NED’S TALE OF THE BIRDS
IT was within a stone’s throw of the sea at Lamorna, that I sat and
listened to Ned’s “Tale of the Birds.”
We had been fishing the trout-stream that empties itself into the cove,
and were resting on the boulders near the bridge before turning
homewards. Ned is a good all-round sportsman, but his knowledge of birds
is remarkable, and the reason is not far to seek. His father was a
taxidermist who was regarded as an authority on British birds by Rodd
and by Gould. For some twenty years Ned assisted him in his work; but
his delight was, and is, to wander over the country in search of sport
and specimens. To this is, perhaps, chiefly due the knowledge he
possesses of the avifauna of Cornwall.
To understand the birds of Cornwall, said he, you must know that,
besides those always with us, and the migrants that reach us regularly
in the spring and autumn, many kinds of wild-fowl visit us in hard
winters and remain whilst the frost lasts. This corner of England, owing
chiefly to the warm sea about it, is milder than any other except the
Scilly Isles, and when birds are frozen out elsewhere, they can pick up
a living here. A good feeding-ground is the Land’s End district—what
with its beaches, its boggy ground and pools on the moors, and above all
the overgrown, marshy valleys, which mostly run north and south, and are
sheltered from the bitter east winds. Birds of gay plumage have been
shot in these bottoms which you would expect to meet with only in a
tropical forest—such as the hoopoe, the waxwing, the roller, the
bee-eater, and the golden oriole. Of the four hundred birds comprised in
the avifauna of the British Isles two hundred and ninety have been
observed in Cornwall, so you see that our bird-life is as rich as the
fish-life in the sea about the promontory, or the flora that makes the
face of the country so beautiful.
Now it’s out of the question my attempting to talk about nearly three
hundred different kinds of birds, so I’ll pick out a few things that may
interest you. Look! that’s a starling on the cottage chimney, and I’ll
begin with him. A few years ago you might search West Cornwall over
without seeing one—I mean in the month of August, though they came in
tens of thousands in the winter. I’ve seen the osier beds along the
Eastern Green and the reeds at Marazion Marsh black with them; and when
I was a boy I used to fire at passing flocks with a bow and arrow, as
with a great whirr of wings they skimmed over the Well field on their
way to roost. I believe that starlings have regular lines of flight, as
they seldom failed to pass over that field about sundown. To come to the
point, no sooner was winter over than they all went up-along; but now
some remain all the year round, and breed. The cause is to be found, I
believe, in the enormous increase of this bird.
Then the daws—I mean the jackdaws—are ever so much more numerous than
they used to be. In my young days they were scarce, and I used to be let
down over the cliffs with a rope round me, to get their eggs. Now you
can see them everywhere, about the old mine-ruins, about the farmhouses,
and even about the villages.
The green woodpecker is also more plentiful than it used to be.
Considering how bare of trees the country is, this is perhaps more
surprising than the increase of the starling or the daw. It is true that
some new plantations, such as those at Tregavara and Bijowans, are
growing up, and who can say but that in time we shall have jays and
nightingales, and perhaps squirrels?
The country-people say that the “tinner,” that is the “dishwasher” or
water-wagtail, is scarcer than it was before the blizzard, which must
have caused the death of tens of thousands of birds. They call it the
tinner, because it builds its nest in the mouth of the old mine-shafts.
Now I’ll tell you about the last Cornish choughs I ever saw alive. It
was away on the Rinsey Cliffs, a lone place between Pra Sands and
Porthleven; and of course I wanted to get them. I had a gun with me—as
indeed I always had, for there was no close season in those days. The
birds were on a splat of fine turf near the edge of the cliff, and
within gunshot of an old engine-house that lay beyond them. There was no
chance of my getting near enough to these birds—shy as hawks through
persecution—not even by crawling; for the surface was nearly as smooth
as a bowling-green, with only a patch of vernal squill here and there.
Lying in a dip of the ground, and all hidden up to my eyes, I could see
every movement of the two birds—a cock and a hen they were—and more, I
could hear every note they uttered. “Daw, daw,” they kept calling, a
kind of bleat, a pitiful little cry I should call it; and yet I wanted
to kill them both. Instead of getting closer to me, as I hoped, they
were, if anything, moving nearer to the engine-house. Then, thinks I,
why not get round and come at them from behind the building. This I set
out to do, making a long circuit, and at last the ruin lay between me
and them. I reached it without having seen the birds fly away, though I
could no longer hear them calling. All of a tremble with excitement, and
with the gun at full cock, I crept through a hole in the wall, made my
way round the edge of the shaft, and peeped through a chink in the wall
opposite. No choughs could I see. They were gone; and I was
disappointed, sir, I can tell ee. I went to the edge of the cliff, and
looked down. Not a bird was to be seen; nothing but a few shags on the
rocks in the white water. As I said, I never saw a chough alive again.
They were, I believe, the last of their race. It’s a pity they’re
extinct. Handsome birds I call them, with their black glossy plumage and
vermilion bill and legs. I can hear that “daw, daw” now as I sit here;
plaintive it was for a love-note.
I forgot to say that the magpie is more common than it used to be,
though the farm boys “strub” every nest they can find. Interesting birds
I call them, and a feature of the country, a homely feature, like the
pigeons I saw about the Abbey up in London, only wilder.
Yes, a magpie on a wind-clipt thorn bush, a yellow-hammer on a furze
spray, gulls behind a ploughshare, a cormorant on a rock in the green
water, and jackdaws about a broken mine-stack, are pictures downright
Cornish; and they are always with us.
Dear me, how everything comes back when you begin to talk.
If anything would make me laugh again, it would be what I once saw at
Nancothan. I was looking through a window of the farmhouse into the
orchard. Perhaps it was the peculiar behaviour of a magpie that
attracted my attention. There he was with his neck drawn out and head
thrown back, making tremendous thrusts with his beak at something on the
ground. After lunging two or three times, he turned his head on one side
and looked at whatever lay there, first with one eye, then turning his
head, with the other. It’s a comical sight is a magpie looking with one
eye at anything. Well then, he began to dig, dig again, and after a
final critical examination with each eye, flew up into an apple-tree. I
ran out to see what he had been pecking at so vigorously. What do you
think I found? why, a china nest-egg! I see that it amuses you, sir, as
it used to amuse me. It’s the funniest thing in bird-life I ever saw.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE HOME OF THE CORMORANT. [_Face page
226._]
* * * * *
There’s more tragedy than comedy however about bird-life. Many young
birds are stolen from the nests, to say nothing of finches, warblers,
linnets, and chats killed by hawks. Of course, all this is part of the
plan of nature, though to my thinking there’s a deal of cruelty in it.
What crueller thing can you imagine than a falcon cutting down a hern
winging home, say to Trevethoe Park, where they breed, with food for its
young? I never saw this; but one day, when lying up in Bosigran Cliffs
watching for seals, I saw a fight between a peregrine and a raven, in
which the raven got the worst of it. The falcon wanted the whole cliff
to itself, and in the end he had his way, for the ravens forsook their
nest.
A bird with a royal mien is a peregrine falcon, an ornament to the wild
cliffs where he breeds. I have seen him soar till he looked like a speck
in the blue, but I have never seen him stoop.
Now and again I’ve had glimpses of what is most beautiful in our
bird-life—say of a kingfisher flying low over pools left by the ebb,
when the sun catches its breast and back feathers; or what I once saw,
and only once, a hern in full breeding plumage standing still as a
statue in the shallows of a sparkling pool. I remember how lovely he
looked. It was on the moor above Lanyon Quoit, when the early furze was
in bloom; and both the hern and myself were after the trout.
For gulls, you won’t find a better place than Newlyn harbour. I have
shot the great black-back there, and the little gull, a bird no bigger
than a turtle-dove; and from the pier-head I shot a “Bonaparte” gull, a
bird that breeds in the Great Salt Lakes of America. You may ask if it
came from there. I do not know, but I believe it did. Governor Augustus
Smith of Scilly once brought my father an Esquimaux curlew. Where did
that little stranger come from, what frozen seas lit by “Northern
lights” had he flown over?
I say, there are wonderful things in bird-life, especially in their
migratory movements. Take the red-breasted flycatcher that once reached
here from the far East, or the snow-bunting whose home is within the
Arctic circle, and probably at the Pole itself. But no, you will realise
better if I take a bird you are familiar with. Consider the willow-wren
or the golden-crest. One would say that either of them is incapable of
long flights. Yet these little creatures, whose weight you can hardly
feel in your hand, cross hundreds of miles of sea without putting their
foot down, except, it may be, on a passing ship’s rigging. It’s not only
the distance covered that’s so astonishing; what guides them in their
long journey under the stars? Man navigates the ocean with the help of a
compass, but how do the myriads of migrating birds find their way? I’ve
puzzled my head many times to solve the problem, but I admit I’m beaten;
unless they possess a sense of direction such as cats and dogs
undoubtedly have, and which even the savage in the pathless forest is
said to have developed.
The 8th of May and the 11th of October or thereabouts are the times of
arrival in West Cornwall, and many’s the time I’ve watched the sun rise
over Mount’s Bay on those days. What pictures I’ve seen there! The east
afire, the west aglow with rosy light, beyond the belt of furrowy sand
the blushing sea, and on the edge of it the little strangers wading and
feeding. The dates of their departure are just as definite; and as the
time for leaving our shores draws near, the birds gather at certain
rendezvous and display great uneasiness. I have heard my father say,
“The warblers will be off soon, Ned.” He used to feed the birds in our
aviary over the porch as regular as clockwork every morning, and he
would notice how restless they were, even throwing themselves against
the bars of the cage whilst instinct stirred them.
I don’t believe any man ever understood birds better than my father; he
was that observant, and could imitate their cries so exactly, all but
talk with them, in fact. Mr Gould, when he visited Cornwall, always came
to see him, and used to hang on his words, so to speak; and that was no
mean compliment. But there, sir, you’ll think me prejudiced.
Talking of my father brings to mind an incident I will tell you. My
father was very fond of wandering about Morvah and Zennor, when he could
spare the time. You know what a lot of waste land there is in those
parishes. Scattered over the downs there are some lonely pools
frequented by birds, and in one of them I shot the only phalarope I ever
saw alive. Well, my father was stealthily approaching rather a big pool
when, to his annoyance, he saw a boy driving away some cattle that had
been drinking there. Luckily he did not pass it by, for there on the
bank, away from where the bullocks had been drinking, was a little bird
that until then had never been observed in England. It was a
buff-breasted sandpiper, and I could tell by his face when he returned
home that he had shot something very rare. Whilst I was examining the
bird by the lamp-light, my father took up the _Western Morning News_;
and when I asked him where I should put the bird for the night, he made
no answer. Tired as I knew he was, I thought this strange, because he
was such a genial man. The bad news he had seen in the paper had upset
him; that was it. The French had lost a great battle, I think it was
called Sedan. My father was very fond of the French. After Colenso, and
in the same week too with Magersfontein and Stromberg, I thought of this
incident, and I understood what my father had felt. Around our fires the
men were so quiet that the camp might have been asleep. It would seem
that such times are for thinking, not for question and answer. Forgive
me, sir, for getting so down in the dumps.
My happiest days after birds were spent on the Eastern Green and around
Marazion Marsh. I have always been fond of small wading birds, such as
sanderlings, dunlins, stint, and turnstones. Shy and wild they are, and
elegant they look, running about on the edge of the tide, following the
ebb or advancing before the flow. Days and days I’ve watched them and
returned home without firing a shot, but I’ve killed yellow-shank,
dotterel, Kentish plover, and pygmy curlew there; and once I found,
after a heavy gale, a stormy petrel washed up on the beach.
And now, perhaps I have said enough for you to understand why this
little tongue of land, whose tip is the Land’s End, has got such a hold
upon me. On the greyest day the moors are not dismal to me, nor the
shores melancholy. There’s hardly a square mile out of the hundred that
isn’t full of associations. The cliffs, the wastes of furze and heather,
the tangled bottoms, the open beaches and the little coves, are all rich
in pleasant memories; and the whistle of the curlew, the croak of raven
or hern, the scream of sea-fowl, the piping of small wading birds and
the song of the sedge-warbler are to me the music of familiar voices.
Rolling veldt, mountain range and river don’t appeal to me like the
downs, hills, and streams that I’ve got to know by heart.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE LAND’S END. [_Face page 232._]
* * * * *
“A treeless, barren waste” a man once called the Land’s End district to
my poor father, who preferred the scent of its furze to the perfume of
roses and the bell-heather before hothouse flowers. Everything wild he
liked, ay, loved; the sea-pinks, the golden samphire, the sea-holly, the
ferns in the zawns, the seaweed in the pools, the shells on the beach.
And when he was unable to move out of the house—he lived to
eighty-two—he used to sit up in the little bay-window, where he could
see the sun set, and watch for my return, and then he’d ask what birds
I’d seen, and about the flowers. The speedwell, the scarlet pimpernel,
and the forget-me-not were especial favourites of his, and I’d always
bring home one or the other in my fishing-basket. Touching it was to see
him look at them.
If ever a man loved nature with his whole soul, my father did, but above
everything he loved the birds.
But come! we must be moving. I see the gulls are winging home.
GLOSSARY
_Account_, a meeting of
mine-adventurers.
_Bal_, a mine.
_Bra’_ (brave), very, much.
_Brandis_, an iron tripod which stands
amongst the embers of turf or furze
for resting a crock or kettle on.
_Chucklehead_, a booby.
_Churchtown_ (pronounced ch’town), a
hamlet or village near a church; used
also of a town, and even of a city, as
“Lunnon ch’town.”
_Cleeves_, ledges and clefts in the face
of a cliff.
_Croust_, refreshment of cakes and cider
in harvest time; refreshment
generally.
_Crow_, a sty, a hovel.
_Custna_, couldst thou not?
_Daggin’_, very numerous, in clusters.
_Edna_, is it not?
_Flambustered_, excited, agitated.
_Fogau_, an inland cave.
_Fuggan_, a cake or pasty.
_Gurgoes_, the ruins of ancient fences
found on waste land.
_Hepping_ or _hipping stock_, a stand of
three or four steps for more easily
mounting a horse.
_High by day_, high day, broad daylight.
_Kingcrowner_, the name given to the
purple emperor, peacock or admiral
butterflies.
_Launce_, sand-eel.
_Leel_, little.
_Mazed_, greatly bewildered.
_Mizy-mazy_, confused.
_Mowhay_, rickyard.
_Niddick_ or _nuddick_, nape of the
neck.
_Pelchurs_, pilchards.
_Planchen_, a plank, a wood floor.
_Pore_, state of agitation.
_Pulcronack_ a small gudgeon-like fish.
_Quilkan_, a frog.
_Radgell_, a pile of loose rocks.
_Riffle_, a break in a roof made by a
strong wind carrying away slates or
thatch.
_Spens_, a store cupboard frequently
under the stairs.
_Stennack_ (_stannum_, tin), an
excavation made by the old miners.
_Strub_, to rob.
_Tedn_, ’tis not.
_Ticketing days_, the days on which the
tin-ore is sold by ticket at Redruth.
_To be vexed as fire_, to be in a great
passion.
_To think slight of_, to have a low
opinion of.
_To tuck a seine_, to remove the fish
with a tuck-net.
_Tubbal_, a farm implement for breaking
up ground.
_Up-along_, may mean up the road or to
some part of England outside Cornwall,
_e.g._, “He’s gone up-along, and some
do say, to Lunnon ch’town.”
_Wheal_, a mine.
_Whinnard_, the redwing.
_Wisht_, like a person ill-wished;
melancholy, dismal, sad.
_Wusta_, wilt thou?
_Zawn_, a cavern in a cliff.
* * * * *
_Dommage feasance_, mischief done.
_Male pardus_, wretched ones (poor
miserable cubs?)
_Har and tue_ (_har_ = halloo), cry and
kill.
_Gives the fico_ (_figo_), does not care
a fig.
PRINTED BY OLIVER AND BOYD, EDINBURGH
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Spelling and hyphenation have been left as in the original. Some
illustrations have been moved slightly to keep paragraphs intact.
[The end of _Wild Life at the Land's End_ by John Coulson Tregarthen]
End of Project Gutenberg's Wild Life at the Land's End, by John Tregarthen