THE WAGTAIL.
This elegant little bird belongs to the Motacilla, or Wagtail family.
There are three brothers of them in this country—the pied, the grey,
and the yellow. The pied is the most familiar, and our friend Mr.
Harrison Weir has given us a lovely picture of it at home in a cleft of
the rock, with fleshy-leaved lichens above, and green springing fronds
of the great fern, which will presently overshadow it. Around are the
solemn mountains, and the never silent water is foaming and rushing
below.
This bird has many names besides his Latin one of Motacilla. In Surrey
he is called washer, or dish-washer, by the common people, from his
peculiar motions in walking, which are thought to resemble those of a
washer-woman at her tub. The colours of the pied wagtail are simply
black and white, but so boldly and clearly marked as to produce a very
pleasing and elegant effect.
We have, every year, several wagtails in our garden, to which they add
a very cheerful feature, walking about, nodding their heads and tails
as if perfectly at home, afraid neither of dog nor cat, much less of
any human being about the place. A little running brook as one boundary
of the garden is, no doubt, one of the attractions; but here they are
seen less frequently than on the smoothly-mown lawn, where they pick up
tiny insects, gliding along with a smooth motion, accompanied by the
quick movement of head and tail.
It is bitterly cold wintry weather as I write this, and they now visit
the kitchen door, where, no doubt, little delicacies of various kinds
attract them. They are more fearless and familiar than either sparrows,
robins, or blackbirds; yet all of these are our daily pensioners,
having their breakfast of crumbs as regularly before the parlour window
as we have our own meal. Yet they fly away at the slightest sound,
and the appearance of the cat disperses them altogether. They have,
evidently, the old ancestral fear of man, stamped, as powerfully as
life itself, upon their being. They are suspicious, and always in
a flutter: nothing equals the calm self-possession of the wagtail,
excepting it be the state of mind into which the robin gets when the
gardener is turning up the fresh soil, just on purpose, as he supposes,
to find worms for him.
[Illustration:
WAGTAIL AND NEST. [Page 76.
]
[Sidenote: _Its Quest for Food._]
And now let me give you a wagtail picture, drawn by a faithful hand.[A]
It is the end of July, the young wagtails are abroad with their
parents, like human families, a month or two later, gone out or abroad
to take their holiday. “Often,” he says, “one may see them wading in
shallow places, in quest of insects and worms, carefully holding up
their tails to prevent them being draggled. If you watch the motions
of an individual just coming up to join the party, you see it alight
abruptly, twittering its shrill notes, and, perching on a small stone,
incessantly vibrate its body, and jerk out its tail.” This of course
is the polite way in which a stranger wagtail introduces itself
amongst its friends. There they are; now walking out into the water,
and looking round for food. Now they are on the shore again, running
rapidly along, picking up, now and then, a dainty morsel, and every
moment spreading out the ever-vibrating tail. Now they are in the
adjoining meadow, each one in pursuit of a fly, which it has no sooner
caught, than it spies another. The lazy geese, which have nibbled
the grass bare, allow the wagtail to pass in their midst without
molestation. When the cows are grazing in the midst of a swarm of
gnats and other insects, as Gilbert White says, as they tread amongst
the bush herbage they rouse up multitudes of insects which settle on
their legs, their stomachs, and even their noses, and the wagtails are
welcomed by the cows as benefactors. Watch them, for they are worth the
trouble; see, one comes forward and catches a small fly, bends to one
side to seize another, darts to the right after a third, and springs
some feet in the air before it secures a fourth, and all this time
others are running about after other flies, passing close to the cows’
noses or amongst their feet. With all this running to and fro, and
hither and thither, they every now and then run in each other’s way;
but they do not quarrel, aware, no doubt, that there is room enough for
them in the world, nay, even in the meadow, though it now seems to be
full of wagtails, all busily occupied, some walking, others running, a
few flying off and many arriving. You may walk in amongst them; they
are not very shy, for they will allow you to come within a few yards of
them. They may always be met with on the shore when the tide is out, as
well as in the meadow; you will meet with them by the river-side, or by
the mill-dam. Occasionally you may see them perched on a roof, a wall,
or a large stone, but very rarely on a tree or bush.
[Footnote A: “British Birds.”]
[Sidenote: _The Taunton Pair._]
They pair about the middle of April, and build by the side of rivers
in crevices of rock—as in our picture, on a heap of stones, in faggot
or wood stacks, or in a hole in a wall, but always near water and
carefully hidden from sight. The nest is made of dry grass, moss, and
small roots, thickly lined with wool and hair. The eggs are five or six
in number, of a greyish white, spotted all over with grey and brown.
As a proof of the confiding nature of this bird, I must mention that
occasionally it builds in most unimaginable places, directly under the
human eye—as, for instance, “a pair of them last summer,” says Mr.
Jesse, “built their nest in a hollow under a sleeper of the Brighton
Railway, near the terminus at that place. Trains at all times of the
day were passing close to the nest, but in this situation the young
were hatched and reared.” Mr. Macgillivray also mentions that a pair
of these birds built their nest in an old wall near a quarry, within a
few yards of four men who worked most part of the day in getting the
stone, which they occasionally blasted. The hen-bird laid four eggs,
and reared her brood, she and her mate becoming so familiar with the
quarry-men as to fly in and out without showing the least sign of fear;
but if a stranger approached they would immediately fly off, nor return
till they saw him clear off from the place. Another nest was built
beneath a wooden platform at a coal-pit, where the noisy business of
unloading the hutches brought up from the pit, was continually going
forward. But soon the wagtails were quite at home, becoming familiar
with the colliers and other people connected with the work, and flew
in and out of their nest without showing the slightest sign of fear.
Again, another pair built close to the wheel of a lathe in a workshop
at a brass manufactory at Taunton amid the incessant din of the
braziers; yet here the young were hatched, and the mother-bird became
perfectly familiar with the faces of the workmen; but if a stranger
entered, or any one belonging to the factory, though not to what might
be called her shop, she quitted her nest instantly, nor would return
till they were gone. The male, however, had much less confidence, and
would not come into the room, but brought the usual supplies of food to
a certain spot on the roof whence she fetched it. All these anecdotes
prove how interesting would be the relationship between the animal
creation and man, if man ceased to be their tyrant or destroyer.
As regards this particular bird, it is not only elegant in its
appearance, but amiable and attractive in all its ways. “They are,”
says Bewick, “very attentive to their young, and continue to feed and
train them for three or four weeks after they can fly; they defend them
with great courage when in danger, or endeavour to draw aside the enemy
by various little arts. They are very attentive also to the cleanliness
of their nests, and so orderly as to have been known to remove light
substances, such as paper or straw, which have been placed to mark the
spot.” As regards this proof of their love of order, however, I would
rather suggest that it may be a proof of their sagacity and sense of
danger: they suspected that some human visitor, of whose friendly
character they were not convinced, was intending to look in upon them,
and they thought it best, therefore, to decline the honour of his
visit.
The ordinary note of this bird, uttered rapidly if alarmed, is a sort
of _cheep, cheep_. In the summer morning, however, it may be heard
singing a pleasant, mellow and modulated little song. Like the swallow,
for which it is a match in elegance, it lives entirely on insects. If
you would only stand silently for a few minutes by a water-side, where
it haunts, you would be delighted with the grace and activity of its
movements. “There it stands,” says one of its friends, “on the top of
a stone, gently vibrating its tail, as if balancing itself. An insect
flies near; it darts off, flutters a moment in the air, seizes its
prey, and settles on another stone, spreading and vibrating its tail.
Presently it makes another sally, flutters around for a while, seizes
two or three insects, glides over the ground, swerving to either side,
then again takes its stand on a pinnacle.” Not unfrequently too it
may be seen on the roof of a house, or in a village street, still in
pursuit of insects.
[Illustration]