Watching Rooks--continued
Continuing my journal, I will now give extracts which illustrate,
principally, the return home of the rooks at night and their flying
forth in the morning--those two aspects of their daily winter life
which are the most full, perhaps, both of interest and of poetry.
"_December 9th._--This afternoon at about 3.30 I find vast numbers
of rooks gathered together on a wide sweep of land, close to their
roosting-place.
"Even now--and they are being constantly reinforced--they must amount
to very many thousands, and cover several acres, in some parts
standing thickly together, in others being more spread out. There is
an extraordinary babble of sound, a chattering note and the flexible,
croodling one being conspicuous. Combats are frequent--any two birds
seem ready to enter into one at any moment--and they commence either,
apparently, by sudden mutual desire, or else by one bird fixing a
quarrel on another, which he does by walking aggressively up to him
and daring him, so to speak. In fighting they stand front to front,
and then spring up at each other--like pheasants, but grappling
and pecking in the air as do blackbirds and small birds generally.
Sometimes one bird will be worsted in the tussle, and you instantly
see it on its back, striking up with claws and beak at the other, who
now bestrides it. It is easier to see this result than to be sure
as to the process by which it is arrived at--whether, for instance,
the overmatched bird falls, willy-nilly, on its back, or purposely
throws itself into that position, so as to strike up like a hawk or
owl. I think that this last may sometimes be the case, from the very
accustomed way in which rooks fight under such circumstances; but, no
doubt, it would only be done as a last resource. The rooks, however, do
not seem vindictive, and their quarrels, though spirited, are usually
soon over. They may end either by the weaker or the less _acharné_
bird retiring, in which case the pursuit is not very sustained or
vigorous, or else by both birds, after a short and not very rancorous
bout, pausing, appearing to wonder what they could have been thinking
about, and so walking away with mutual indifference, real or assumed.
Often one bird will decline the combat, and in this case, as far as I
can see, it is not molested by the challenger, however bullying and
aggressive this one's manner may have been. A rook coming up to another
with the curious sideway swing of the body and a general manner which
seems to indicate that he thinks himself the stronger of the two, looks
a true bully.
"One rook has just found something, and, whilst standing with it in his
bill, another comes forward to dispute it with him, but the attack is
half-hearted, and seems more like a mere matter of form. Afterwards,
when the same bird has the morsel on the ground in good pick-axeing
position, a second rook advances upon him with a quick, sideway hop,
looking cunning, sardonic, diabolic, and much for which words seem
totally wanting. But this attack, though swift and vigorous, is not
more successful than the former one. The lucky rook gets off with
his booty, and has soon swallowed it. Amongst rooks, the finding of
anything by any one of them is a recognised cause of attack by any
other. This is taken as a matter of course by the bird attacked, and if
he holds (and swallows) his own, which, as he has a clear advantage, he
generally does, no resentment is manifested by him--there is not even
a slight coolness after the incident is over. If, however, the attack
should be successful, then it is very different. The annoyance is too
great for the robbed bird, and he becomes very warm indeed. He makes
persistent violent rushes after the robber, is most pertinacious, and
clearly shows that kind of exasperation which would be felt by a man
under similar circumstances. It seems not so much his own loss, as the
success and triumphant bearing of the other bird, that upsets him. He
has failed where he ought to have been successful, and of this he seems
conscious.
"When one rook makes his spring into the air at another, this one will
sometimes duck down instead of also springing. The springer, then, like
'vaulting ambition,' 'o'erleaps himself and falls on the other side.'
I have just seen this. The rook that bobbed seemed to have scored a
point, and to know it, which the other one confessed shame-facedly--no,
indescribably, a rook _cannot_ look shame-faced. The advantage was not
followed up by the successful bird, but the combat ceased, I think, in
consequence.
"I now notice a hare a little on the outside of the phalanx of rooks,
at the part of it nearest to myself. All at once he makes a little
run towards them as if charging them, and sits down, making one of
their first line, and almost, as it seems, touching two or three.
After sitting here for some while the hare makes another little run,
this time right in amongst the rooks, several of which he puts up as
though on purpose--each of the birds giving a little jump into the air
with raised wings, and coming down again. He then sits down as before,
but this time all amongst them. This he repeats several times, making
little erratic gallops through the black crowd, in curves to one side
and another, and appearing to enjoy the fun of causing rook after rook
to jump up from the ground. Half-a-dozen times he runs right at a rook
that he might easily have avoided, and sits down amongst them two or
three times, again. At last, in a final gallop, he pierces the squadron
and continues on, over the land. This certainly appeared to me to show
a sense of fun, if not of humour, on the hare's part, and as--with a
few noted exceptions--it is the rarest thing to see one species of
animal take any notice of another, I was proportionately interested.
"It is now half-past four, and for about an hour the great assemblage
has been increased by a perpetual stream of rooks, that sail up and
descend into it with joyous wheels and sweeps. For some time, too,
flocks of the birds have been flying from the ground into trees near.
They fly by relays, and from the farthest part of the troop--that is
to say, from that part which is farthest distant from the woods where
they are to roost. First one band of birds and then another rises from
the outer extremity, flies over the rest, ascending gradually, and
wings its way to the trees. By these successive flights the assemblage
is a good deal shrunk, and does not cover nearly so much ground, when
the remainder--still an enormous number--rise like a black snowdrift
whirled by the wind into the air, and circle in a dark cloud, now
hardly visible in the darkening sky, above the roosting-trees, with a
wonderful babel of cries and noise of wings.
"At 4.40 this deep musical sound of innumerable crying, cawing,
clamouring throats is still continuing, and once, I think, the birds
rise from the trees into which they have sunk, and circle round them
again. Now they are in the trees once more, but the lovely cawing
murmur--the hum, as though rooks were rooky bees--still goes on.
"4.47.--It is sinking now. Much more subdued and slumberous,
deliciously soothing, a rook lullaby.
"_December 11th._--A stern winter's day, the earth lightly
snow-covered, but bright and fine in the morning. At 3 P.M. I am where
the rooks roost, a plantation of fir-trees--larches--dark, gloomy and
sombre, with a path, piercing them like a shaft of light, over-arched
with their boughs, silvered now with light snow-wreaths. Just in
this gloomy patch they sleep, but with a light belt of smaller firs
opposite, or with adjoining woods of oak and beech they will have
nothing to do, leaving these latter to the wood-pigeons.
[Illustration: _Rooks: A Winter Scene._]
"At 4.30 I leave the woods and find the rooks gathered in the same
place as yesterday, but in far less numbers. Shortly, a large band
flies up and swoops down with all sorts of turns and twists, and turns
right over in the air--a striking sight, the air full of the rushing
sound of their wings--a bird-storm, a black descending whirlwind. At
4.35 the rooks all fly from the ground into a small clump of fir-trees
near. Great numbers of other ones are flying up and settling in a
plantation of small firs, fringing another part of the field, quite
filling it. The snow seems to drive them from the ground, their
conclave to-day must be held in the trees.
"They are gathering, now, from all parts, filling the trees round about
the ploughed land--now all white--flying in flocks about them, then
descending into them again.
"Still coming and coming out of the sunset, specks growing into birds.
The stern, snow-covered landscape, the red glow of the sunset, and the
black, labouring pinions against it make a fine winter scene.
"4.37.--Back at the larches, and only just in time to stand concealed
within them, before the rooks are there. All seem coming, a black,
flying multitude. They have reached the larches and fly about over
them in wide, sedate circles, coming in relays, as last night. Joyous
voices--innumerable multitudes--a torrent of wings! All in a broad,
rapid, streaming flight to the larches. They sweep, dash, circle and
eddy over them, black flashes in the deepening gloom. They sweep into
them, and the snow, swept by their wings, falls in a drizzle from the
branches. Joyous, excited cries, 'chu, chu, chac, chac.' The whole
dark grove is a cry, a music. Still other bands, they burden the air.
Band after band--now with a pause between each. They fly swiftly
and steadily up, at a not much greater height than the trees, not
descending into them out of the sky.
"A longer pause, followed by another hurrying band. And now the moon
is shining through the larches, and the black, ceaseless pinions go
hurrying across its face. Groans, moans, shrieks almost, _yells_
amongst the larches, all mingled and blending--but sinking now. A
marvellous medley, a wonderful hoarse harmony! Here are shoutings
of triumph, chatterings of joy, deep trills of contentment, hoarse
yells of derision, deep guttural indignations, moanings, groanings,
tauntings, remonstrances, clicks, squeaks, sobs, cachinnations, and
the whole a most musical murmur. Loud, but a murmur, a wild, noisy,
clamorous murmur; but sinking now, softening--a lullaby.
'I never heard
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.'"
When the rooks sweep down, thus, into their roosting-trees they
frequently do so with a peculiar whirring or whizzing noise of the
wings, but although this sound is in perfect consonance with the
motion which it accompanies--insomuch that one has to use the same
words to describe each--yet it does not seem to be produced by it.
At least, it bears no relation to the height from which the birds
swoop, nor--as would seem to follow from this--with the impetus of
the descent. It may be a matter of impetus, but to me it has often
seemed more as though the sound gave the idea of impetus, or added to
it, and that the sweeps were, sometimes, just as impetuous, or even
more so, when made without it. As I observed, the birds flew to their
trees at a very moderate height--not very much, indeed, above the
trees themselves--and, whilst many made the whizzing sound, the great
majority swooped down without it. It seems, therefore, to be a special
sound produced by the rooks at pleasure, and always accompanying an
excited frame of mind. First one bird and then another gets excited,
and dashes suddenly down with the whirring or whizzing noise, so that,
as the sound is not vocal, and is only heard upon such occasions, it
has all the appearance of being caused by the quick, sudden motions
of the wings. But it is possible that some particular way of holding
the quill-feathers of the wing or even tail is required to produce it,
in combination with the general movements, and this would account for
its being sometimes heard and sometimes not heard, when these latter
are identical.[21] The curious burring note is likewise, but far less
frequently, an accompaniment of these wild excited sweepings, and this
is most often the case when they are from a considerable height. Here,
again, the note bears a clear relation to the bird's mental state, so
that it would appear that the degrees of pleasurable excitement cannot
be estimated by the motions alone. The "burr," in my opinion, when
well and loudly uttered--for here, again, there is much variety--marks
the maximum of a rook's content, at any rate in a certain direction.
[21] With regard to the above, however, I am now no longer so sure. _Je
m'en doute._ When the rooks descend from a height, the sound made is
often most remarkable, being that of a mighty rushing wind filling the
air.
"_December 15th._--At 7 A.M. I am at the point of the road
nearest to the rookery, and I hear the sweet jangle, 'the musical
confusion,' already beginning. Not much, however--subdued and
occasional--influenced, perhaps, by the heavy morning mist that hangs
over trees and earth. After a time I walk to an oak just outside the
plantation, and sit listening to the rising hubbub--now rising, now
falling. A sad, mist-hung morning, the earth lightly snow-decked; raw
and chill, but not so frostily, bitingly cold as yesterday and before.
The general intonation of the rook voice is pleasing and musical--how
much more so than the roar of an at-home as the door is flung open,
even though one has not to go through that door! There is very great
modulation and flexibility--more expression, more of a real voice
than other birds. One feels that beings producing such sounds must be
intelligent and have amiable qualities. One of the prettiest babbles in
nature!
"One catches 'qnook, qnook,' 'chuggerrer,' 'choo-oo-oo.' At intervals
the single, sudden squawk, or continued trumpeting, of a pheasant,
breaks abruptly into the sea of sound, then mingles with it. Every now
and again, too, there is a sudden increase of sound, which again sinks.
"At 7.50 the rooks are still in bed, but a pheasant--a fine
cavalier--comes running towards me over the snow. He makes a long
and very fast run for some fifty yards or so, then stops and draws
himself bolt upright, seeming to stand on tip-toe. More than upright
he is--bent back, _trying_ to look like a soldier, but _obliged_ to
be graceful and elegant. Standing thus, he seems on the very point of
trumpeting, yet does not, and then runs on again. He repeats this,
several times, each time thinking of trumpeting, but desisting and
going on.
"At 7.58 the flight out commences. Two or three birds are a little in
front, none very prominently so, and others are catching them up and
seem just on the point of passing them when they are lost to me in the
mist. There is nothing suggesting a leader. If they were led it was not
by one of themselves, for with them and in their very fore-front two
little birds were flying, who passed with them out of sight. They were
tits, I think, and in another flight out, after one of the pauses--for
the rooks fly out by relays, like the starlings--I noticed one other,
all three, I believe, being _parus cæruleus_. There are quite a number
of tits in the plantation and woods adjoining, but why just three
should leave it and go flying with the rooks through the mist, over the
open country, if not for the mere joy and fun of the thing, I know not.
All at once a number of the out-flying birds turn in their flight, and
swoop back, with a great rush of wings, to the plantation. Afterwards,
at intervals, there are other such returns, little bands of the birds
seeming to say, 'Oh, let's go back to bed. It's much nicer,' and doing
so. This, too, is exactly what the starlings do. The birds, as they
fly, are all vociferous, and the air is laden with a pleasant burden
of 'chug-chow, chug-chow, chug-chow. Chugger-chugger-chow. How-chow,
how-chow.' The rooks talk a kind of Chinese.
"At 8.20 the principal flight is over, but still there is a stream of
birds issuing out, and most of these are now going down on to the land.
All at once, these--that is to say, all the rooks on the ground--rise
and fly to the trees, the birds who have been sitting in them join them
in the air, they all fly about together over the trees, and then go off
in two or more bodies, and in different directions. There has been no
sign of a leader, or of leadership, in any of the flights out, or in
any of the birds' actions.
"At 8.45, when no more rooks are to be seen, either flying or on the
ground, I walk through the larches, and put up a good many birds who
have remained sitting in them, instead of going out with the rest.
I, then, walk all round the plantation, and find numbers of rooks
sitting in the beech-trees that edge it on one side. Though the numbers
seem small, after watching the innumerable flights out, they may yet
amount to some hundreds. Thus, some small bodies of birds, and even
some individuals, have not been influenced by the action of the vast
majority, but have sat still whilst the rest flew forth--unless,
indeed, all of them have first flown out, and then back again; but this
I do not think is the case. Two great leading principles seem to govern
all the actions of rooks--independence and interdependence. All are
influenced by all, yet all can, on any and every occasion, withstand
that influence, and think and act for themselves.
"Sometimes the sweepsback of the birds into the trees are very curious,
seeming to indicate some unknown force at work. There is a sort of
commotion--a turmoil of some sort--causing a cessation of the regular,
orderly flight, the voice varies, there is a rush of wings, and out of
this trouble, as it were, the backward swoop is born. Then the wavering
stream--or rather a certain wavering eddy in it--flies on, and again
the voice becomes the musical 'har-char, har-char' (a better rendering
than 'how-chow'), which characterises the flight out.
"It is as though a sudden surge of thought said 'Back!' and swept some
back, but a deeper, stronger surge said 'On!' and on the greater number
streamed.
"Again, the stream of flight will sometimes be interrupted by a sort of
sweeping or drifting together of a number of the birds, making an eddy
in it, as it were--an interruption and perturbation in the current,
difficult to describe, and over before one can fix the proper words to
it; but indicating some sort of emotion in the birds, a rush of feeling
of some kind, something tiresome to note, but which ought to be noted.
Once, too, I have seen a single rook flying straight back against the
general current of the stream, meeting and passing all the rest on his
way to the trees, seeming the very emblem of a fixed intent.
"These curious, pausing, and hesitating movements, in which an idea
that seems at first vague becomes, all at once, definite, seem to me
to have their origin in what may be termed collective thinking--for
this gives a better idea of the appearance of the thing than does the
term thought-transference, though that may more correctly indicate the
process. The birds do not appear to be influenced by the actions--the
external signs of thought--of each other, but numbers of them seem
similarly influenced at or about the same moment of time. In fact,
they often act as though an actual wind had swept them in this or that
direction--when this cannot have been the case, I hasten to add.
"_February 10th._--A hard black frost, bitterly, bitingly cold. At
5.30 A.M. I steal into the dark plantation, and silently take my
place at the foot of one of the tall, sighing trees. Softly as I
try to move, I disturb some of the sleeping birds, who make heavy
plunges amongst the trees, or beat about, for a little, through 'the
palpable obscure' above them. But, leaning against the trunk, I am now
rock-still, and soon they settle down again, though 'talking'--some
nervous inquiry--continues a little, breaking out first here and
then there, around where I sit. I soon notice, however, that these
outbursts have no relation to my whereabouts, but take place over the
whole plantation, and I come to the conclusion that they have nothing
to do with the late disturbance, which is now, evidently, forgotten.
The night, in fact, is passing, and the rooks are beginning to be
rooks. Such noises in the utter darkness, amidst the shroud-black
firs, sound ghostly, and may, perhaps, have given rise to the idea of
the night-raven. In the winter, it must be remembered, it is night,
practically, for some time after the peasantry of any country are up
and about; nor can I conceive of any sounds more calculated to give
rise to superstitious ideas than some of those I hear about me. In
the real night, too, a belated peasant might easily get a note or two
from some awakening rook, and, both by virtue of time and place, and
the actual quality of the sound--as I can testify--it would sound
very different to what he was accustomed to in the daytime. It is
probable that, in a country where ravens were known, and inspired
those superstitious feelings which they always have inspired, such
sounds, issuing out of the darkness, would be ascribed to them, rather
than to the homely rook; and here we should have the night-raven--a
bird 'frequently met with in fiction, but, apparently, nowhere else.'
Possibly, however, the raven itself may sometimes utter its boding
croak through the darkness, and ravens have been, and, in some parts,
still are, numerous.
"Gradually the plantation becomes quite a wonderful study of sounds,
there being an extraordinary variety, and some of them most remarkable.
One, that seems deep down in the throat, suggests castanets being
played there, but castanets of a very liquid kind, water-castanets,
if such there could be, but, if not, it gives the idea. This curious
sound is only uttered occasionally by some particular rook, and it
recalls--perhaps is--the well-known burring note that I have heard
under such different circumstances. If so, it can only be as a
recollection that the bird utters it. I have not the space to reason
this, but, assuming it to be so, may we not see, here, one of the
alleys leading up to language? A certain sound is uttered during the
doing of a certain thing. It becomes associated in the mind with
that thing, with the doing of it, and with the state of mind under
the influence of which it is done. At first, perhaps, unconsciously,
then consciously, it is uttered when such action is recalled, and
the utterance recalls it, also, to the mind of whoever hears. Here,
then, is a certain well-understood sound conveying a certain idea or
ideas--as, first, 'burr,' a particular kind of joyous flight: then,
'burr,' something as joyous as such flight, and so, joy: and lastly,
'burr,' the actual joyous flying, the root, therefore, of the verb
'burr,' to fly joyously, and, so, to fly. Darwin supposes language to
owe its origin 'to the imitation and modification of various natural
sounds, the voices of other animals and man's own instinctive cries,
aided by signs and gestures.' To repeat a certain sound, that had
been at first the mere mechanical adjunct of a certain act or state,
when one recalled that act or state, would be, as it seems to me, an
extremely early--perhaps the earliest--step, passing imperceptibly from
feeling into thought, and leading on to imitation. Such speculations
may be permitted one, in a dark fir-plantation, surrounded by rooks and
waiting for the morning.
"One thing, however, I record as a fact, which appears to me somewhat
curious. Though the plantation is continuous, without any break other
than the narrow path that runs through its centre, and though it is
simply crowded with rooks, every tree holding a great many, yet I
notice that an outbreak of sound in any particular part of it does
not spread over the whole, as one might have supposed that it would,
but dies gradually out, as it radiates from the point where it arose.
Thus, there are zones of sound, isolated from each other by intervening
areas of silence. Just at this moment, after I have sat, for some time,
silent, and all alarm has subsided, there is a great clamorous outburst
some little way off. It must have some special cause which I cannot
divine, but this commotion does not, any more than the lesser ones,
spread itself through the packed community, but is strictly isolated.
How strange this seems! A parliament (though I heard no nonsense
talked) of lively, eminently gregarious birds, all of which are noisy
at one time or another, and from the thick of them a storm of clamour
bursts: would not one think that the birds sitting cheek by jowl with
the stormers would storm too, and so 'pass it on'? Why should there be
a periphery, and what should limit the chorus except the bound of the
plantation itself? Do crowds shout in patches? That the clamour should
cease, after a time, is, of course, natural, but why, though it died
along the road by which it travelled, should it not keep travelling on,
through all the black, serried ranks? If rooks were influenced only
by the outward manifestations of each other's emotions, one might,
surely, expect this. But now, if they were influenced more by the
thought itself, rapidly transmitted from one to another of them, then,
whenever this factor ceased, for whatever reason, to act, the birds
beyond the limits of its action might be unaffected by the cries of
those who had felt its influence, for they would have been accustomed
to look for a sign from within, and not from without. They might then
hear, on some occasions, without being _impelled_, though on other
occasions they might _choose_, to join. It may be difficult to realise
such a psychical state, but that does not, of itself, make the state
impossible. Its possibility would depend upon the reality or not of
collective thinking, or thought-transference, and observation is (or
should be) our only means of deciding as to this.
"As light struggles out of the darkness, the silence is broken more and
more frequently, at some point or other of the plantation, so that the
sound is disseminated over a larger and larger space, till, for some
little while before the flight, the whole rookery seems to be talking
at one and the same time. In reality, however, there is a constant
cessation and renewal on the part of each individual bird.
"At 6.30 the sounds take a deeper and more emphatic tone. There is more
solemnity, more meaning, and the meaning grows plainer and plainer as
the asseveration becomes more and more emphatic, that 'it is, yes is,
is really, positively is, is, is, is, _is_ the morning.'
"At 6.35 there is the light, joyous 'chug-a, chug-a, chug-a,' besides
which one catches--if one has a good ear--'hook, chook,--hook,
took--hook-a-hoo-loo--chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck,
chuck,--polyglot, polyglot.'
"Then there is a question--a serious and solemnly propounded
question--'Quow-yow?' The answer--from another rook--is immediate and
undoubted--'Yow-quow.'
"There are sounds which just miss being articulate and just evade one's
efforts to write them down. It is significant that I have to use the
word 'talking' to describe the rook's utterances. It is the one word;
another would sound forced and strained.
"Throughout the babel, there is a tendency for it to sink and rise in
sudden accentuations and diminishments. Now there is a diminishment,
and a bird in the tree next to mine gives a sleepy stretch out of one
wing, which has all the appearance of a yawn. But I see no other bird
yawning, nor do I notice any toilette, any preening of the feathers.
"Now, at close on 7, the flight out is preceded by a flight of the
birds inside the plantation, from one tree to another, and this passes,
gradually, into the full forth-streaming. Just above the trees, now,
they pass in endless flakes of a black and living snowstorm. Their
flight is swift, hurrying, joyous. They flap, but there are, often,
long sweeps on outspread wings, between the flaps. And ever, as
they fly, they greet the cold, stern morning with their joy-song of
'chow-how, a-chuck, a-chuck, a-chuck, a-chuck, a-chuck-a.'
"Nearly a month later, a smaller, but still numerous, body of the birds
had chosen a new roosting-place--a clump of Scotch firs on a lonely
heath, which had stood vacant all the winter, a point interesting in
itself, but which--for the old reason--I am unable to discuss.
"_March 4th._--I got to the plantation towards the end of the
afternoon, and resolved to wait there, in order to see wood-pigeons fly
into it in the evening. Not many came, but at six o'clock I saw what
I thought was a large band of them fly into an oak-tree which I had
noticed just outside the plantation, where they remained for a minute
or two. They then flew on to the plantation, sweeping over it once
or twice before settling, and I saw that they were rooks. As will be
seen from this, they had hitherto been silent. When they had settled
in the trees there was some talking, but strangely little, I thought,
for rooks, and very soon afterwards there was hardly a sound. They
remained thus, for some little time. All at once, with extraordinary
suddenness, with a sound of wings so compact and instantaneous that it
was almost like the report of a gun, the whole troop burst suddenly
out of the trees, which were on the outer edge of the plantation, flew
a little way over the heath (I caught them against the fading red of
the sky), wheeled round, returned, and shot into them again. There
was a little cawing as they got back, but this soon sank, and again
there was silence. Then, in a moment, there was the same sudden rush
of wings, and the whole black cloud shot, like one bird, into the
open sky, wheeled again, and shot back, as before. This occurred nine
times in succession, at intervals of not longer, I should think, than
three or four minutes. In the later rushes the birds circled several
times--flying out again, each time, over the moor--before resettling in
the trees. After the last time they settled in a different part of the
plantation. Immediately before two of the rushes out, I heard a loud
'caw,' in rather a high-pitched tone, from a single rook, which seemed
to be the signal for the exodus, whilst, almost immediately afterwards,
there was another single note of quite a different character--deeper
and more guttural--from either the same or another bird still in the
trees, which seemed to call the rest back again. A well understood
signal-note indeed, would be the easiest way of accounting for these
sudden and extraordinarily simultaneous flights and returns, but it was
only twice out of the nine times, that this explanation seemed tenable.
On other occasions, the caw, at starting, seemed only one of many, or
did not correspond so exactly, in point of time, with the sudden flight
out, as the theory seemed to require, whilst the deep 'quaw,' which
seemed to be made by one particular rook, who always stayed behind, and
which I had at first thought called the others back, would be heard
directly after they had flown, as well as after they had returned.
Several times, too, the black cloud and thunder-storm of wings seemed
to burst out of silence itself. I came to the conclusion that a
signal-note was not the explanation. All I can say is, that--from what
cause or actuated by what impulse, I know not--some fifty to a hundred
rooks shot, as though they shared one soul, nine times in succession,
from those dark pines, circled a little over the dusky moor, and then
shot back into them again. No one, except myself, was near. It was one
of those very lonely places where, at almost any time, one can count
upon seeing no one, and, altogether, it struck me as an extraordinary
phenomenon.
"Once more, the old Greek idea of the φημη--a sudden thought, sweeping
through a crowd as a wind sweeps through a grove of trees--seemed to me
to be the only view which met the facts. But what, then, is the φημη,
and whence, or why, the impulse?
"All this time, I should say, though quite near, I was perfectly
concealed, standing against a tall pine-tree, around the trunk of which
I had helped to make a wigwam--already partly formed--of some of its
own fallen and bending branches. This, with the gloom of the plantation
itself, and the falling night, was a perfect concealment, even at a
foot's pace, as will shortly appear.
"It was just after the last return of the out-shooting birds that,
looking up, I saw what I at first supposed was they, but soon found
to be another, and a very much more numerous, band of rooks, who, as
they came up, were joined by the other ones, in the air. Now, for the
first time--for the cloud came up in silence, and, since the last
flight out, there had been silence in the plantation too--there was
a tremendous clamour of voices, filling the whole place, and then a
black, whirling snowstorm of rooks began to shoot, whirr and whizz
about, over, into, through, and amongst the fir-trees, in a most
extraordinary manner. The rapidity with which they shot about, their
hurtlings, their sideway-rushing sweeps and swoops, their quick, smooth
turns and gliding zig-zags, avoiding, by miracle, each other and the
trunks of trees, was most extraordinary, whilst the whishing noise of
their wings through the air was almost frightening. The plantation
seemed to be a huge disturbed bee-hive, with great black bees dashing
angrily about it. It was a snowstorm with the flakes gone mad; but
black, a black, living bird-storm, and it produced in me a feeling of
excitement, a peculiar, almost a new, sensation, analogous, perhaps,
to what the birds themselves were feeling. What struck me and made
it more interesting, was that it was a special exhibition, a 'set
thing,' something indulged in by the birds with a peculiar pleasure
in the indulgence, something appertaining to the home-coming--the
'_heimkehr_'--emanating from and requiring a particular, psychical
state. This is by far the finest display of the kind I have yet
seen, and I was in the very midst of it. Considering the number of
birds--there must, I think, have been several hundreds--the speed at
which they dashed about and the smallness of the space in which so many
were moving with such violence, and so erratically, it seems wonderful
that they never came into collision, either with one another or the
trunks or branches of the fir-trees. In the plantation, when I came
into it, two dead rooks were lying, and I had also picked up a dead one
in the larger roosting-place. The keeper said it had been 'turned out,'
which was vague, and then, more definitely, that rooks sometimes died
of old age. It seems not impossible, or even improbable, that in these
violent whizzings of a great number of rooks together, amongst closely
growing trees, and in the gloom of evening fading slowly into night,
accidents may, sometimes, occur. The rooks, I should say, in their
violent whizzing darts and dashes, shot down, sometimes, to about half
the height of the trees, and were, in general, right in amongst them.
This wonderful scene of bird excitement, lasted, I should think, about
ten minutes, in full action, but grew fainter as the trees became more
and more packed with birds, till, at length, all were settled. Every
tree held several. On two slender ones--not pines but birches--just in
front of me, and but a step or two off, there must have been more than
twenty. The noise and clamour, during the whole time, was tremendous."
It is not always that rooks dash thus madly to rest. Here--on the very
next evening and at the same place--is another type of the home-coming.
"_March 5th._--A little after 5.30, a hooded crow flies into the clump
of pines. Whether it stays there for the night, with the rooks, I
cannot tell, but it does not seem to me improbable. I have seen single
birds of the former species flying amidst large bands of the latter,
and they are constantly together in the fields, where they behave, in
regard to each other, very much as though they were of the same species.
"At 6.10, which is later than the first batch of rooks came yesterday,
five birds fly over the plantation but do not go down into it.
"At 6.15 a large, united flock of, perhaps, six or seven hundred fly up
from over the ploughed land skirting the moor. They utter the 'chug-a,
chug-a' note, characteristic of the homeward flight, but quietly; there
is very little noise. Just before reaching the plantation they make a
sort of circling eddy in the air--becoming, as it were, two streams
that drift through each other--then sail on together and circle some
three or four times exactly over it, before descending into its midst.
This they do without any of the excited sweeping about of yesterday,
and though, of course, the voice of so many birds is considerable, yet,
comparatively, it is very subdued, and in a very short time--about five
minutes--they all seem settled. Before long, however, some of them,
but quite an inconsiderable number, rise and fly about over the trees
again, but soon resettle, and there is, now, a deepening silence. No
one could imagine that that little lonely clump of trees held all that
great army of birds. All, to-night, has been wonderfully decorous.
There was something majestic in the way the rooks flew up--slow-seeming
yet swiftly-moving. Their flight round, over the trees, before sinking,
like night and with the night, upon them, was a fine sombre scene--the
thickening light ('light thickens and the crow ----'), the silent,
lonely-spreading moor, the gloomy trees, and, above them, slow-circling
in the dusky air, that inky cloud of life. It was gloomy, the
effect--saddening, yet with the joy of nature's sadness. The spirit of
Macbeth was in it--'Here on this blasted heath'--
'Good things of day begin to droop and drowse,
Whilst night's black agents to their prey do rouse.'
"But they sank peacefully down, and all of evil seemed to go, with
their sweet, joyous, innocent, and well-loved voices."
Here is one last picture, and I would point out that, on all these
three occasions, when the rooks slept in changed quarters, at a later
time of the year, the way in which they approached or entered the
trees, and the height at which they flew, varied, in a greater or less
degree, from what it had been before.
"_March 11th._--At 6.20 a small band of rooks comes flapping along in
the usual jog-trot way, and enters the plantation. Some five minutes
afterwards a very large number sail up, flying at a great height, and
gather like a storm-cloud above it. They hang over it, then drift,
circling, a little, descending gradually on outspread wings, till, when
at a moderate height above the tree-tops, they begin to shoot down into
them in the rapid, whizzing manner before described. But they do not
all do this at the same time. It is a slow and gradual--in its first
stages almost a solemn--entry, and the shooting down itself becomes,
gradually, less rapid. How grand is this to witness! It is a living
storm-cloud discharging its black winged rain--a simile, indeed, which
can hardly fail to suggest itself, so apparent is the resemblance. At
a distance, I think, the two might be really confounded. The gradual
sinking of the birds, by fine gradations and almost imperceptibly,
from their vast height, is more like an atmospheric than an organic
phenomenon. The effect is heightened by the loneliness and utter
silence, by the deepening shadows. Night sinks as they sink, but
the moon is now becoming luminous, and the swish and 'coo-ee,
hook-a-coo-ee' of peewits is about one on one's way back, over the
heath."
I will conclude this fragment of my rook diary by giving a list of some
of the distinct notes or sounds which I have, at different times, heard
the birds utter. It is but a small page out of their vocabulary, but it
may, perhaps, serve to draw attention to the great powers of modulation
and inflexion which these birds possess. I must confess that the way in
which the voice of the rook is usually spoken of makes me wonder. To
me it has often seemed as though these birds were really in process of
evolving a language. In only a few cases, however, have I been able--or
have I thought myself able--to connect a note with any particular act
or state of mind. Here is the list:
Caw (the ordinary "caw" more or less).
Chĭ-choo, chĭ-choo, chĭ-choo.
Cha.
Chug-a, chug-a, chug-a.
Chug-chaw.
Chack-a, chack-a.
Choo (very prolonged).
Chuck (loud, clear, and distinct).
Chee-ow (very lengthened).
Hă-chă ("a" as in "hat").
Har-char.
How-chow, or chow-how.
Hoo, hoo.
Hook-a-hoo.
Hook-a-hoo-loo.
Kwubba-wubba.
Ow (prolonged, a peculiar musical piping note).
Polyglot (or something remarkably like it).
Quar-r-r-r.
Quor-r-r-r-r-r (very prolonged, and deep, as in remonstrance).
Quow-yow, or yow-quow.
Shook, shook, shook (soft and quickly repeated. Have heard it uttered
by rooks when flying home belated, after the great majority had
settled in the roosting-trees).
Tchar.
Tchar-r-r (with a little roll in it).
Tchu or tew.
Tchoo-oo (very deep and guttural).
The peculiar "burring" note (uttered, but by no means always, when
the birds swoop down on to trees, especially the roosting-trees.
It is not heard very frequently).
A peculiar sound like a kind of bleat, with a very complaining tone
in it.
A short, sharp, single note, much higher than the ordinary caw.
A kind of grating scream, much higher than the usual tone.
A hoarse "mew," or "miaul" almost, as though a rook were trying to
imitate a cat, or a cat a rook.
The liquid castanet-note in the throat, suggesting the "burr," but
not quite it.
Various other curious little sounds in the throat, some of them
clicks.
[Illustration]