Watching Rooks
In this chapter I will give a few scenes from rook life, as I have
watched it from late autumn to early spring, linking them together
by a remark now and again of a general nature, or, possibly, some
theory which my observations may have suggested to me, and seemed to
illustrate. Were I to put into general terms what I have jotted down
at all times and in all places, in the darkness before morning when
the rookery slept about me, in the dim dawn whilst it woke into life,
to stream forth, later, on wings of joy and sound, in the long day by
field and moor and waste, and at evening again, or night, when the
birds swept home and sank to sleep amidst their own sinking lullaby,
I might make a smoother narrative, but the picture would be gone. I
think it better, therefore, to make a preliminary general apology for
all roughnesses and repetitions, triviality of matter, minuteness of
detail and so forth, in fact for all shortcomings, and then to go on
in faith, not in myself, indeed, but in the rooks, believing that they
_will_ be interesting, however much I may stand in their way.
When I speak of the rookery I do not mean the trees where the birds
build--unfortunately there are none very near me--but those where they
come to roost during the autumn and winter--true rookeries indeed if
numbers count for anything. Here, their chosen resting-place is a
silent, lonely plantation of tall funereal firs, standing shaggily
tangled together, mournful and sombre, making, when the snow has
fallen but lightly--before they are covered--a blotch of very ink
upon the surrounding white. Who could think, seeing them during the
daytime, so sad and abandoned, so utterly still, tenanted only by a
few silent-creeping tits, or some squirrel, whose pertness amidst
their gloomy aisles and avenues seems almost an affectation--who could
think that each night they were so clothed and mantled with life, that
their sadness was all covered up in joy, their silence made a babel of
sound? In every one of those dark, swaying, sighing trees, there will
be a very crowd of black, noisy, joyous birds, and strange it is that
there should be more poetry in all this noise and clamour and bustle
than in their sad sombreness, deeply as that speaks to one. The poetry
of life is beyond that of death, and when the rooks have gone the dark
plantation seems to want its soul. It is Cupid and Psyche, but under
dreary, northern skies. Every evening the black, rushing wings come
in love and seem to kiss the dark branches, every morning they kiss
and part, and, between whiles, the poor longing grove stands lifeless,
dreams and waits. But how different would it seem if the rooks were a
crowd of men--nice, cheery, jovial, picturesque, civilised men! Thank
heaven, they are a crowd of rooks!
I will now quote from my journal:
"Walking over some arable land that rises gently into a slight hill, my
attention is attracted by a number of rooks hanging in the air, just
above a small clump of elm-trees on its crest. They keep alternately
rising and falling as they circle over the trees, often perching
amongst them, but soon gliding upwards from them again. A very common
action is for two to hover, one above another, getting gradually
quite close together, when both sinking, one may almost say falling,
rapidly, the upper pursues the under one, striking at it--either in
jest or earnest, but probably the former--both with beak and claws.
The downward plunge would end in a long swoop, first to right or left,
and then again upwards, during which the two would become separated
and mingled with the general troop. This action, more or less defined
and perfect, was continued again and again, and there were generally
one or more pairs of birds engaged in it. The rest rose and fell, many
together, and obviously enjoying each other's society, but without any
special conjunction of two or more in a joint manœuvre. Their descents
were often of a rushing nature, and accompanied with such sudden twists
and turns as, sometimes, seemed to amount to a complete somersault in
the air--though as to this I will not be too certain. The whole seemed
the outcome of pure enjoyment, and seen in the clear blue sky of this
fine bright October morning--the last one of the month--had a charming
effect.
"A fortnight later I happened to be near some woods to which rooks
were flying from all directions, to roost, as I thought then, but
afterwards I found it was only one of their halting places. They were
in countless numbers, one great troop after another flying up from far
away over the country. The air was full of their voices, which were of
a great variety and modulation, the ordinary harsh (though pleasant)
'caw' being perhaps the least noticeable of all. Each troop flew high,
and, on coming within a certain distance of the wood--a fair-sized
field away--they suddenly began to swoop down upon it in long sweeping
curves or slants, at the same time uttering a very peculiar burring
note, which, though much deeper and essentially rook-like in tone, at
once reminded me of the well-known sound made by the nightjar. Imagine
a rook trying to 'burr' or 'churr' like a nightjar, and doing it like
a rook, and you have it. Whilst making these long downward-slanting
swoops the birds would often twist and turn in the air in an
astonishing manner, sometimes even, as it seemed to me, turning right
over as a peewit does, in fact, exhibiting powers of flight far beyond
what anyone would imagine rooks to possess, who had only seen or
noticed them on ordinary occasions.
"Whilst these birds sweep down into the trees others of them settle on
the adjoining meadow-land, but they do not descend upon it in the same
way, but more steadily, though still with many a twist and turn and
whirring, whizzing evolution. Neither do they utter the strange burring
note to which I have called attention, and which is a very striking
sound. Starlings are mingled with these latter birds, flying amongst
them, yet in their own bands, and alighting with them on the meadow,
where they continue to form an _imperium in imperio_. Both they and the
rooks descend at one point, in a black or brown patch, but soon spread
out over the whole meadow, from which they often rise up in a cloud,
and, after flying about over it for a little, come down upon it again.
At last a vast flock of starlings--numbering, I should think, many
thousands--flies up, and, being joined by all those that were on the
field, the whole descend upon the woods, through which they disseminate
themselves. Almost immediately afterwards, the rooks, as though taking
the starlings for their guide, rise too, and fly all together to the
woods. Now comes a troop of some eighty rooks, and, shortly afterwards,
another much larger one--two or three hundred at the least--all flying
high, and going steadily onwards in one uniform direction. They are all
uttering a note which is difficult to describe, and does not at all
resemble the ordinary 'caw.' It has more the character of a chirrup,
loud in proportion to the size of the bird, but still a chirrup--or
chirruppy. There is great flexibility in the sound, which has a curious
rise at the end. It seems to express satisfaction and enjoyable social
feeling, and, if so, is very expressive. One feels, indeed, that every
note uttered by rooks is expressive, and if one does not always quite
know what it expresses that is one's own fault, or, at any rate, not
theirs.
"Twenty more now pass, then twenty-seven, and, finally, another large
body of some two to three hundred--all flying in the same direction. It
is the last flight, and, shortly afterwards, the loud harsh trumpeting
of pheasants is heard in all the woods and coverts around, as they
prepare to fly up into their own roosting trees. This dove-tailing of
two accustomed things in the daily life of rooks and pheasants I have
often noticed, but it must be mere coincidence, for pheasants vary in
their hours of retirement, whilst the leisurely homeward journeying of
rooks, with pauses longer or shorter at one place or another, occupies,
in winter, most of the afternoon.
"_November 27th._--By the river, this afternoon, I noticed two great
assemblages of rooks down on the meadow-land, whilst others, in large
numbers, were flying _en route_ homewards. Of these, two would often
act in the way I have before described--that is to say, whilst flying
the one just over the other with very little space between them, both
would sink suddenly and swiftly down, the upper following the under
one, and both keeping for some time the same relative position. But
besides this, two birds would often pursue each other downwards in a
different way, descending with wide sideway sweeps through the air,
from one side to another, after the manner of a parachute, the wings
being all the while outstretched and motionless. In either case the
pursuit was never persisted in for long, and obviously it was no more
than a sport or an evolution requiring the concurrence of two birds.
"Again, two will sweep along near together, at slightly different
altitudes, with the wings outspread in the same way--that is to say,
not flapping. Then first one and afterwards the other gives a sharp
wriggling twist, seeming to lose its balance for a moment, rights
itself again, and continues to sweep on as before. Then another
wriggle, a further sweep, and so on."
Since seeing the curious manner in which ravens roll over in the
air--as described by me--I have watched the aerial gambols, as one may
almost call them, of rooks more closely. There is a certain place,
not far from where I live, where these birds make an aerial pause in
their homeward flight; for, whilst many are to be seen settled in
some lofty trees of a fine open park, others sail round and round in
wide circles and high in the air, over a wide expanse of water in the
midst of it. After wheeling thus for some time, first one and then
another will descend on spread wings, very swiftly, and with all sorts
of whizzes, half-turns or tumbles, and parachute-like motions. When
watched closely through the glasses, however, it may be seen that,
very often, these rushing descents have their origin in an action, or,
rather, an attempted action, very much like that of the raven. The idea
of the latter bird is to roll over, so as to be on its back in the air,
and, by closing its wings, it is able to achieve this without, or with
hardly, any drop from the elevation at which it has been flying. The
rooks seem to try to do this too, but instead of closing the wings,
they keep them spread, as open, or almost so, as before. Consequently,
instead of just rolling over, their turn or roll to either side sends
them skimming sideways, down through the air, like a kite--a paper one,
I mean. Peewits close the wings and roll over in much the same way as
does the raven, but this is generally either preceded, or followed, by
a tremendous drop through the air, with wings more or less extended, so
that the whole has quite a different effect.
"Of the two assemblies on the ground, one is in perpetual motion,
birds constantly rising--either singly, in twos or threes, or in
small parties--from where they were, flying a little way just above
the heads of their fellows, and re-settling amongst them again. Thus
no individual bird, as it seems to me, remains where it was for
long, though those in the air, at any given moment, form but a small
minority, compared with the main body on the ground.
"But the birds composing the other great assemblage keep their places,
or, if some few rise to change them, these are not enough to give
character to the whole, or even to attract attention. It is curious to
see two such great bodies of birds close to each other, and on the same
uniform pasture-land, yet behaving so differently, the one so still,
the other in such constant activity.
"About 4 P.M. a great number of rooks rise from some trees in a small
covert near by, and fly towards those on the ground. As they approach
the first great body--which is the lively one--the birds composing it
rise up, as with one accord, and fly, not to meet them, as one might
have expected, but in the same direction as they are flying. So nicely
timed, however, is the movement, that the rising body become, in a
moment, the vanguard of the now combined troop.
"All these birds then fly together to the other assembly, and whilst
about half of their number sweep down to reinforce it, the other half
continue to fly on. The flying rooks, however, are not joined by any
of those on the ground. How curious it is that, in the first instance,
the one whole body of birds does the same thing instantaneously, and
as by a common impulse, whilst in the second, half acts in one way,
and half in another, each appearing to have no doubt or hesitation as
to what it ought to do! Again, how different is the conduct of the two
field-assemblages. One rises, as with one thought, to join the flying
birds. The other, as with one thought, remains standing. Unless, in
each case, some signal of command has been given, then what a strange
community of feeling in opposite directions is here shown. Where is the
individuality that one would expect, and what is the power that binds
all the units together?
"_Are_ rooks led by an old and experienced bird?--which is, I believe,
the popular impression, as embodied in a famous line of Tennyson, for
which one feels inclined to fight. At first sight, the rising of a
whole body of rooks (or any other birds) simultaneously, either from
the ground or a tree, might seem to be most easily explained on the
theory of one bird, recognised as the chief of the band, having in some
manner--either by a cry or by its own flight--given a signal, which was
instantly obeyed by the rest. But how--in the case of rooks--can any
one note be heard by all amidst such a babel as there often is, and
how can every bird in a band of some hundreds (or even some scores)
have its eyes constantly fixed on some particular one amongst them,
that ought, indeed, on ordinary physical and mechanical principles, to
be invisible to the greater number? If, however, to meet this latter
difficulty, we suppose that only a certain number of birds, who are in
close proximity to the leader, see and obey the signal, and that these
are followed by those nearest to them, and so on till the whole are in
motion, then two other difficulties arise, neither of which seems easy
to get over. For, in the first place, the birds do not, in many cases,
appear to rise in this manner, but, as in the instances here given,
simultaneously, or, at least, with a nearer approach to it than any
process of spreading, such as here supposed, would seem to admit of;
and secondly, it is difficult to understand how, if this were the case,
any bird--or, at least, any few birds--could fly up without putting
all the others in motion. Yet, as I have mentioned, birds in twos or
threes, or in small parties, were constantly rising and flying from
one place to another in the assemblage of which they formed a part,
whilst the vast majority remained where they were, on the ground. This
fact offers an equal or a still greater difficulty, if, dismissing
the idea of there being a recognised leader, we suppose that any bird
may, for the moment, become one by taking the initiative of flight,
or otherwise. And even if we assume that any of these explanations is
the correct one, in the case of a whole body of rooks taking sudden
flight, or directing their flight to any particular place, or with any
special purpose, what are we to think when half, or a certain number of
the band does one thing, and the other half another, each, apparently,
with equal spontaneity? We are met here with the same difficulties--and
perhaps in a still higher degree--as in the case of the flocks of small
birds at the stacks in winter.
"If rooks follow and obey a leader, one might expect them to do so
habitually, at least in their more important matters. The flight
out from the roosting-trees in the morning, and the flight into them
again at night are--when it is not the breeding-season--the two daily
'events' of a rook's life. Here, then, are two subjects for special
observation.
"_November 30th._--At 3 P.M. I take up my position on the edge of a
little fir-plantation, a short distance from where I watched yesterday
and the last few days. My object is to watch the flights of rooks as
they pass, and try to settle if each band has a recognised leader or
not. Of course it is obvious that no one bird can lead the various
bands, for these come from over a large tract of country, whilst
even those that seem most to make one general army, fly, often at
considerable intervals of time, and quite out of sight of each other.
"A good many are already flying in the accustomed direction, but
singly, or wide apart. Each bird seems to be entirely independent.
"The first band now approaches. One rook is much in advance for some
distance. He then deviates, and is passed by the greater number of the
others, who continue on their way without regard to him.
"Another great, irregular, straggling body in which I can discern no
sign whatever of leadership. Then comes another, more compact. A rook
that at first leads by a long interval is passed by first one and then
another, so that he becomes one of the general body.
"A large band, flying very high. Two birds fly nearly parallel, at some
distance ahead.
"Two large bands, also very high. In each, one bird is a good way
ahead. The apparent leader of the second band increases his distance,
curves a good deal out of the line originally pursued, nor do the
others alter their course in accordance.
"Two other bands. In each the leader theory seems untenable. The birds
have a broadly extended front, and fly at different elevations. There
is nothing that suggests concerted movement, but, on the contrary,
great irregularity.
"In another band the apparent leader swoops down to the ground, and,
whilst only half-a-dozen or so follow him, the main body proceeds on
its way.
"Hitherto there has been a good deal of the familiar cawing noise, but,
now, a number of birds fly joyously up, hang floating in the air, make
twists and tumbles, perform antics and evolutions, and descend upon the
ground with wide parachute-like swoops from side to side, the wings
outspread and without a flap. I am first made aware of their approach
by the complete change of note. It is now the flexible, croodling,
upturned note--rising at the end, I mean--that I know not how to
describe, totally different from the 'caw,' nor do I hear a 'caw' from
any of these descending birds. It is the note of joy and sport, of
joyous sport in the air, of antics there as they sweep joyously down
through it, that I now hear. The birds that caw are flying steadily and
soberly by. The 'caw' is the steady jog-trot note of the day's daily
toil and business--'Jog on, jog on, the footpath way.'
"Another great band, of such length and straggling formation that the
birds in the latter part of it could not possibly see the leader if
there were one--or indeed, I should think, the vanguard at all. The
first bird is passed by two others, then passes one of these again, and
remains the second as long as I can see them.
"Another long flight that seems leaderless. With the 'caw' comes a
note like 'chug-a, chug-a, chug-a' (but the _u_ more as in Spanish),
and others that I cannot transcribe. This flight goes on almost
continuously--I mean without a distinct gap dividing it from another
band--for about ten minutes, when another great multitude appears,
flying at an immense height and all abreast, as it were--that is
to say, a hundred or so in a long line of only a few birds deep.
This, perhaps, would be the formation best adapted for observing and
following one bird that flew well in front, but I can see no such
one. All these birds are sailing calmly and serenely along, giving
only now and again an occasional stroke or two with the wings. Now
comes a further great assembly, in loose order, all flying in the same
direction. A characteristic of these large flights of rooks is that
their van will often pause in the air and then wheel back, circling
out to either side. The rearguard is thus checked in its advance, the
birds of either section streaming through each other, till the whole
body, after circling and hanging in the air for a little, like a black
eddying snowstorm (all at a great height), wend on again in the same
direction, towards their distant roosting-place. With the air full of
the voice of the birds, there is no caw--only the flexible, croodling,
chirruppy note that has a good deal of music in it, as well as of
expression. This note, I think, is what I have put down as 'chug-a,
chug-a, chug-a.'
"There is now a continuous straggling stream, forming ever so many
little troops. The first bird of one troop tends to become the last
of the one preceding it, and the last one the leader of the troop
following. Then come numbers, flying in a very irregular and widely
disseminated formation, yet together in a certain sense. There is much
of rising and sinking and again floating upwards, of twists and twirls
and sudden, dashing swoops downwards, from side to side, like the car
of a falling balloon; two birds often pursuing each other in this way.
"And now come two great bands, one flying all abreast, as before
described, the other forming a great, irregular, quasi-circular
rook-storm. Leadership in the latter case would be an impossibility;
in the former I see no sign of it. All these birds, though at a fair
height, are flapping steadily along in the usual prosaical manner;
through them, and far above--at a very great height indeed, the highest
I have yet seen, and far beyond anything I should have imagined--I
see another band gliding smoothly, majestically on, with scarce an
occasional stroke of the eagle-spread pinions. The one black band of
birds seen through the others, far, far above them, has a curious, an
inspiring effect."
Rooks, when in continued progress, either fly with a constant, steady
flapping of the wings, in a somewhat laboured way, though often fairly
fast, or they sail along with wings outspread, and flapping only from
time to time--this last, however, only when they are at a considerable
height. A crowd of rooks, indeed, in the higher regions of air present
a very different appearance to what they do when they fly about the
fields, even though at a fair height above the trees; their powers
of flight in each case seem of a very different kind. They can also
soar to some extent, rising higher and higher on outspread wings as
they sweep round and round in irregular circles--like gulls, but far
less perfectly, and they have to flap the wings more often. Add to
this their downward-rushing swoops, their twists, turns, tumbles,
zig-zaggings, and all manner of erratic aerial evolutions, and it must
be conceded that the powers of flight which they possess are beyond
those with which we generally associate them in our mind.
Seen thus, trooping homewards, in all their many moods and veins,
"Whether they take Cervantes' serious air,
Or laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy-chair,"
their flight, combined with their multitude, is full of effects. To-day
their widely extended bands were often, like so many black snowstorms
filling a great part of the sky. But at no time did I see anything
resembling leadership. "The many wintered crow that leads the clanging
rookery home" is--a lovely line. On no other occasion could I make
out that rooks obeyed or followed any recognised leader, and I came
to a similar negative conclusion in regard to the question of their
employment of sentinels. It is asserted in various works--for instance,
in the latest edition of Chambers's "Encyclopedia"--that they do post
sentinels. I will give two instances of their not doing so--as I
concluded--and my experience was the same on other occasions, which I
did not think it worth while to note.
"_December 22nd._--To-day, I saw a number of rooks blackening a heap
of straw by a stack, whilst some were on the stack itself. Many were
sitting in some elms near about, but they did not appear to me to be
acting the part of sentinels. When I tried to get up to the hedge in
order to watch the rooks at the stack, through it, they flew off, a
good deal later than their friends in the trees must have seen me, and
not till I was quite near. If these had really been sentinels, they
should have warned the rest, either the instant they saw me, or at any
rate, when I was obviously approaching, but this they did not do. They
were, therefore, either not sentinels or inefficient ones." The second
case, however, is more conclusive.
"_January 8th._--To-day, on my way down to the roosting-place, I pass
a number of rooks feeding in a field, and not far from the road. They
are all more or less together, there are no outposts, though of course
there is, of necessity, an outer edge to the flock. But neither on the
hedge or in any of the trees near, are there any birds to be seen. On
the other side of the field, however, and a very considerable way off,
a few are sitting in some trees. It hardly seems possible that these
can act the part of sentinels at such a distance, and even if they
were much nearer, the feeding rooks would have either to be looking
at them, to see when they flew, or else, the alarm must be given by a
very loud warning note. Bearing this in mind, I alight from my cycle,
and walk along the road. The rooks, without any dependence on sentinels
far or near, note the fact, bear a wary eye, but continue feeding. I
then stop--always an alarming measure with birds. The feeding rooks
fly off to a safer distance, the ones in the trees remain there as
silent as ever, nor is there any special note uttered by any one bird
of the flock, nor anything else whatever to suggest that any particular
bird or birds is acting the part of sentinel." There is certainly no
sentinel in this case, and in matters directly affecting their safety
one might suppose that rooks, as well as other birds and beasts, would
act in a uniform manner. This, however, we can clearly see, that when
there happen to be trees, near where they are feeding, some of them
will usually, and quite naturally, be perched in them, and average
human observation and inference may have done the rest.
Rooks, I am inclined to think, are not birds that give their conscience
into keeping. Each one of them is his own sentinel.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]