most part it is a huge morass. If one attempts, either on land or
by waterways, to penetrate into the interior, one, sooner or later,
reaches a jungle which has no parallel in Germany. Only on those
spots which are raised above the level of the river, and which have a
rich, in part muddy soil, is one reminded of German vegetation. Here
lilies of the valley, with their soft, green leaves and fragrant,
white bells, form a most decorative carpeting, covering the ground
for wide stretches; but even here the nettles and bramble-bushes
grow in wanton luxuriance, and various climbing plants spread their
tangled net over wide areas of the forest, so that almost insuperable
obstacles and barriers prevent further progress. In other places
the wood is literally a bog out of which the giant trees rear their
stems. Mighty stems indeed, but many--victims of old age, tempest,
thunderbolt, and the careless herdsman’s fire--lie rotting in the
water, already forming, in many cases, the soil from which rises a
younger and vigorous growth of underwood. Other trees, which have not
yet succumbed to decay, lie prostrate and bar the way. The wind has
swept the fallen wood, both thick branches and delicate twigs, into
floating islands and obtrusive snags, which present to the small boat
obstacles not less difficult than those which obstruct the explorer on
foot. Similar floating islands, composed of reeds and sedges, form a
deceptive covering over wide stretches of water. Raised mud-banks, on
which willows and poplars have found a suitable soil for their seeds,
have become impenetrable thickets, disputing the possession of the
ground even with the forests of reeds which are often many square miles
in extent. Dwarf willows, at once youthful and senile forests, form
dark patches in the heart of the reed-beds. What may be concealed in
the gloomy wood, with its bogs and thickets, or by the reeds, remains
almost quite hidden from the searching eye of the naturalist, for
he can see through no more than the fringe of this wilderness, nor
traverse it except along the broader waterways.
[Illustration: Fig. 79.--Herons and their Nests.]
Such was the district in which our sport began. The eagles, the royal
rulers of the air, which formed the primary object of our quest, did
not, indeed, come within range, nor even within sight, on the first day
of our journey; but, on the other hand, we visited the famous heronry
on the island of Adony, and had abundant opportunities of observing
the life of the brooding birds. For two generations, herons and
cormorants have nested on the tall trees of the island, among the much
older residents--the rooks; and, though the cormorants have greatly
diminished in numbers since the beginning of the sixties, they have
not yet entirely disappeared. Forty years ago, according to Landbeck’s
estimate, there nested here about one thousand pairs of night-herons,
two hundred and fifty pairs of common herons, fifty pairs of little
egrets, and a hundred pairs of cormorants; but now the rooks, of which
there are from fifteen hundred to two thousand pairs, form the great
bulk of the colony, while the common herons have dwindled to about
a hundred and fifty, the night-herons to thirty or forty pairs, the
egrets have disappeared entirely, and only the cormorants remain in
approximately the same numbers as formerly. Yet at least an echo of the
former life rang in our ears as we set foot on the island, and here and
there the forest still presents the old picture almost unchanged.
The various birds in such a mixed heronry appear to live in the best
accord, yet there is neither peace nor friendliness among them. One
oppresses and supports, plunders and feeds the other. The herons invade
the rooks’ colonies to save themselves the labour of nest-building;
the rooks collect twigs and build their nests, and the herons drive
them away, that they may take forcible possession of the nests, or at
any rate of the building material; the cormorants dispute with the
herons the possession of the stolen booty, and finally assume despotic
authority over the entire colony. But even they, thieves and robbers
as they are, are plundered and robbed in their turn, for the crows
and kites--the last being seldom absent from such settlements--feed
themselves and their young to no slight extent on the fish which the
herons and cormorants have brought for the sustenance of their mates
and young. The first meeting of the various kinds of brooding birds
is hostile. Violent and protracted battles are fought, and the ten
times vanquished renews hostilities for the eleventh time before he
learns to submit to the inevitable. But in time the inter-relations are
better adjusted, as the individual members of the colony recognize that
there are advantages in social life, and that there is room enough for
peaceable neighbours. Fighting and quarrelling never cease entirely,
but the bitter war of species against species gives place gradually to
conditions which are at least endurable. The birds become accustomed
to each other, and make use of the capabilities of their adversaries
as far as may be. It may even happen, indeed, that those who have been
plundered follow those who have robbed them when the latter find it
necessary to change their brooding-places.
[Illustration: Fig. 80.--Rooks and their Nests.]
The spectacle of a mixed heronry is fascinating in the highest degree.
“There is hardly anything”, writes Baldamus, “more varied, more
attractive, more beautiful, than these Hungarian marshes with their
bird-life, which is remarkable both for the number of individuals
and for their variety of form and colouring. Let any one look at the
most conspicuous of these marsh-dwellers in a collection, and then let
him endeavour to picture them to himself standing, walking, running,
climbing, flying, in short, living, and he will be obliged to admit
that such bird-life is marvellously attractive.” This description is
correct even if it be applied to the impoverished island of Adony. Much
as its once teeming population has dwindled, there are still thousands
and thousands of birds. For long stretches of the forest every high
tree bears nests, many having twenty or thirty, and all about these is
the noisy bustle of sociable bird-life. Upon the nests sit the female
rooks, common herons, night-herons, and cormorants, looking out with
dark, sulphur-yellow, blood-red, and sea-green eyes upon the intruder
who has invaded their sanctuary; sitting and climbing on the topmost
boughs of the giant trees, or fluttering, flying, floating above them
are black, brown, gray, one-coloured and many-coloured, dull and
shimmering bird forms; above these, kites are circling; on the trunks
woodpeckers are hanging, hard at work; sleek, gleaming white-throats
are seeking their daily bread among the blossom of a pear-tree, finches
and willow-wrens among the fresh foliage of the bird-cherry. The
beautiful carpet of woodruff which covers the ground in many places is
spattered and soiled with the excrement of birds, and disfigured by
broken eggs or their shells, and by decomposing fish which have fallen
from the nests.
The first shot from the gun of our gracious patron caused an
indescribable confusion. The startled herons rose screaming, and the
rooks with stupefying croaking; the cormorants, too, forsook their
nests with angry screeches. A cloud of birds formed over the forest,
drifted hither and thither, up and down, became denser and overshadowed
the tree-tops, broke up into groups which sank hesitatingly down
towards their forsaken nests, enveloped these completely for a little,
and then united again with the main mass. Every single one screamed,
croaked, cawed, and screeched in the most ear-piercing fashion;
everyone took to flight, but was drawn back again by anxiety for nest
and eggs. The whole forest was in an uproar; yet, careless of the
terrifying noise, the finch warbled its spring greeting amidst the
trees, a woodpecker called joyously, the nightingales poured forth
their inspiring melody, and poetic souls revealed themselves even among
the thieves and robbers.
Richly laden with booty, we returned, after five hours’ sport, to
our comfortable quarters on board ship, and occupied ourselves as we
steamed further with the scientific arrangement of our newly-acquired
treasures. For hours we travelled through forests such as I have
depicted, now and then passing by large or small hamlets, villages,
and towns, until the gathering darkness forced us to moor our vessel.
In the early dawn of the following morning we reached Apatin. The
firing of cannon, music, and joyous acclamation greet the much-loved
heir to the throne. People of all sorts throng about the boat; native
hunting-assistants, nest-seekers, tree-climbers, and bird-skinners
come on board; more than a dozen of the little boats called “Ezikela”
are loaded. Then our steamer turns up stream again, to land us in the
neighbourhood of a broad arm of the river. Up this we penetrated for
the first time into the damp meadow-forests. All the little boats
which had joined us in Apatin followed our larger one, like ducklings
swimming after a mother duck. To-day the chase is directed solely
against the sea eagle which broods so abundantly in these forests that
no fewer than five eyries could be found within a radius of a square
mile. We separated with the sportsman’s salute, to approach these
eyries from different directions.
I was well acquainted with these bold and rapacious, if rather ignoble
birds of prey, for I had seen them in Norway and Lapland, in Siberia
and in Egypt, but I had never observed them beside their eyries; and
the opportunity of doing so was most welcome. As his name implies, the
favourite habitat of the sea-eagle is by the sea-coasts, or on the
banks of lakes and rivers rich in fish. If winter drives him from his
haunts, he migrates as far southwards as is necessary to enable him
to pick up a living during the cold months. In Hungary, this eagle is
the commonest of all the large birds of prey; he does not forsake the
country even in winter, and only makes long expeditions in his earlier
years before maturity, as though he wished to try the experiment of
living abroad. During spring, therefore, one sees in that district only
adult, or what comes to the same thing, full-grown birds capable of
reproduction, while in autumn and winter there are, in addition, the
young ones which left the nest only a few months before. Then also many
wanderers who have not settled down come to enliven the forest-shores
of the Danube. As long as the river is not covered with ice, they have
no difficulty in finding food; for they hunt in the water not less,
perhaps rather more skilfully than on land. They circle over the water
until they spy a fish, then throw themselves down upon it like a flash
of lightning, dive after it, sometimes disappearing completely beneath
the waves, but working their way quickly to the surface again by aid
of their powerful wings, carry off their victim, whose scaly armour
has been penetrated by their irresistible talons, and devour it at
their leisure. As their depredations are not so severely condemned in
Hungary as with us, and as they are treated generally with undeserved
forbearance, they regularly frequent the neighbourhood of the
fishermen’s huts, and sit among the trees close by until the fisherman
throws them stale fish or any refuse which they can eat. Like the
fishermen, the Hungarian, Servian, and Slav peasants help to provide
them with food, for, instead of burying animals which have died, they
let them lie exposed in the fields, and leave it to the eagles and the
vultures, or to dogs and wolves, to remove the carrion. If a covering
of ice protects his usual prey, and no carrion is available, the
sea-eagle need not yet starve; for, like the nobler and more courageous
golden eagle, he hunts all game which he has a chance of overpowering.
He attacks the fox as well as the hare, the hedgehog and the rat, the
diver and the wild goose, steals from the mother seal her sucking
young, and may even carry his blind rapacity so far as to strike his
powerful talons into the back of a dolphin or a sturgeon, by whom he
is carried down into the sea and drowned before he can free his claws.
Under some circumstances he will even attack human beings. Thus he need
hardly ever suffer want; and as he is not systematically hunted, he
leads quite an enviable life.
[Illustration: Fig. 81.--Sea-eagle and Nest in a Danube Forest.]
Until near the breeding-time, the sea-eagle lives at peace with his
fellows; but, as that season approaches, he becomes combative and
quarrelsome, in most cases through jealousy. For the sake of mate
and eyrie, he wages bitter war with others of his species. An eagle
pair, once united, remain so for life, but only if the male is able
to protect his mate from the wooing of others, and to defend his own
eyrie. A male eagle, which has just reached maturity and is exulting in
the consciousness of his strength, casts his eyes longingly upon the
mate and eyrie of another eagle, and both are lost to their owner if he
allows himself to be vanquished in fight by the intruder. The rightful
lord, therefore, fights to the death against everyone who attempts to
disturb his marital and domestic happiness. The battle begins high in
the air, but is often finished on the ground. With beak and claw, first
one, then the other ventures an assault; at length one succeeds in
getting a grip of his adversary, whose talons, in return, are promptly
fixed in his rival’s body. Like balls of feathers, the two fall to the
ground, or into the water, when both let go their hold, but only to
renew the attack. When they fight on the ground, the rivals challenge
one another like enraged cocks, and blood and feathers left behind show
the scene of the battle and bear witness to its deadly seriousness. The
female circles above the combatants or watches them from her high perch
with seeming indifference, but she never fails to caress the conqueror,
whether he be her lawful spouse or the new-comer. Woe to the eagle
if he does not succeed in repulsing the intruder! In the eyes of the
female, none but the strong deserves the fair.
After successfully repelled attacks and fights of that kind, from
which no eagle is exempt, and which are said to be repeated in Hungary
every year, the pair, probably long wedded, take possession of the old
eyrie, and begin, in February, to repair it. Both birds set to work
to collect the necessary material, picking it up from the ground, or
from the water, or breaking it off the trees, and carrying it in their
talons, often for a long distance, to the nest, to rebuild and improve
this as well as an eagle can. As this building up of the old nest takes
place every year, it gradually grows to a considerable height, and one
can tell from it the age of the birds, and may also guess the probable
duration of their wedded life; for the oldest nest contains the oldest
pair of eagles. The nest is not always placed among the highest
branches of the tree, but is in all cases high above the ground, more
or less near the trunk, and always on strong boughs which can bear its
heavy and ever-increasing weight. Both upper and lower tiers consist of
sticks and twigs laid loosely above and across one another; and many
pairs of hedge-sparrows, which approach the mighty birds quite boldly
and confidently, find among these twigs cavities suitable for nesting
or hiding.
Towards the end of February, or in the beginning of March, the female
lays two, or at most three eggs in the shallow nest-cavity, and begins
brooding assiduously. The male meantime supplies her with food, not,
however, making longer expeditions in search of it than are absolutely
necessary, but spending whatever time he can spare from the work of
providing for her and himself, sitting, a faithful and attentive
guardian, on a tree in the neighbourhood, which serves him at once
as perch and sleeping-place. After about four weeks of brooding, the
young emerge from the eggs, looking at first like soft balls of wool,
from which dark eyes peer forth, and a dark bill and very sharp claws
protrude. Even in their earliest youth the little creatures are as
pretty as they are self-possessed. Now there is work enough for both
father and mother. The two take turns in going forth to seek for prey,
and in mounting guard over the little ones; but it is the mother who
tends them. The father honestly performs his part in the rearing of
the brood; but the mother alone is capable of giving them that care
and attention which may be described as nursing. If she were torn from
them in the first days of their life, they would perish as surely as
young mammals robbed of their suckling mother. With her own breast the
eagle-mother protects them from frost and snow; from her own crop she
supplies them with warmed, softened, and partly-digested food. The
eagle-father does not render such nursing services as these, but if the
mother perish when the young are half-grown, he unhesitatingly takes
upon himself the task of rearing and feeding them, and often performs
it with the most self-sacrificing toil. The young eagles grow rapidly.
In the third week of their existence the upper surface of the body is
covered with feathers; towards the end of May they are full-grown and
fully fledged. Then they leave the nest, to prepare, under the guidance
of their parents, for the business of life.
This is a picture, drawn with hasty strokes, of the life of the eagle,
which, for the next few days, was the object of our expeditions. No
fewer than nineteen inhabited eyries were visited by us with varying
success. Now on foot, now in little boats, now jumping and wading, now
creeping and gliding, we endeavoured, unseen and unheard, to approach
the trees bearing the nests; for hours we crouched expectantly beneath
them in huts hastily built with branches, gazing eagerly up at the
eagles, which, startled by us or others, were wheeling and circling
high in the air, and showing no inclination to return to their nests,
but which we knew must return sometime, and would probably fall victims
to us. We were able to observe them very accurately and fully, and this
eagle-hunt gained, therefore, an indescribable charm for us all.
Except for the eagles and other birds of prey which we secured, the
forests, which looked so promising, proved, or at any rate seemed,
to be poor in feathered inhabitants. Of course it was early in the
year, and the stream of migration was still in full flood; nor did we
succeed in investigating more than the outskirts of the forest. But
even the number of birds which had returned and taken up their quarters
on the outskirts of the forest did not come up to our expectations.
And yet this apparent poverty disappointed me less than the lack of
good songsters. The song-thrush did indeed pour forth its rich music
through the woods fragrant with the breath of spring; here and there
a nightingale sang; the finch warbled its spring greeting everywhere;
and even a white-throat tried its notes, but none of these satisfied
our critical ear. All who sang or warbled seemed merely bunglers, not
masters. And at last we began to feel that real song did not belong
to those dark woods at all, that the cries of eagles and falcons, the
hooting of horned owls and screech-owls, the croaking of water-hens
and terns, the shrill cry of herons and the laughter of woodpeckers,
the cuckoos’ call and the cooing of stock-doves were the music best
befitting them, and that, besides these, the only bird that had a right
to sing was the sedge-warbler, who lived among the reeds and bulrushes,
and who had borrowed most of his intricate song from the frogs.
On the fourth day we hunted in the Keskender forest, a few miles from
the banks of the Danube. As we left the forests on the river banks, we
had to traverse a great plain bounded in the far distance by a chain of
hills. Our route lay through well-cultivated fields belonging to the
large estate of Bellye--a model of good management--and we made rapid
progress on swift horses. Here and there marshy meadows, with pools and
ditches, a little thicket, large farm-buildings surrounded by gnarled
oaks, a hamlet, a village, but for the most part treeless fields; this
was the character of the district through which we hastened. Larks
innumerable rose singing from the fields; dainty water-wagtails tripped
about the roads; shrikes and corn-buntings sat on every wayside hedge;
brooding jackdaws and starlings bustled and clamoured about their nests
in the crowns of the oaks; above the ponds ospreys were wheeling on the
outlook for fish, and graceful terns skimmed along in zigzag flight;
the lapwing busied itself in the marshes. Apart from these, we observed
very few birds. Even the Keskender wood, a well-kept forest, which we
reached after two hours’ riding, was poor in species, notwithstanding
its varied character. There, however, were the nests of spotted-eagles
and ospreys, short-toed eagles and common buzzards, falcons, owls, and,
above all, black storks in surprising numbers, and our expedition was
therefore successful beyond all expectation. And yet the foresters,
who, in anticipation of the Crown Prince’s visit, had, only a few days
before, searched the woods and noted the position of the various eyries
on a hastily constructed map, did not know of nearly all the birds
of prey and black storks nesting in the forest. “It is like Paradise
here,” remarked the Crown Prince Rudolf, and these words accurately
described the relations between men and animals in Hungary. Like the
Oriental, the Hungarian is happily not possessed by the mania for
killing which has caused the extreme shyness of the animals, and the
painfully evident poverty of animal life in Western Europe; he does
not grudge a home even to the bird of prey which settles on his land,
and he does not make constant and cruel raids on the animal world,
which lives and moves about him. Not even the low self-interest which
at present prompts covetous feather-dealers to make yearly expeditions
to the marshes of the lower Danube, and which sacrifices hundreds of
thousands of happy and interesting bird-lives for the sake of their
feathers, has had power to move the Magyar from his good old customs.
It may be that indifference to the animal life around him has something
to do with his hospitality; but the hospitality is there, and it
has not yet given place to a thirst for persecution. Animals, and
especially birds, remain quite confidently in the neighbourhood of men;
they go about their own affairs quite unconcerned as to what men may be
doing. The eagle has his eyrie by the roadside, the raven nests among
the trees in the field, the black or wood stork is hardly more shy than
the sacred house-stork; the deer does not rise from his lair when a
carriage passes within rifle-range. Verily, it is like Paradise.