemot is fed with
fish which are brought straight from the sea in the parent's bill, and
not--as in the case of the gulls--disgorged for them after having been
first swallowed. It is, however, a curious fact that the fish when thus
brought in is, sometimes at any rate, headless. The reason of this I do
not know, but with the aid of the glasses I have made quite certain of
it, and each time it appeared as though the head had been cleanly cut
off. Moreover, on alighting on the ledge the bird always has the fish
(a sand-eel, whenever I saw it) held lengthways in the beak, with the
tail drooping out to one side of it, and the head part more or less
within the throat--a position which seems to suggest that it may have
been swallowed or partially swallowed--whereas puffins and razorbills
carry the fish they catch crosswise, with head and tail depending on
either side.
I have also once or twice thought that I saw a bird which just before
had had no fish in its bill, all at once carrying one. But I may well
have been mistaken; and it does not seem at all likely that the birds
should usually carry their fish, and thus, as will appear shortly,
subject themselves to persecution, if they could disgorge it without
inconvenience. With regard to the occasional absence of the head,
perhaps this is sometimes cut off in catching the fish, or before it is
swallowed, which may also have been the case with the herrings brought
by the great skuas to their young. However, I can but give the facts,
as far as I was able to observe them.
Married birds sometimes behave in a pretty manner with the fish that
they bring to each other, and if coquetry be not the right word to
apply to it, I know of none better. The following is my note made at
the time:--
"A bird flies in with a fine sand-eel in his bill, and having run the
gauntlet of the whole ledge with it, at last succeeds in bringing it
to his partner. For a long time now, these two coquet together with
the fish. The one that has brought it keeps biting and nibbling at it,
moving his head about with it from side to side, bringing it down upon
the ledge between his feet, then raising it again, seeming to rejoice
in the having it. The other one seems all the while to admire it too,
and often makes as though to take it from him--prettily and softly--but
he refuses it to her, something as a dog prettily refuses to give up a
stick to his master. At last, however, he lets her take it--which, it
is apparent, he has meant to do all the time--and when she has it she
behaves in much the same manner with it, whilst he would seem to beg it
back of her, and thus they go on together for such a time that at last
I weary of watching them. There is a wonderful making much of the fish
between the two birds, yet it is not eaten by either of them, and there
is no chick, here, in the case. It is quite apparent that the fish is
only something for coquetry and affection to gather about--it is a
focus, a _point d'appui_, a peg to hang love upon. Yet the birds--and
this is what I constantly notice--seem only to have a kind of half
consciousness of what they mean." This particular fish, I may say, was
minus the head, which had the appearance of having been neatly and
cleanly cut off.
Yet there are harsher notes amidst all this tenderness, and the
state of a bird's appetite will sometimes make a vast difference in
its conduct under the same or similar circumstances. "A bird," for
instance, "that has just come with a fish in its bill for the young
one, is violently attacked--and this several times in succession--by
the other parent, who is in actual charge of the chick. This one--we
will suppose it to be the father, though, I half think, unjustly--makes
the greediest dart at the fish, trying to seize it out of his wife's
bill, and also pecks her very violently. Once he seizes her by the neck
and holds her thus for some seconds, yet all the while in the couched
attitude and with the chick underneath him. The poor mother yields
each time to the storm, scuttles out of the way, seems perplexed and
startled, but keeps firm hold of the fish. Driven away over and over
again, she always comes back, and at length, by dint of perseverance
and right feeling, weathers the storm, insinuates herself into the
place of the greedy bird and begins to feed the chick. A new chord
of feeling is now struck, and the bird that has been so greedy and
ill-tempered co-operates in the most tender and interested manner
with the wife whom he has outraged. The 'scene' of a moment ago is
forgotten, and there is now a widely different and more accustomed one
of family concord, tenderness, and peace."
I cannot think that such conduct as the above is common, and even on
this one occasion when I saw it, it is possible (though it does not
seem very likely) that the ill-behaving bird did not try to get the
fish for its own sake, but only to feed the chick with. But however
this may have been, fish are the constant cause of disturbance amongst
the birds generally, and the guillemot that flies in with one has to
avoid the snaps made at it by all those near to where he alights, and
must sometimes run the gauntlet of most of the birds on the ledge
before he can get with it to his own domicile. Sometimes he loses the
fish, which is then often lost again by the successful bird, and so
passed from one to another.
Or it may be tugged at for a long time by two birds that have a firm
hold of the head and tail part respectively, and pull it backwards and
forwards, not infrequently across the neck of a third bird standing
between them. Birds incubating or brooding over their young ones are
equally ready with those standing, to try and snatch away a fish from
another, but in the great majority of cases the bird who has flown in
with his booty and has a very firm hold of it, gets it safely through
the crowd. Such episodes as these are rather of the nature of assault
and robbery than regular fighting, for the bird attacked, though often
severely pecked, never does anything but dodge and pull, for he cannot
well thrust back again whilst holding a fish in his bill, and his whole
endeavour is to avoid losing this. Combats, however, are very frequent
amongst guillemots, much more so than I should have thought the
condition of living packed closely together on a narrow ledge in the
rock would have allowed, for surely one might have expected that this
necessity would have been a power making for peace and concord. That
it has been so to some extent, I make no doubt, and it may also have
played a part in forming the character of the fighting, which is--or,
at least, it struck me as being--somewhat peculiar. Though often
violent, it is not, as a rule, vindictive, and as it seems to break out
for no particular reason, so it generally ceases suddenly by one of the
two birds stopping, as it were, in mid-thrust, and commencing to preen
itself, after which it may be resumed once or twice before ceasing
finally in the same way. The other bird seems only too happy to be left
in peace, and instead of pressing the assault whilst his adversary
is thus engaged and at a momentary disadvantage, generally stands
unconcerned or begins to preen himself also. This sudden passing from
the sublime to the ridiculous, from war to the toilette, has a curious
and half comic effect.
Such preening under such circumstances must, one would think, spring
from a powerful incentive, and it is, I believe, chiefly when annoyed
by insects that the birds preen themselves, though whether their
efforts are actually to free themselves of these, or only to allay
the irritation by scratching, I am not quite sure. But I noticed that
a bird would often bend down its head, and with the extreme tip of
its finely-pointed bill appear minutely to explore the surface of
its webbed feet--and further, that when the partner of a bird doing
this was beside him, it would become most interested, and do its best
to assist him in the matter. One may suppose that the ledge--which
is, of course, coated with a layer of guano--is covered with these
pests, and that they often crawl over the bird's feet, and so ascend
on to the body. If the skin of the feet were sensitive, their owner
would at once know when this was the case, and with its keen eyesight
and stiletto bill might guard itself fairly well, as long as it only
stood. As, however, all the birds constantly sit flat on the rock,
even when not incubating, the searching of the feet can be of little
or no real importance to them. It is very interesting and has a very
human appearance (not so much in regard to the particular act as the
careful look and manner and the attitudes assumed) to see two birds
thus helping to clean each other's feet, as I think must here be the
case. When they nibble and preen each other they may, as a rule, I
think, be rightly said to cosset and caress, the expression and pose of
the bird receiving the benefit being often beatific, and the enjoyment
being, no doubt, of the nature of that which a parrot receives by
having its poll scratched; though, with regard to this, we must not
forget the look of supreme satisfaction which a monkey often has whilst
a friend is doing his best to make him clean and respectable. With the
foot-cleaning there is no such attitude and expression. The bird helped
is at the same time an active agent, and both of them are careful,
earnest, and investigatory. It struck me, however, that the chick was
cosseted in a somewhat more business-like manner, as though, if not
actually to clean it, at least to make it spruce and tidy. It seems
probable, indeed, that the conferring a practical benefit of the kind
indicated may be one origin of the caress throughout nature; but others
may be imagined.
[Illustration: _On a Guillemot Ledge._]
The usual cause of guillemots fighting would seem to be one of them
moving to a sufficient degree to attract the attention of the one
nearest to it, who then--as though the circumstances permitted of no
other course--delivers a vigorous thrust with its long, spear-like
bill. This is the usual way of fighting, so that a combat has something
the appearance of a fencing-match. The two birds stand upright with
their bodies turned more sideways towards each other, than actually
fronting, so that their heads, which alone do so, are twisted a little
round. They stand at such a distance apart, that when the neck is held
straight up, with the head flying out at a right angle, the tips of
their two long lances just touch, so that the birds form a natural
archway. In this position they make quick, repeated thrusts at each
other, usually directed at the face or neck, by a motion of which,
rather than by parrying with the beak, each endeavours to avoid the
lunge of its adversary. But besides
"Tilting,
Point to point at one another's breasts,"
they are ready to seize hold of each other should the opportunity
occur, and when the fight is fierce, and the birds in their eagerness
press in upon each other, they then strike smartly with their wings.
Sometimes, too, each tries to seize the other's beak, but this is not
usual, as I imagine it to be with herring-gulls and cormorants. These
single combats rarely become _mêlées_, though, if one bird is forced
to retreat, those amongst whom he pushes will be ready to peck at him
and at each other. Of course, a bird, if really in distress, can always
fly down from the ledge into the sea, and this it is often forced to do
if it has been standing near the edge when the combat broke out. The
better-placed bird seems then to recognise its advantage, and presses
boldly forward upon the other. There is a short retreat, a recognition
of the danger and vigorous rally, another forced step backwards, an
ineffectual whirring of wings on the extreme brink, and, turning in the
moment of falling, the discomfited one renounces all further effort
and plunges into the abyss. And, no doubt, the little lice who crawl
about upon the ledge and see such mighty doings, would, were they
poets, write long epics telling of the wars and falls of angels. But
only combats on the brink have such dramatic terminations, and farther
inland a fight must be of an exceptionally violent kind to make the
birds not think of preening themselves, and thus bring it to an end.
Birds that are incubating will fight as well as the others, and no
respect seems to be paid to them on this account. Often one thus
occupied may be seen thrusting up at a standing bird, who, in turn,
thrusts down at it, or two recumbent ones will spar vigorously at each
other. One wonders that under these circumstances the eggs are not
sometimes broken, as may possibly be the case; but with regard to this,
I will here quote the following note which I made on the management of
the egg during incubation:--
"It appears to me that the guillemot sits with the egg not only between
its legs, but resting on the two webbed feet, and pressed slightly by
them against the breast. At any rate, I have just distinctly seen the
bird rise up, take the egg carefully in this way between its two feet,
sliding them underneath it, and then sink gently down upon it again.
I believe that the egg was so placed when the bird rose, and that it
rose for the purpose of improving its position. It seems likely that
if the egg rests upon the bird's feet instead of on the bare rock, it
must be less liable to fracture, and could be pressed slightly up by
the bird amongst its feathers, so that the two opposed pressures could
be combined to advantage, or either of them relaxed when it was to the
bird's convenience.
"Have just seen another sitting bird rise, and, in settling down again,
she certainly seemed to place her feet under the egg, assisting at the
same time to place it with the bill. When she rose the partner bird
came forward to her, and, lowering his head, looked at the egg with the
tenderest interest, then cosseted her as she stood, and again when she
had resettled.
"Another bird has half risen, showing the egg quite plainly. It is
certainly resting on the feet."
Guillemots, as is well known, lay their single egg on the bare rock,
but sometimes they will pick up and play with a feather, and I have
seen one carry some fibres of grass or root, which had perhaps fallen
or been blown from a kittiwake's nest, to its partner, and lay them
down as if showing her. In such acts we may perhaps see a lingering
trace of a lost nest-building instinct. They walk, as a rule, with
the whole shank, as well as the actual foot resting on the surface
of the rock, but sometimes they will draw themselves up so that they
stand upon the foot, or rather the toes, alone, just in the way in
which a penguin does, and in this attitude they can both walk and run.
Anatomically speaking, the shank is, I believe, a part of the foot,
corresponding to our own heel, and functionally it is so, too, in the
guillemot, as well as in the razorbill and puffin. It is interesting,
therefore, to see the occasional assumption of an attitude which in the
penguins has become habitual. Their ordinary walking attitude is with
the head held erect, but they often sink it to or below the breast,
at the same time craning the neck right forward, which gives them a
grotesque and uncanny appearance, like one of the evil creatures in
Retche's outlines of Faust. Again, one of them will sometimes throw the
head and neck slightly forward, and at the same time jerking the wings
sharply behind the back, will, after remaining with them thus "set"
for a moment, run briskly forward, giving them a vigorous shaking. But
in spite of wings and beaks, and a few other dissimilarities, it is of
men that one has to think when watching these erect, white-waistcoated,
funny little bodies. Indeed, they are much like us, for they fight,
love, breed, eat, and stand upright, which is most of what we do,
though we make so much more pother about it. But it has a funny effect
to see it all going on--like a "picture in little"--on a ledge of the
bare rock.
If guillemots are watched closely, one may be noticed now and again
to scrape with its beak for some time at the ledge where it is lying,
opening and closing its mandibles upon it. Every now and then--as I
make it out--it encloses a small object between them, which must,
I think, be a piece of the rock, and with a quick jerk of the head
sideways and upwards, swallows this. This, then, is how guillemots
procure the small stones which are, no doubt, necessary to them for
digestive purposes. The great mass of the rock forming the island is
sedimentary, and in a more or less crumbling state, much of it, indeed,
quite rotten and dangerous to trust to.
I will conclude this slight picture of life on a ledge with a few lines
from my notes, as taken during that short period which, in summer, best
answers to the coming on of night and dawn of morning here in England.
"10.40 P.M. Some dozen birds out of about thirty that I can see appear
to be roosting. The kittiwakes are more silent than in broad day,
though there is a burst of clamour now and again.
"10.56. There is less activity now, but few birds seem thoroughly
asleep. Many stand, and some occasionally walk about and flap their
wings. One has just flown off the ledge, but no others are doing so,
nor are any arriving upon it. The general scene is much quieter,
and so with the kittiwakes. The ledge now, at past eleven, is very
quiet, though the majority of the birds still stand, and some preen
themselves. The glasses have become inferior to the naked eye, though
one can read anything with perfect ease. The birds, it is evident,
judge of night by the light. They do not make a factitious night
according to the duration of time. They sleep, indeed, in patches, but,
on the whole, would seem to do so very little in the twenty-four hours.
"11.17. The majority of the birds are now roosting, perhaps almost all.
I can see no puffins. They must, therefore, it seems, lie roosting too,
in holes or crevices of the rocks.
"11.30. All quiet at Shipka.
"11.35. A bird flies in duskily from the sea, and now no fighting
ensues. All is quiet at Shipka.
"11.50. All quiet at Shipka--a little more so perhaps.
"11.55. As before.
"12 o'clock. Much as before, but two birds are, I think, cosseting.
Though one can read and write with ease, and see all objects--even
birds sitting or flying a long way off--still it is all gloom and
yellow murkiness. Light seems gone, though there be light. It is
'darkness visible,' indeed, neither true night nor true day, but more
like night than day. The great shapes of cliff and hill seem drawn in
gloom clearly, the sea gleams dimly and duskily, all is weird, strange,
and portentous. It is the marriage of opposite kingdoms, or rather, the
monstrous child of light and darkness.
"12.15. All roosting, I think.
"12.30. Quiet now. All quiet at Shipka.
"12.43. Much as before. On the steep side of one of the great 'stacks'
opposite, kittiwakes are roosting in the most extraordinary numbers,
and so close together that they look not like birds, but some outcrop
on the surface of the rock. They consist, no doubt, of the partners of
all the sitting birds on the ledges.
"1.5 A.M. The ledge is now stirring into life again, and so, too, the
great block of kittiwakes on the 'stack,' from which birds keep dashing
out, whirling and circling, settling again or visiting their sitting
partners on the nests, before flying back to it. But the clamour of
voices is, as yet, slight.
"Now, at 1.25, it is beginning to be greater.
"1.50. A general preening amongst the guillemots, though a good many
still lie asleep. But soon they wake, too, and begin, for now it is
light, bright, and morning."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]