The street-sellers of birds are called by themselves “hawkers,” and
sometimes “bird hawkers.”
Among the bird-catchers I did not hear of any very prominent
characters at present, three of the best known and most prominent
having died within these ten months. I found among all I saw the
vagrant characteristics I have mentioned, and often united with a
quietness of speech and manner which might surprise those who do not
know that any pursuit which entails frequent silence, watchfulness,
and solitude, forms such manners. Perhaps the man most talked of by
his fellow-labourers, was Old Gilham, who died lately. Gilham was his
real name, for among the bird-catchers there is not that prevalence
of nicknames which I found among the costermongers and patterers. One
reason no doubt is, that these bird-folk do not meet regularly in the
markets. It is rarely, however, that they know each other’s surnames,
Old Gilham being an exception. It is Old Tom, or Young Mick, or Jack,
or Dick, among them. I heard of no John or Richard.
For 60 years, almost without intermission, Old Gilham caught birds.
I am assured that to state that his “catch” during this long period
averaged 100 a week, hens included, is within the mark, for he was a
most indefatigable man; even at that computation, however, he would
have been the captor, in his lifetime, of three hundred and twelve
thousand birds! A bird-catcher who used sometimes to start in the
morning with Old Gilham, and walk with him until their roads diverged,
told me that of late years the old man’s talk was a good deal of where
he had captured his birds in the old times: “‘Why, Ned,’ he would say
to me, proceeded his companion, ‘I’ve catched goldfinches in lots at
Chalk Farm, and all where there’s that railway smoke and noise just by
the hill (Primrose Hill). I can’t think where they’ll drive all the
birds to by and bye. I dare say the first time the birds saw a railway
with its smoke, and noise to frighten them, and all the fire too, they
just thought it was the devil was come.’ He wasn’t a fool, wasn’t old
Gilham, sir. ‘Why,’ he’d go on for to say, ‘I’ve laid many a day at
Ball’s Pond there, where it’s nothing but a lot of houses now, and
catched hundreds of birds. And I’ve catched them where there’s all
them grand squares Pimlico way, and in Britannia Fields, and at White
Condic. What with all these buildings, and them barbers, I don’t know
what the bird-trade’ll come to. It’s hard for a poor man to have to go
to Finchley for birds that he could have catched at Holloway once, but
people never thinks of that. When I were young I could make three times
as much as I do now. I’ve got a pound for a good sound chaffinch as I
brought up myself.’ Ah, poor old Gilham, sir; I wish you could have
seen him, he’d have told you of some queer changes in his time.”
A shopkeeper informed me that a bird-catcher had talked to him of
even “queerer” changes. This man died eight or ten years ago at an
advanced age, but beyond the fact of his offering birds occasionally
at my informant’s shop, where he was known merely as “the old man,” he
could tell me nothing of the ancient bird-catcher, except that he was
very fond of a talk, and used to tell how he had catched birds between
fifty and sixty years, and had often, when a lad, catched them where
many a dock in London now stands. “Where there’s many a big ship now in
deep water, I’ve catched flocks of birds. I never catched birds to be
sure at them docks,” he would add, “as was dug out of the houses. Why,
master, you’ll remember their pulling down St. Katherine’s Church, and
all them rummy streets the t’other side of the Tower, for a dock.” As I
find that the first dock constructed on the north side of the Thames,
the West India dock, was not commenced until the year 1800, there
seems no reason to discredit the bird-catcher’s statement. Among other
classes of street-sellers I have had to remark the little observation
they extended to the changes all around, such as the extension of
street-traffic to miles and miles of suburbs, unknown till recently.
Two thousand miles of houses have been built in London within the last
20 years. But with the bird-catchers this want of observance is not so
marked. Of necessity they must notice the changes which have added to
the fatigues and difficulties of their calling, by compelling them,
literally, to “go further a-field.”
A young man, rather tall, and evidently active, but very thin, gave
me the following account. His manners were quiet and his voice low.
His dress could not so well be called mean as hard worn, with the
unmistakable look of much of the attire of his class, that it was not
made for the wearer; his surtout, for instance, which was fastened
in front by two buttons, reached down to his ancles, and could have
inclosed a bigger man. He resided in St. Luke’s, in which parish there
are more bird-catchers living than in any other. The furniture of his
room was very simple. A heavy old sofa, in the well of which was a bed,
a table, two chairs, a fender, a small closet containing a few pots
and tins, and some twenty empty bird-cages of different sizes hung
against the walls. In a sort of wooden loft, which had originally been
constructed, he believed, for the breeding of fancy-pigeons, and which
was erected on the roof, were about a dozen or two of cages, some old
and broken, and in them a few live goldfinches, which hopped about very
merrily. They were all this year’s birds, and my informant, who had “a
little connection of his own,” was rearing them in hopes they would
turn out good specs, quite “birds beyond the run of the streets.” The
place and the cages, each bird having its own little cage, were very
clean, but at the time of my visit the loft was exceedingly hot, as the
day was one of the sultriest. Lest this heat should prove too great for
the finches, the timbers on all sides were well wetted and re-wetted at
intervals, for about an hour at noon, at which time only was the sun
full on the loft.
“I shall soon have more birds, sir,” he said, “but you see I only
put aside here such as are the very best of the take; all cocks, of
course. O, I’ve been in the trade all my life; I’ve had a turn at other
things, certainly, but this life suits me best, I think, because I have
my health best in it. My father--he’s been dead a goodish bit--was a
bird-catcher as well, and he used to take me out with him as soon as I
was strong enough; when I was about ten, I suppose. I don’t remember
my mother. Father was brought up to brick-making. I believe that most
of the bird-catchers that have been trades, and that’s not half a
quarter perhaps, were brick-makers, or something that way. Well, I
don’t know the reason. The brick-making was, in my father’s young days,
carried on more in the country, and the bird-catchers used to fall in
with the brick-makers, and so perhaps that led to it. I’ve heard my
father tell of an old soldier that had been discharged with a pension
being the luckiest bird-catcher he knowed. The soldier was a catcher
before he first listed, and he listed drunk. I once--yes, sir, I dare
say that’s fifteen year back, for I was quite a lad--walked with my
father and captain” (the pensioner’s sobriquet) “till they parted for
work, and I remember very well I heard him tell how, when on march
in Portingal--I think that’s what he called it, but it’s in foreign
parts--he saw flocks of birds; he wished he could be after catching
them, for he was well tired of sogering. I was sent to school twice or
thrice, and can read a little and write a little; and I should like
reading better if I could manage it better. I read a penny number,
or the ‘police’ in a newspaper, now and then, but very seldom. But on
a fine day I hated being at school. I wanted to be at work, to make
something at bird-catching. If a boy can make money, why shouldn’t he?
And if I’d had a net, or cage, and a mule of my own, then, I thought,
I could make money.” [I may observe that the mule longed for by my
informant was a “cross” between two birds, and was wanted for the
decoy. Some bird-catchers contend that a mule makes the best call-bird
of any; others that the natural note of a linnet, for instance, was
more alluring than the song of a mule between a linnet and a goldfinch.
One birdman told me that the excellence of a mule was, that it had been
bred and taught by its master, had never been at large, and was “better
to manage;” it was bolder, too, in a cage, and its notes were often
loud and ringing, and might be heard to a considerable distance.]
“I couldn’t stick to school, sir,” my informant continued, “and I don’t
know why, lest it be that one man’s best suited for one business, and
another for another. That may be seen every day. I was sent on trial
to a shoemaker, and after that to a ropemaker, for father didn’t seem
to like my growing up and being a bird-catcher, like he was. But I
never felt well, and knew I should never be any great hand at them
trades, and so when my poor father went off rather sudden, I took to
the catching at once and had all his traps. Perhaps, but I can’t say to
a niceness, that was eleven year back. Do I like the business, do you
say, sir? Well, I’m forced to like it, for I’ve no other to live by.”
[The reader will have remarked how this man attributed the course he
pursued, evidently from natural inclination, to its being the best and
most healthful means of subsistence in his power.] “Last Monday, for my
dealers like birds on a Monday or Tuesday best, and then they’ve the
week before them,--I went to catch in the fields this side of Barnet,
and started before two in the morning, when it was neither light nor
dark. You must get to your place before daylight to be ready for the
first flight, and have time to lay your net properly. When I’d done
that, I lay down and smoked. No, smoke don’t scare the birds; I think
they’re rather drawn to notice anything new, if all’s quite quiet.
Well, the first pull I had about 90 birds, nearly all linnets. There
was, as well as I can remember, three hedge-sparrows among them, and
two larks, and one or two other birds. Yes, there’s always a terrible
flutter and row when you make a catch, and often regular fights in the
net. I then sorted my birds, and let the hens go, for I didn’t want
to be bothered with them. I might let such a thing as 35 hens go out
of rather more than an 80 take, for I’ve always found, in catching
young broods, that I’ve drawn more cocks than hens. How do I know the
difference when the birds are so young? As easy as light from dark.
You must lift up the wing, quite tender, and you’ll find that a cock
linnet has black, or nearly black, feathers on his shoulder, where
the hens are a deal lighter. Then the cock has a broader and whiter
stripe on the wing than the hen has. It’s quite easy to distinguish,
quite. A cock goldfinch is straighter and more larger in general than a
hen, and has a broader white on his wing, as the cock linnet has; he’s
black round the beak and the eye too, and a hen’s greenish thereabouts.
There’s some gray-pates (young birds) would deceive any one until he
opens their wings. Well, I went on, sir, until about one o’clock, or
a little after, as well as I could tell from the sun, and then came
away with about 100 singing birds. I sold them in the lump to three
shopkeepers at 2_s._ 2_d._ and 2_s._ 6_d._ the dozen. That was a good
day, sir; a very lucky day. I got about 17_s._, the best I ever did but
once, when I made 19_s._ in a day.
“Yes, it’s hard work is mine, because there’s such a long walking home
when you’ve done catching. O, when you’re at work it’s not work but
almost a pleasure. I’ve laid for hours though, without a catch. I smoke
to pass the time when I’m watching; sometimes I read a bit if I’ve had
anything to take with me to read; then at other times I thinks. If you
don’t get a catch for hours, it’s only like an angler without a nibble.
O, I don’t know what I think about; about nothing, perhaps. Yes, I’ve
had a friend or two go out catching with me just for the amusement.
They must lie about and wait as I do. We have a little talk of course:
well, perhaps about sporting; no, not horse-racing, I care nothing
for that, but it’s hardly business taking any one with you. I supply
the dealers and hawk as well. Perhaps I make 12_s._ a week the year
through. Some weeks I’ve made between 3_l._ and 4_l._, and in winter,
when there’s rain every day, perhaps I haven’t cleared a penny in a
fortnight. That’s the worst of it. But I make more than others because
I have a connection and raise good birds.
“Sometimes I’m stopped by the farmers when I’m at work, but not often,
though there is some of ’em very obstinate. It’s no use, for if a
catcher’s net has to be taken from one part of a farm, after he’s had
the trouble of laying it, why it must be laid in another part. Some
country people likes to have their birds catched.”
My informant supplied shopkeepers and hawked his birds in the streets
and to the houses. He had a connection, he said, and could generally
get through them, but he had sometimes put a bird or two in a fancy
house. These are the public-houses resorted to by “the fancy,” in some
of which may be seen two or three dozen singing-birds for sale on
commission, through the agency of the landlord or the waiter. They are
the property of hawkers or dealers, and must be good birds, or they
will not be admitted.
The number of birds caught, and the proportion sold in the streets,
I have already stated. The number of bird-catchers, I may repeat, is
about the same as that of street bird-sellers, 200.