THE MISSEL-THRUSH.
This is the largest of our British song birds. It remains with us
through the whole year, not being migratory, excepting in so far as it
moves off in considerable flocks into Herefordshire and Monmouthshire
for the sake of the mistletoe which abounds in the orchards there,
on the viscous berries of which it delights to feed, and whence it
has obtained its familiar name of missel, or mistletoe thrush. It is
generally believed that this curious parasitic plant was propagated or
planted upon the branches of trees, by this bird rubbing its bill upon
the rough bark to clean it from the sticky substance of the berry, and
thus introducing the seeds into the interstices of the bark.
[Illustration:
MISSEL-THRUSHES AND NEST. [Page 106.
]
The Missel-thrush is a handsome bird; the head, back, and upper coverts
of the wings olive-brown, the latter tipped with brownish-white,
spotted with brown; the breasts and under parts pale yellow, covered
with black spots; the legs are yellow and the claws black.
It is a welcome bird, being the earliest harbinger of spring, the first
singer of the year. Long before the swallow is thought of, before even
the hardy familiar robin has begun his song, its clear rich voice
may be heard on Christmas or New Year’s day, often amidst wild winds
and winterly storms, whence its also familiar name, the storm-cock.
It is known by different names in different parts of the country.
The origin of its more general appellation—the missel-thrush—I have
already mentioned. In the midland counties it is called the thrice
cock, but why I know not. In Wales it is known as _Pen-y-llwyn_, which
means the head or master of the coppice. Why it is so called I will
mention presently.
[Sidenote: _A Description of the Nest._]
The nest of the missel-thrush is large and well constructed, being
made of almost every material ordinarily used for nest-making
purposes—moss, and hay, and straw, and dry leaves, and little twigs,
and locks of wool, with occasional odds and ends of every possible
kind. All these are woven and wrought together very compactly; not,
however, without loose straws and little tangles of wool hanging about.
Within is a smooth casing of mud, as in the nest of the throstle, and
within that a second coating of dry grass. Our picture represents all
as being now complete. The busy labours of the year are now over; the
eggs, four or five in number, of a greenish-blue, marked with reddish
spots, are laid, and the mother-bird has taken her patient seat upon
them, whilst her mate, from the branch above, sings as if he never
meant to leave off again.
The song of this bird is loud, clear, and melodious—a cheering,
hopeful song; and when heard amidst the yet prevailing winter-storms,
as if in anticipation of better times, it well deserves our admiration.
It resembles, to a certain degree, the song of the blackbird and the
thrush, and is often mistaken for them; but it has not the short,
quick, and varied notes of the one, nor the sober, prolonged, and
eloquent melody of the other. On the contrary it is of an eager,
hurrying character, as if it could not sufficiently express its
emotion, and yet was trying to do so.
The missel-thrush is a bird of very marked character, and is both bold
and chivalrous. Its harsh, jarring note of anger and defiance is the
first to be heard when a bird-enemy is at hand. If a cuckoo or hawk is
anywhere near meditating mischief, the missel-thrush is vehement in his
expression of displeasure. In our own neighbourhood, where the jays in
summer come from the wood to carry the young of the sparrows from their
nests in the ivied boles of the trees round our garden, the outcry of
the parent sparrows instantly arouses the sympathetic missel-thrushes,
who, with a scolding defiance, rush to the rescue. Of course these
birds, which are of so militant a character, and so loud in protesting
against a wrong done to another, will be equally alive to their own
rights, and active in defending their own nests and young. Some
naturalists have suggested that this combatant temper and extraordinary
courage are but the natural consequence of the bird finding its nest
open to common attack; for, being of a large size, and built early in
the year whilst the trees are yet leafless, it is visible to every
enemy and depredator.
Mr. Thompson says: “Often have I seen a pair of these birds driving off
magpies, and occasionally fighting against four of them. One pair which
I knew attacked a kestrel which appeared in their neighbourhood when
the young were out. One of them struck the hawk several times, and made
as many more fruitless attempts, as the enemy, by suddenly rising in
the air, escaped the cunning blow. They then followed the kestrel for a
long way, until they were lost to our sight in the distance.”
The old Welsh name of “master, or head of the coppice,” refers to the
same warlike spirit. “The missel-thrush,” says Gilbert White, “suffers
no magpie, jay, or blackbird to enter the garden where he haunts, and
is, for the time, a good guardian of the new-sown crops. In general, he
is very successful in defence of his family. Once, however, I observed
in my garden that several magpies came determined to storm the nest of
the missel-thrush. The parent-birds defended their mansion with great
vigour, and fought resolutely. But numbers at last prevailed, and the
poor missel-thrushes had the pain of seeing their nest torn to pieces,
and their young carried off.”
[Sidenote: _The Gardeners’ Enemy._]
The missel-thrushes, however, as the year goes on, make for themselves
enemies even more formidable than hawks or magpies; these are the
gardeners. Towards the end of summer, when the young have flown,
and they and the parent-birds congregate in large flocks, having
then nothing to do but to enjoy themselves, like human families when
children are all home for the holidays, they too go abroad on their
excursions of pleasure; not, however, to sea-side watering places, but
into gardens where the cherries and raspberries are ripe. Poor birds!
Little aware of their danger, or if they be so, defiant of it in the
greatness of the temptation, they make sad havoc amongst the fruit,
and many unfortunates are shot or snared, and then hung up amidst the
cherry-boughs or the raspberry-canes as a terror to their associates.
It is a pity we cannot make them welcome to some and yet have enough
left for ourselves.
The berries of the mountain-ash and the arbutus, and later on in the
year those of the holly and ivy, supply them with food, as do also
in the spring and summer insects of various kinds—caterpillars and
spiders—so that in this respect they are good friends to the gardener,
and might, one thinks, be made welcome to a little fruit in return.
[Illustration]