THE CHIFF-CHAFF, OR OVEN-BUILDER.
The Chiff-chaff, chill-chall, lesser pettichaps, or oven-builder, is
one of the great bird-family of warblers, and the smallest of them in
size; indeed, it is not much larger than the little willow-wren. Like
all its family it is a bird of passage, and makes its appearance here,
in favourable seasons, as early as the 12th of March—earlier than
the warblers in general—and also remains later, having been known to
remain here to the middle of October.
[Illustration:
CHIFF-CHAFFS AND NEST. [Page 66.
]
It is a remarkably cheerful little bird, and is warmly welcomed by all
lovers of the country as being one of the first visitants of spring,
sending its pleasant little voice, with an incessant “chiff-chaff,”
“chery-charry,” through the yet leafless trees.
Its plumage is dark olive-green; the breast and under part of the body,
white, with a slight tinge of yellow; the tail, brown, edged with pale
green; legs, yellowish-brown.
The nest is not unlike that of a wren, built in a low bush, and,
sometimes, even on the ground. The one so beautifully and faithfully
depicted by Mr. Harrison Weir, seems to be amongst the tallest grasses
and picturesque growths of some delicious woodland lane. It is a
lovely little structure; a hollow ball wonderfully put together, of
dry leaves and stems of grass, and a circular hole for entrance at
the side; lined with soft feathers—a little downy bed of comfort. The
mother-bird, as we now see her, sits here in delicious ease on five or
six white eggs, beautifully spotted with rich red-brown.
[Sidenote: _Mr. Howitt’s Account of this Bird._]
This dainty little bird, which seems made alone for pleasure, is
very useful to man, and should be made kindly welcome everywhere,
living entirely on caterpillars and other troublesome and destructive
creatures. The Rev. J. G. Wood says that it saves many a good oak from
destruction by devouring, on its first arrival, the caterpillars of
the well-known green oak-moth, which roll up the leaves in so curious
a manner, and come tumbling out of their green houses at the slightest
alarm.
He says, also, that a little chiff-chaff, which had been caught and
tamed, was accustomed to dash to the ceiling of the room in which it
was kept, and to snatch thence the flies which settled on the white
surface.
My husband, writing of this bird, says:—
“Gilbert White gave, I believe, the name of chiff-chaff to this
little bird from its note. In the midland counties it is called the
chill-chall from the same cause; and, indeed, this name is, to my ear,
more accordant with its continuous ditty. Its cheery little voice is
one of the pleasantest recognitions of returning spring. It is sure to
be heard, just as in former years, in the copse, the dell, the belt
of trees bordering a wayside; we catch its simple note with pleasure,
for it brings with it many a memory of happy scenes and days gone
by. We see the little creature hopping along the boughs of the yet
only budding oak, and know that it is as usefully employed for man
as agreeably for itself. It tells us, in effect, that sunny days,
flowers, and sweet airs, and the music of a thousand other birds, are
coming. We revert to the time when, tracing the wood-side or the bosky
dingle in boyhood, we caught sight of its rounded nest amongst the
screening twigs of the low bush, and the bleached bents of last year’s
grapes. We remember the pleasure with which we examined its little
circular entrance, and discovered, in its downy interior, its store
of delicate eggs, or the living mass of feathery inmates, with their
heads ranged side by side and one behind another, with their twinkling
eyes and yellow-edged mouths. Many a time, as we have heard the ever
blithe note of chill-chall, as it stuck to its unambitious part of the
obscure woodland glade, we have wished that we could maintain the same
buoyant humour, the same thorough acceptance of the order of Providence
for us. As Luther, in a moment of despondency, when enemies were rife
around him, and calumny and wrong pursued him, heard the glad song of a
bird that came and sang on a bough before his window, we have thanked
God for the lesson of the never-drooping chill-chall. The great world
around never damps its joy with a sense of its own insignificance; the
active and often showy life of man, the active and varied existence of
even birds, which sweep through the air in gay companies, never disturb
its pleasure in its little accustomed nook. It seems to express, in its
two or three simple notes, all the sentiment of indestructible content,
like the old woman’s bird in the German story by Ludwig Tieck—
Alone in wood so gay,
’Tis good to stay,
Morrow like to-day
For ever and aye;
Oh, I do love to stay
Alone in wood so gay!
[Sidenote: _The Bird’s Ditty._]
“This little bird appears to feel all that strength of heart, and to
put it into its little ditty, which seems to me to say—
“Here I continue ‘cheery cheery, and still shall, and still shall!’”
[Illustration]