BADGERS AND OTTERS.
Hazelhurst was a long line of woodland, on one side skirted by the sea
and on the other by a crumbling limestone escarpment. It was woodland,
too, with the deep impress of time upon it--a forest primeval. The
branches and boles of the oaks were tortured out of all original
conception. Save for colour they might have been congealed water or
duramen muscles. Down in the hollows there was deep moss, elastic and
silent, over all. For centuries the pines had shed their needles
undisturbed. These and the pine trunks sent up a sweet savour from the
earth--an odour that acted as a tonic to the whole being. There were
sun-flashes in the glades, where the jays chattered and the cushats
cooed, and where ever and anon a rabbit rustled through. Often over
these the kestrel hung and vibrated its shadow on the spot beneath; or
the sparrow-hawk with its clean-cut figure stared with the down on his
beak on a dead pine bough. In the summer red creatures that were bits
of light gracefully glided among green tassels, and the chatter of
squirrels was heard. The older trees attracted woodpeckers, and the
nuthatch threw out fine fibres of rotten wood. Sometimes a pheasant or
a partridge would startle, getting up from its olive eggs by a log left
by the charcoal-burners. Thus rudely disturbed, it had no time to
scatter leaves over its nest, as is its wont. The shaggy and corrugated
bark of the old trees is larvæ-haunted, and consequently mouse-like
creepers abound. These little creatures on every trunk showed
conspicuously as they ran their marvellous adaptation to an end, and
fulfilled it perfectly. All the wood-birds were there--the
White-throat, the Wood and the Willow Wren, the Chiffchaff, and
Garden-warbler. These sang from the leafy boughs. But higher up,
towards the escarpment, the floor of the wood was rugged and
rock-strewn. Boulders had rolled from above, and among these dwelt
weasels and ermines. There were at least a pair of martins, and foxes
from the fells had their tracks through the woods. A primitive mansion
had once stood in the wood, but now was gone. It had been large, and
green mounds, now laid low, marked out its dimensions. Old
oak-panelling, with long-gone dates, were sometimes dug up, and these
were covered with carvings--"carvings quaint and curious, all made out
of the carver's brain." Lying around this had been an extensive
orchard, the rich, though old trees of which remained. And now, in this
glorious summer-time, the golden fruit fell unheeded to the ground. For
Hazelhurst was long distant from town or nearest village. Brambles held
their luscious fruit, and every species of ground berry grew there. No
wonder it was a paradise to mice and squirrels and birds. They revelled
in nature's ample provision, and were undisturbed.
Here, in the days of our immediate ancestors, Badgers were plentiful.
Now, where a ridge of rock ran through the wood, there was a hole, the
entrance to a somewhat spacious cavity. This could be seen for the
seeking, not otherwise. Brambles and ground-ivy protected it. Black
bryony and woodbine twisted up every available stem, and a knot of
blackthorn grew over all. The spot was protected and dense. One day we
invaded it, but after long crawling and sticking fast had to return. In
it lived the badgers--had done so time out of mind, and the few
poachers who knew it called it "Brock-holes." "Brock" is the old
north-country word for badger, and, as we have said, everything
testified to its presence. In this wild fruit paradise at least two
pairs of badgers bred. Each pair had more than one apartment--at least
the young were not produced in that which formed the general abode.
These were at the ends of the burrow, where were the beds, composed of
roots and dried grass. The young were brought forth in April, and after
about six weeks might have been seen sitting about the mouth of their
hole, or accompanying their dam to short distances when on her evening
rambles. We always found the badgers unoffending, harmless creatures
unless first attacked. They fed almost entirely on roots, wild fruit,
grain, and occasionally insects. They were, however, extremely shy and
wary. Beautiful it was to see these creatures on summer evenings
searching for food among the low bushes, occasionally giving a low
grunt when some favourite root was turned up. When insects came within
their reach they were snapped up somewhat after the manner of a dog
catching flies. The life of the badger is eminently that of a peaceful
creature, harmless in all its ways, unoffending, interesting in its
life-history, useful, and, above all, fitted with a quiet contentment
almost human. The body of the badger is long and heavy and its legs
short, which give it an awkward shambling appearance when running. Its
beautifully-shaped head has two long lines running from the snout to
the tips of the ears. The upper parts of its body are light grey,
becoming darker below, the lower parts being quite black.
The total length of a fully-grown male badger is about thirty-six
inches. The structure of the creature is especially adapted to its mode
of life, this being shown in the slender muzzle, with movable snout,
which is employed in digging. It is when thus occupied, too, that the
short, stout limbs are seen fulfilling their end; and when no natural
cavity exists it is these limbs and snout that provide one. Both are
brought into frequent requisition when digging for roots, of certain of
which the badger is particularly fond. Badgers are quite susceptible of
domestication, and a friend had a pair which he led about in collars.
They are possessed of great affection for their young, and rush blindly
into danger, or even suffer themselves to be killed, in attempting to
rescue them....
We have stretched our length along a slab of rock which margins the
bank and recedes far under it. The stream for the most part is rapid,
but here narrows to slow, black depth. Ever and ceaselessly does the
water chafe and lap among the shelving rocks, and this, with the
constant "drip," only seems to make the silence audible. Fungi and
golden mosses light up our dark retreat. Never was green more green nor
lichen tracery more ravishing. Close-clinging and rock-loving is all
life here. Water percolates through the bank, and spreads its silver
filament over all. Far out and beyond the deep wood it comes from the
scaurs, and the limestone sends its carbonate to dome our retreat.
Miniature stalactites hang from the roof, and bright bosses rise from
the floor. Frail fern fronds depend from the crevices, and as the light
rushes in, masses of golden saxifrage gild all the chamber. The beams
will not long stay, for the sun dips in the western woods. From the
mouth of our recess we take in a silent river reach. It is thickly
embowered and overhung. Long drooping racemes of green tree flowers
attract innumerable insects, especially those of the lime, and intent
upon these a flycatcher sits lengthwise upon a branch. How beautiful
are its short flights, the iridescence of its plumage, its white
eye-lines, and barred forehead! Numerous small waterfalls, the gauze
and film veils of which, when the wind blows, and dripping moss, have
attracted the dippers. Kingfishers, too, in their green flight, dash
over the still water. The remote pines have lost their light, and stand
black against the sky. Sundown has come, and it is the hour of vesper
hymns. The woods are loud swelling volumes of sound. Behind us is a
woodland enchanted, though with no sadder spirits than blackbirds and
thrushes that whistle to cheer it. This loud evening hymn lasts for an
hour, then subsides, and the woods hush. The stem of the silver birch
ceases to vibrate to the blackbird's whistle. The polyglot wood-thrush
is dreaming of gilded fly and dewy morn, and finally that last far-off
song has ceased. Silence--an intense holy calm--is over the woods.
Chill comes, the dew rises, and twilight;--and the night side of
nature. How rich and varied is that of the stream side! The fern-owls
with their soft plumage and noiseless flight come out, as do the great
moths and bustards.
This prevalence of life at the same time is as Nature would have
it--the one acting as food for the other. The beat of unseen pinions is
heard above, but no object visible--some night-haunting bird flying off
to its feeding ground. Through the short night summer snipe whistle and
wail. Newly-arrived crakes call from the meadows, and a disturbed
lapwing gets up crying from the green cornstalks. Maybe the disturber
was the hare whose almost human cry now comes from the thorn fence. For
it the corn sprouts have come for the last time, and soon it will be in
the poacher's wallet. A loud splash comes from the water, and a great
black trout has sucked down its prey. This is a large-winged night-fly.
That first splash is a token of more abundant night food, and soon the
reach boils. Every speckled trout is "on its feed." How we long for
the pliant, sympathetic rod! Then, ye lusty trout, how would the
undefinable thrill rush at intervals up our arm! But our mission
to-night is not this. The herons scream, the wood-owls hoot, and--what
is that other night sound? The crescent moon shows a bit of light at
intervals; soon masses of cloud intervene.
A faint whistle, unlike that of any bird, comes up stream, and although
imperceptible the dark, still water is moved. The trout cease to rise.
The whistle comes nearer, and then a rustle is heard. The osier beds
are stirred, and some long dark object makes its way between the parted
stems. A movement would dispel the dark shadow, and which in turn would
divide the dark water and take it silently away. The otters have
reconnoitered, and all is safe. They come paddling down stream, and,
arriving at the pool, stop, tumble and frolic, rolling over and over,
and round and round, and performing the most marvellous evolutions you
could possibly conceive. They swing on the willow spray, and dash with
lightning velocity at a piece of floating bark, tumble with it, wrestle
with it, and go through a hundred wonderful movements. They are
motionless, then begin to play, and so continue for nearly an hour,
when, as if suddenly alarmed, they rush down stream to their fishing
grounds, and leave us cold and benumbed. We plod through the meadow
beneath the moon and stars, chilled to the marrow by the falling dew.
Otters are still abundant on the banks of most northern streams, as
also among the rocks and boulders of the coast-line. Human invasion
drives them from their haunts, although, where waters remain
unpolluted, they not unfrequently pass up the rivers by towns and
villages during the still night. On the margins of the more secluded
tarns of the fells, otters, too, are yet found. Fitted for an aquatic
existence, the structure of the otter beautifully exhibits the
provisions suitable to its mode of life. On land it can travel swiftly,
though the water is its best element. Immersed in this, its coat
appears smooth and glossy. In pursuing its prey it performs the most
graceful movements, doubling and diving so rapidly that it is difficult
to follow its evolutions. When fishing, its object is to get beneath
the object pursued, as, from the construction of its eyes, which are
placed high in the head, it is better enabled to secure its prey. This
it seldom fails to do, its whole structure, as already remarked,
greatly facilitating its movements in the water. Its uniform dusky
brown coat has, like all aquatic creatures, a soft under-fur with long
hair above.
The otter generally takes possession of a natural cavity, a drain, or a
hole made by the inundation of the stream. The entrance is usually
under water, and inclines towards the bank. Situations where the latter
is overhung with bushes and with tall water plants in the vicinity are
generally chosen. From this the young, when three or four weeks old,
betake themselves to the water. If captured now they may easily be
domesticated. One of our friends has to-day a young otter, which he
leads about in a leash. At Bassenthwaite a man and his son trained a
pair of otters to fish in the lake. They would return when called upon,
or follow their master home when the fishing was over. The males in
spring fight desperately, and once, when hidden, we witnessed a fight
which lasted an hour, and so engrossed did the combatants become that
we approached and, taking the part of the lesser, shot its aggressor.
And now a word as to the food of the otter. That it destroys fish we
are not about to deny. But this liking for fish has become such a
stereotyped fact (?) in natural history that it is glibly repeated,
parrot-like, and so continues until most readers have come to accept
it. The otter destroys but few fish, using the word in its popular
acceptation. What it destroys are for food, and not out of love of
killing. The greater part of its diet consists of fresh-water crayfish,
thousands of which it destroys, and it is for these that long journeys
are so frequently made. This does not apply to the pairing season; the
wanderings have then another end. Many miles in a night are traversed
for these crustaceans, the beds of mountain and moorland streams being
tracked to their source, almost every stone on the way being examined.
At least upon two occasions have we found the remains of the moor-hen
after an otter's meal.