than enemies, and they owe most of the latter not so much to their
appetites, which set more store by offal and carrion than by anything of
greater value, as to their exceedingly dirty habits. These unclean fowl
are in fact anything but welcome in harbours given over in summer to
smart yachting craft; and I remember how at Avalon, the port of Santa
Catalina Island (Cal.), various devices were employed to prevent them
alighting. Boats at their moorings were festooned with strips of
bunting, which apparently had the requisite effect, and the railings of
the club were protected by a formidable armour of nails. On the credit
side of their account with ourselves, seagulls are admittedly assiduous
scavengers, and their services in keeping little tidal harbours clear of
decaying fish which, if left to accumulate, would speedily breed a
pestilence, cannot well be overrated. The fishermen, though they rarely
molest them, do not always refer to the birds with the gratitude that
might be expected, yet they are still further in their debt, being often
apprised by their movement of the whereabouts of mackerel and pilchard
shoals, and, in thick weather, getting many a friendly warning of the
whereabouts of outlying rocks from the hoarse cries of the gulls that
have their haunts on these menaces to inshore navigation.
Seagulls are not commonly made pets of, the nearest approach to such
adoption being an occasional pinioned individual enjoying qualified
liberty in a backyard. Their want of popularity is easily understood,
since they lack the music of the canary and the mimicry of parrots. That
they are, however, capable of appreciating kindness has been
demonstrated by many anecdotes. The Rev. H. A. Macpherson used to tell a
story of how a young gull, found with a broken wing by the children of
some Milovaig crofters, was nursed back to health by them until it
eventually flew away. Not long after it had gone, one of the children
was lost on the hillside, and the gull, flying overhead, recognised one
of its old playmates and hovered so as to attract the attention of the
child. Then, on being called, the bird settled and roosted on the ground
beside him. An even more remarkable story is told of a gull taken from
the nest, on the coast of county Cork, and brought up by hand until, in
the following spring, it flew away in the company of some others of its
kind that passed over the garden in which it had its liberty. The bird's
owner reasonably concluded that he had seen the last of his protegee,
and great was his astonishment when, in the first October gale, not
only did the visitor return, tapping at the dining-room window for
admission, as it had always done, but actually brought with it a young
gull, and the two paid him a visit every autumn for a number of years.
On either side of the gulls, and closely associated with them in habits
and in structure, is a group of birds equally characteristic of the open
coast, the skuas and terns. The skuas, darker and more courageous birds,
are familiar to those who spend their August holiday sea-fishing near
the Land's End, where, particularly on days when the east wind brings
the gannets and porpoises close inshore, the great skua may be seen at
its favourite game of swooping on the gulls and making them disgorge or
drop their launce or pilchard, which the bird usually retrieves before
it reaches the water. This act of piracy has earned for the skua its
West Country sobriquet of "Jack Harry," and against so fierce an
onslaught even the largest gull, though actually of heavier build than
its tyrant, has no chance and seldom indeed seems to offer the feeblest
resistance. These skuas rob their neighbours in every latitude; and
even in the Antarctic one kind, closely related to our own, makes havoc
among the penguins, an episode described by the late Dr. Wilson, one of
the heroes of the ill-fated Scott expedition.
Far more pleasing to the eye are the graceful little terns, or
"sea-swallows," fairylike creatures with red legs and bill, long pointed
wings and deeply forked tail, which skim the surface of the sea or hawk
over the shallows of trout streams in search of dragonflies or small
fish. It is not a very rare experience for the trout-fisherman to hook a
swallow which may happen to dash by at the moment of casting; but a much
more unusual occurrence was that of a tern, on a well-known pool of the
Spey, actually mistaking a salmon-fly for a small fish and swooping on
it, only to get firmly hooked by the bill. Fortunately for the too
venturesome tern the fisherman was a lover of birds, and he managed with
some difficulty to reel it in gently, after which it was released none
the worse for its mistake.
SEPTEMBER
BIRDS IN THE CORN
BIRDS IN THE CORN
More than one of our summer visitors, like the nightingale and cuckoo,
are less often seen than heard, but certainly the most secretive hider
of them all is the landrail. This harsh-voiced bird reaches our shores
in May, and it was on the last of that month that I lately heard its
rasping note in a quiet park not a mile out of a busy market town on the
Welsh border, and forgave its monotone because, more emphatically than
even the cuckoo's dissyllable, it announced that, at last, "summer was
icumen in." This feeble-looking but indomitable traveller is closely
associated during its visit with the resident partridge. They nest in
the same situations, hiding in the fields of grass and standing corn,
and eventually being flushed in company by September guns walking
abreast through the clover-bud. Sport is not the theme of these notes,
and it will therefore suffice to remark in passing on the curious manner
in which even good shots, accustomed to bring down partridges with some
approach to certainty, contrive to miss these lazy, flapping fowl when
walking them up. Dispassionately considered, the landrail should be a
bird that a man could scarcely miss on the first occasion of his
handling a gun; in cold fact, it often survives two barrels apparently
untouched. This immunity it owes in all probability to its slow and
heavy flight, since those whose eyes are accustomed to the rapid
movement of partridges are apt to misjudge the allowance necessary for
such a laggard and to fire in front of it. It is difficult to realise
that, whereas the strong-winged partridge is a stay-at-home, the
deliberate landrail has come to us from Africa and will, if spared by
the guns, return there.
Perhaps the most curious and interesting habit recorded of the landrail
is that of feigning death when suddenly discovered, a method of
self-defence which it shares with opossums, spiders, and in fact other
animals of almost every class. It will, if suddenly surprised by a dog,
lie perfectly still and betray no sign of life. There is, however, at
least one authentic case of a landrail actually dying of fright when
suddenly seized, and it is a disputed point whether the so-called
pretence of death should not rather be regarded as a state of trance.
Strict regard for the truth compels the admission that on the only
occasion on which I remember taking hold of a live corncrake the bird,
so far from pretending to be dead, pecked my wrist heartily.
Just as the countryfolk regard the wryneck as leader of the wandering
cuckoos, and the short-eared owl as forerunner of the woodcocks, so the
ancients held that the landrail performed the same service of pioneer to
the quail on its long journeys over land and sea. Save in exceptional
years, England is not visited by quail in sufficient numbers to lend
interest to this aspect of a bird attractive on other grounds, but the
coincidence of their arrival with us is well established.
The voice of the corncrake, easily distinguished from that of any other
bird of our fields, may be approximately reproduced by using a blunt saw
against the grain on hard wood. So loud is it at times that I have heard
it from the open window of an express train, the noise of which drowned
all other birdsong, and it seems remarkable that such a volume of sound
should come from a throat so slender. Yet the rasping note is welcome
during the early days of its arrival, since, just as the cuckoo gave
earlier message of spring, so the corncrake, in sadder vein, heralds the
ripeness of our briefer summer.
The East Anglian name "dakker-hen" comes from an old word descriptive of
the bird's halting flight; and indeed to see a landrail drop, as already
mentioned, after flying a few yards, makes one incredulous when tracing
its long voyages on the map. In the first place, however, it should be
remembered that the bird does not drop back in the grass because it is
tired, but solely because it knows the way to safety by running out of
sight. In the second, the apparent weakness of its wings is not real.
Quails have little round wings that look ill adapted to long journeys. I
have been struck by this times and again when shooting quail in Egypt
and Morocco, yet of the quail's fitness for travel there has never,
since Bible days, been any question.
The landrail is an excellent table bird. Personally I prefer it to the
partridge, but this is perhaps praising it too highly. Legally of
course it is "game," as a game licence must be held by anyone who shoots
it; and, though protected in this country only under the Wild Birds Act,
Irish law extends this by a month, so that it may not be shot in that
country after the last day of January. Like most migratory birds, its
numbers vary locally in different seasons, and its scarcity in
Hampshire, to which White makes reference, has by no means been
maintained of recent years, as large bags have been recorded in every
part of that county.
The common partridge is--at any rate for the naturalist--a less
interesting subject than its red-legged cousin, which seems to have been
first introduced from France (or possibly from the island of Guernsey,
where it no longer exists) in the reign of Charles II. That this early
experiment was not, however, attended by far-reaching results seems
probable, since early in the reign of George III we find the Marquis of
Hertford and other well-known sporting landowners making fresh attempts,
the stock of "Frenchmen" being renewed from time to time during the
next fifty years, chiefly on the east side of England, where they have
always been more in evidence than farther west. In Devon and Cornwall,
indeed, the bird is very rare, and in Ireland almost unknown.
Its red legs stand it in good stead, for it can run like a hare, and in
this way it often baffles the guns. It is not, however, so much its
reluctance to rise that has brought it into disrepute with keepers as
its alleged habit of ousting the native bird, in much the same way as
the "Hanover" rat has superseded the black aboriginal, although far from
the "Frenchman" driving the English partridge off the soil, there
appears to be even no truth in the supposed hostility between the two,
since they do not commonly affect the same type of country; and even
when they meet they nest in close proximity and in comparative harmony.
Nevertheless the males, even of the same species, are apt to be
pugnacious in the breeding season.
Both the partridge and landrail run serious risk from scythe and plough
while sitting on the nest. Landrails have before now been decapitated by
the swing of the scythe, and a case is on record in which a sitting
partridge, seeing that the plough was coming dangerously near her nest,
actually removed the whole clutch of eggs, numbering over a score, to
the shelter of a neighbouring hedge. This was accomplished, probably
with the help of the male, during the short time it took the plough to
get to the end of the field and back, and is a remarkable illustration
of devotion and ingenuity. Not for nothing indeed is the partridge a
game bird, for it has been seen to attack cats, and even foxes, in
defence of the covey; and I have seen, in the MS. notes of the second
Earl of Malmesbury, preserved in the library at Heron Court, mention of
one that drove off a carrion crow that menaced the family. Both
partridge and landrail sit very close, particularly when the time of
hatching is near, and Charles St. John saw a partridge, which his dog,
having taken off the nest, was forced to drop, none the worse for her
adventure, go straight back to her duties; though, as he adds, if it had
not been that she knew that the eggs were already chipping she would in
all probability have deserted her post for good and all.
Whether or not France is to be regarded as the original home of the "red
leg," the fact remains that in that country it is becoming scarcer every
year, its numbers being maintained only in Brittany, Calvados, Orne, and
Sarthe. Its distribution in Italy is equally capricious, for it is
virtually restricted to the rocky slopes of the Apennines, the
Volterrano Hills in Tuscany, and the coast ranges of Elba. It seems
therefore that in Continental countries, as well as with us, the bird
extends its range reluctantly. Game-preservers seem, however, to agree
that partridges and pheasants are, beyond a certain point, incompatible
as, with a limited supply of natural food, the smaller bird goes to the
wall. Like most birds, partridges grow bold when pressed by cold and
hunger, and I recollect hearing of a large covey being encountered ten
or twelve years ago in an open space in the heart of the city of
Frankfort.
OCTOBER
THE MOPING OWL
THE MOPING OWL
Music, vocal or otherwise, is always a matter of taste, and individual
appreciation of birdsong varies like the rest. One man finds the
cuckoo's cry intolerably wearisome. Another sees no romance in the
gargling of doves, while comparatively few care for the piercing scream
of the starling or the rasping note of the corncrake. Yet few birds
perform to a more hostile audience than the owl. I say advisedly "the
owl," since the vast majority of people make no distinction whatever
between our three resident kinds of owl, not to mention at least half a
dozen more visitors. Some excuse for such carelessness might perhaps be
found in the similar flight and habits of different owls, but it might
have been thought that greater measure of individual recognition on
their own merits would have been conceded to birds that range in size
from the dimensions of a sparrow to those of a duck. But no; an owl is
just an owl. Why the soft and haunting cry of these birds should not
merely displease, but actually alarm, so many people unaccustomed to
such sounds of the gloaming and darkness it would be difficult to say;
but the voice of owls may possibly owe some of its disturbing effect to
contrast with their silent flight, which, thanks to their fluffy
plumage, with its broad quills and long barbs, prevents their making
much more noise than ghosts when hunting rats and mice in moonlit
fields. Only one other English bird has so quiet a flight, and that is
the nightjar, another creature of the darkness, which, though no cousin
to these nocturnal birds of prey, is known in some parts of the country
as the "fern-owl." Visitors unprepared for the eerie woodland music of
these autumn nights shudder when they hear the cry of the owl, as if it
suggested midnight crime. For myself I have more agreeable associations,
since I never hear one of these birds without recalling a gallant fight
I once had with a big Tweed salmon in the weak light of a young moon,
while three owls hooted amid the ghostly ruins of Norham Castle. Yet,
even apart from this wholly agreeable memory, I find nothing unpleasant
in their music, and can readily conceive that the moping owl may sing to
his mate as passionately as Philomel.
Not only is there the popular lack of distinction between one owl and
another already referred to, but scientific ornithologists have
displayed similar want of finality in classifying these birds. There are
(as in seals) eared and earless owls, though the so-called "ears" in the
birds are not actually ears at all, but tufts of feathers that give
rather the impression of horns. There are bare-legged owls and owls with
feather stockings. There are owls that fly by day and owls that fly by
night, though this is a less satisfactory distinction than that between
the diurnal butterflies and nocturnal moths. Any reliable classification
of owls must, in short, rest on certain structural bony differences of
interest only to the student of anatomy. Nearly all these birds are able
to turn the outer toe completely round, and most of them, also, have
very keen hearing, which must be an invaluable aid when hunting small
animals in the dark.
Did the ancients actually regard the owl as a wise bird, or was the
fashion of depicting it in the following of Minerva merely dictated by
the presence of these birds on the Akropolis? It seems hardly
conceivable that they could so have blundered as to call the owls that
we know clever birds; and the alternative assumption that owlish
intellect can have appreciably changed in the interval is even less
acceptable. It is probable that too much significance need not be
attached to such association between the Greek goddess of wisdom and her
attendant owls, for Hindu symbolism represented Ganesa, god of wisdom,
with the head of an elephant, yet that animal, which the natives of
India know better than the men of any other race, has never figured in
their folklore as a type noted for its cunning. About the owl as we know
it to-day, with its spectacled face and blinking eyes, there is nothing
strikingly intelligent, and schoolboy slang, in which the word does duty
as synonymous with foolishness, discovers a more accurate appreciation
of these birds.
Seen at its worst, when surprised in the glare of daylight and mobbed by
a furious rabble of little birds, an owl looks a helpless fool indeed,
though this is not the proper moment to judge of the bird's
possibilities under happier circumstances. Why these small fowl should
bully it at all is one of those woodland problems that no one has yet
solved. The first, and obvious, explanation is that they know it for
their enemy, and it may be indeed that owls commit depredations on the
nests of wild birds of which we, who academically regard their food as
consisting of rats, bats and mice--or, in the case of larger species, of
young game and leverets--have no inkling. If however such is the case,
it is strange that the habit should have been overlooked by those who
have paid close attention to this curious and interesting group.
Bird-catchers, at any rate, without troubling to inquire into the
reason, turn the instinct to profitable account, and in some parts of
the country a stuffed owl is an important item of their stock-in-trade.
The majority of owls that either reside in or visit these islands are
benefactors of the farmer, and should be spared. The larger eagle-owl,
and snowy owl eat more expensive food, though, seeing that they come to
us--at any rate in the south country--only in winter, and even then
irregularly, they can do no damage to young game birds, and are probably
incapable of capturing old. The worst offender among the residents is
the tawny owl, to which I find the following reference in the famous
Malmesbury MSS.: "Common here ... a great destroyer of young game and
leverets ... they sit in ivy bushes during the day, and I have known one
remain, altho' its mate was killed, in the same tree, in such a state of
torpor did it appear to be...." The screech owl is a harmless bird and a
terror to mice, and any doubt as to its claim on the farmer's
hospitality would at once be removed by cursory examination of the
undigested pellets which, in common with hawks, these birds cast up
after their meals.
On the other hand, there is sometimes good reason for modifying any plea
for kindness to owls. Handsome is as handsome does, and many of these
birds are, during the nesting season, not only savage in defence of
their young, but actually so aggressive as to make unprovoked attack on
all and sundry who unwittingly approach closer to the tree than these
devoted householders think desirable. Accounts of this troublesome mood
in nesting owls come from several parts of the country, and notably from
Wales. In one case on record a pair of barn owls had their home in a
tree overlooking Milford Haven, and the vicinity of the nest soon became
dangerous. The male owl tore a boy's ear, knocked a man down, and
attacked numerous human beings and dogs that made use of a path leading
past the tree; and these episodes were in fact of daily occurrence until
some one shot the bird. Another pair of barn owls nested in a wood on
the shore of Menai Strait, and in this case the young birds managed to
fall out of the nest, and lay on the ground in full view of a public
right of way. Why the old birds did not put their offspring back in the
nest no one knew. Possibly they realised that the talons, which so
efficiently gripped rats, might not prove gentle enough for the
transport of owlets. At any rate, whatever their reason, they left the
young birds on the ground, feeding them in that position, and flew at
everyone who passed that way, clawing face and ears, and eventually
establishing a reign of terror. Another owl behaved in somewhat similar
fashion in a spinney close to Axmouth, South Devon, punishing a
coastguard so severely that the man took to his heels. Such determined
tactics in defence of the young are the more singular when we remember
that owls are, in normal circumstances, shy and retiring birds. Yet they
occasionally seem to be possessed by more sociable instincts, in proof
of which one of the long-eared kind has been seen feeding in the company
of tame hawks; a pair of owls once nested in a dovecote close to a
keeper's lodge in the Highlands; and wild owls have been known to pay
nightly visits to a cage in the Botanic Gardens at Launceston
(Tasmania), in order to bring food to their captive friends.
Even apart from these rigorous measures of defence, the nesting habits
of owls are not without interest. The majority lay their eggs in either
hollow trees or ruins, and it is worth remark that these nocturnal
birds bring up their young in darkness, whereas the hawks--birds of
daylight--rear theirs in open nests, high up in trees or on rocky
ledges, in the full glare of the sun. One owl indeed habitually burrows
in the prairies and pampas, in the curious company of marmots and
rattlesnakes, and this burrowing habit is also, in some parts of the
United States, adopted by the common barn owl. Owls generally brood from
the laying of the first egg, with the obvious result that young birds in
various stages of plumage are found together in the nest. It has been
suggested that the body of the first to leave the egg helps to keep the
unhatched eggs warm while the parents are away foraging, else its
presence would be a serious handicap. The first little owl to hatch out
is usually ready to leave the nest soon after the arrival of the last,
though these chicks come into the world more helpless even than the
majority of birds.
NOVEMBER
WATERFOWL
WATERFOWL
Had these notes been written from the standpoint of sport, the three
familiar groups of birds, which together make up this world-wide aquatic
family, might better have borne their alternative title "wildfowl" with
its covert sneer at the hand-reared pheasant and artificially encouraged
partridge that, between them, furnish so much comfortable sport to those
with no fancy for the arduous business of the mudflats. It is true that,
of late years, the mallard has, in experienced hands, made a welcome
addition to the bag in covert shooting, as those will remember who have
shot the Lockwood Beat on the last day of the shoot at Nuneham; and
there is historic evidence of "wild" duck having been reared for
purposes of sport with hawks in the reign of Charles I. Yet such
armchair shooting of wildfowl was ignored by Colonel Hawker and the
second Earl of Malmesbury, both of whom, gunning in the creeks and
estuaries of the south coast, made immense bags of ducks and geese,
working hard for every bird and displaying Spartan indifference to the
rigours of wintry weather. To hardy sportsmen of their type, wildfowl
offer red-letter days with punt or shoulder guns, not to be dreamt of
under the aegis of the gamekeeper.