_NIGHT WANDERERS._
ALTHOUGH it is comparatively easy to observe the habits of animals by
day, it is much more difficult to do so at night. Edward, as we have
already said, was compelled by circumstances to work at shoemaking by
day, and to work at Natural History by night.
“It would have been much easier work for me,” said Edward, in answer
to an inquiry made as to his nocturnal observations, “had it been my
good fortune to possess but a single trustworthy book on the subject,
or even a single friend who could have told me anything about such
matters. But I had neither book nor friend. I was in a far worse
predicament than the young and intending communicants at the parish
church of Boyndie were, who, when asked a question by the good and
pious minister, and returning no answer, were told that they were
shockingly in the dark—all in the dark together. Now, they had a light
beside them, for they had their teacher in their midst. But I had no
light whatever, and no instructor. It was doubly dark with me. It was
decidedly the very blackness of darkness in my case. The only spark
or glimmer I had was from within. It proceeded from the never-ceasing
craving I had for more knowledge of the works of Nature. This was the
only faintest twinkle I had to lighten up my path, even in the darkest
night. And that little twinkle, together with my own never-flagging
perseverance, like a good and earnest pilot, steered me steadily and
unflinchingly onward.”
[Sidenote: _MIDNIGHT ROAMERS._]
Although Edward was frequently out in winter-time, especially in
moonlight, his principal night-work occurred between spring and
autumn. The stillest and quietest, and usually the darkest part of
the night—unless when the moon was up—was from about an hour after
sunset until about an hour before sunrise. Yet, during that sombre
time, when not asleep, he seldom failed to hear the sounds or voices,
near or at a distance, of midnight wanderers prowling about. In the
course of a few years he learnt to know all the beasts and birds of
the district frequented by him. He knew the former by their noises and
gruntings, and the latter by the sound of their wings when flying. When
a feathered wanderer flew by, he could tell its call-note at once,
and often the family as well as the species to which it belonged. But
although he contrived to make himself acquainted with the objects of
many of these midnight cries and noises, others cost him a great deal
of time and labour, as well as some dexterous manœuvring.
The sounds of the midnight roamers, as well as the appearance of the
birds and animals, were invariably more numerous during the earlier
part of the year. In the spring and early part of summer they were
always the most lively. Towards the end of summer the sounds became
fewer and less animated; and the animals themselves did not appear
so frequently. Woods were the principal lodging-places of birds and
animals. There were fewer in the fields; still fewer among the rocks
or shingle by the sea-shore, except in winter; and in the hills, the
fewest of all.
[Sidenote: _THE ROE-DEER AND HARE._]
When he made his first night expeditions to the inland country, the
hoarse-like _bark_ of the Roe-deer, and the timid-like _bleak-bleak_ of
the Hare, puzzled him very much. He attributed these noises to other
animals, before he was able by careful observation to attribute them
to their true sources. Although the deer wanders about at all hours
of the night, occasionally grunting or barking, it does not usually
feed at that time. The hare, on the other hand, feeds even during the
darkest nights, and in spring and the early part of summer it utters
its low cry of _bleak-bleak_. This cry is very different from that
which it utters when snared or half-shot. Its cry for help is then most
soul-pitying: it is like the tremulous voice of an infant, even to the
quivering of its little innocent lips.
While Edward found that the deer and the hare were among the animals
that wandered about a good deal in the dark, he did not find that the
Rabbit was a night-roamer, although he occasionally saw it moving
about by moonlight. He often watched the rabbits going into their
burrows at sunset; and he also observed them emerging from them a
little before sunrise. But there was one thing about the rabbit that
perplexed and puzzled him. It did not emit any cry, such as the hare
does; but he often heard the rabbit _tap-tap_ in a particular manner.
How was this noise caused? He endeavoured to ascertain the cause by
close observation.
[Sidenote: _THE RABBIT._]
Early one morning, when he was lying under a whin bush, about twenty
yards from the foot of a sandy knoll, where there were plenty of
rabbits’ holes, he was startled by hearing a loud tap-tapping almost
close to where he lay! The streaks of day were just beginning to
appear. Parting the bush gently aside, and looking through it, he
observed a rabbit thud-thudding its hind feet upon the ground close to
the mouth of another rabbit’s hole.
Edward continued to watch the rabbit. After he had finished his tapping
at the first hole, he went along the hillock and began tap-tapping at
another. He went on again. He would smell the ground about the hole
first, and would sometimes pass without tapping. At last he got to a
hole where his progress was stopped. After he had given only two or
three thuds, out rushed a full-grown rabbit, and flew at the disturber
of the peace. He rushed at him with such fury that they both rolled
headlong down hill, until they reached the bottom.
[Sidenote: _A RABBIT-FIGHT._]
There they had a rare set-to—a regular rabbit-fight. Rabbits are fools
at fighting. Their object seems to be to leap over each other, and to
kick the back of their enemy’s head as they fly over; each trying to
jump the highest, and to kick the hardest. It is a matter of jumping
and kicking. Yet rabbits have an immense power in their hinder feet.
They often knock each other down by this method of fighting. They also
occasionally fight like rams—knocking their heads hard together. Then
they reel and tumble, until they recover, and are at it again, until
one or the other succumbs.
Edward is of opinion that the method pursued by the male rabbits,
of tapping in front of their neighbours’ holes, is to attract the
attention of the females. When the male comes out, instead of the
female, a fight occurs, such as that above described. At other times,
the rabbit that taps is joined by other rabbits from the holes, and a
friendly conference takes place. But, besides this loud beating with
their heels, the rabbits possess another method of communicating with
their fellows. They produce a sound like _tap-pat!_ which is the sign
of danger. Edward often saw numbers of them frisking and gambling
merrily about the mouths of their burrows, but when the sound of
_tap-pat_ was heard, the whole of the rabbits, young and old, rushed
immediately to their holes.
[Sidenote: _THE FOX._]
Amongst the true night-roamers are the fox, the otter, the badger,
the polecat, the stoat, the weasel, the hedgehog, the rat, and almost
the whole family of mice. These are, for the most part, nocturnal
in their habits. No matter how dark or tempestuous the night, they
are constantly prowling about. Even at the sea-shore,—the otter, the
weasel, and the mice, often paid Edward a visit. When on the hills or
moors, he often saw the weasel, and sometimes the fox; but the fields
and the sides of woods were the places where they were most frequently
met with. All these animals, like the deer and hare, have their
peculiar and individual calls, which they utter at night.
Thus the Fox may be known by his _bark_, which resembles that of a
poodle dog, with a little of the yelp in it; and he repeats this at
intervals varying from about six to eighteen minutes between each. When
suddenly surprised, the fox gives vent to a sharp harsh-like growl, and
shows and snaps his teeth. “I once,” says Edward, “put my walking-staff
into the mouth of a fox just roused from his lair—for foxes do not
always live in holes—to see how the fellow would act. He worried the
stick and took it away with him. I have, on three different occasions,
come upon two foxes occupying the same lair at the same time—twice on
the cliffs by the sea, and once among the bushes in an old and disused
quarry. In one instance I came upon them in mid-winter, and in the
other two cases during summer.”
[Sidenote: _CRIES OF NIGHT-ROAMERS._]
The Badger utters a kind of snarling _grunt_. This is done in quick
succession. Then he is silent for a short time, and again he begins in
the same strain. The Otter, and most of the other night-roamers, have
a sort of _squeak_, which they utter occasionally. But though there
is a difference between them, which Edward could distinguish, it is
very difficult to describe it in words. Their screams, however, differ
widely from their ordinary call. The scream is the result of alarm or
pain, perhaps of a sudden wound; the call is their nightly greeting
when they hold friendly converse with each other; but the difference
in the screams can only be learnt by the ear, and can scarcely be
described by words.
The Field Mice—the “wee timorous beasties” of Burns—besides their
squeaking, lilt a low and not unmusical ditty for hours together.
Edward often heard them about him, sometimes quite near him, sometimes
beneath his head. He occasionally tried to clutch them, but on opening
his hand he found it filled with grass, moss, or leaves. The result of
his observations was, that several, if not the whole of the mouse race,
are possessed, more or less, of the gift of singing.
The otter, polecat, stoat, and weasel, have a knack of _blowing_ or
_hizzing_ when suddenly come upon, or when placed at bay. The three
latter stand up on their hind feet in a menacing attitude. Sometimes
they suddenly dart forward and give battle when they see no other
way of escape. This is especially the case with the females when they
have their young about them. Edward once saw a weasel, after hiding
her family amongst a cairn of stones, ascend to the top, and muttering
something all the while, by her threatening attitude and fierce showing
of her teeth, dared any one to approach her under penalty of immediate
attack.
[Sidenote: _IMPERTINENCE OF WEASELS._]
A bite of a weasel, or polecat, or badger, or otter, is anything but
agreeable. The bites of the weasel and the polecat are the worst.
There seems to be some poison in their bites, for the part bitten
soon becomes inflamed, and the bite is long in healing. The whole of
this group of animals are of the same bold, fearless, and impetuous
disposition. They are also remarkably impertinent and aggressive, not
hesitating to attack man himself, especially when they see him showing
the slightest symptoms of cowardice. Take the following illustrations,
communicated by Edward himself:—
[Sidenote: _ATTACK BY A WEASEL._]
“Returning one morning from an excursion in the Buchan district, when
between Fraserburgh and Pennan, I felt so completely exhausted by
fatigue, want of sleep, and want of food (for my haversack had become
exhausted), that I went into a field near the road, lay down by a
dyke-side, and fell fast asleep. I had not slept long, however, when
I was awakened by something cold pressing in betwixt my forehead and
the edge of my hat. There were some small birds in my hat which I
had shot, and they were wrapped in wadding. On putting up my hand to
ascertain the meaning, I got hold of a Weasel, which had been trying
to force its way in to the birds. I threw him away to some distance
amongst the grass, and went to sleep again. The fellow came back in a
few minutes, and began the same trick. I gripped him hard this time,
and tossed him across the dyke[25] into another field, but not before
he had bitten my hands. I began to close my eyes once more, when again
the prowler approached. At last, despairing of peace, I left the spot
where I had been seated, and went into a small plantation about a
hundred yards off, and now, I thought, I would surely get a nap in
comfort. But the weasel would not be refused. He had followed in my
track. I had scarcely closed my eyes before he was at me again. He was
trying to get into my hat. I awoke and shoved him off. Again he tried
it, and again he escaped. By this time I was thoroughly awake. I was a
good deal nettled at the pertinacity of the brute, and yet could not
help admiring his perseverance. But, thinking it was now high time to
put an end to the game, instead of falling asleep, I kept watch. Back
he came, nothing daunted by his previous repulses. I suffered him to go
on with his operations until I found my hat about to roll off. I then
throttled, and eventually strangled, the audacious little creature,
though my hand was again bitten severely. After getting a few winks of
sleep, I was again able to resume my journey.”
Edward was once attacked by two pertinacious Rats in a similar manner.
He was making an excursion between Banff and Aberdeen, and had got
to a place near Slains Castle, beyond Peterhead. It had been raining
all day. It was now growing dark; and he looked about for a place to
sleep in. He observed a dilapidated building, which looked like the
ruins of a threshing-mill, as it stood near a farm-steading. He entered
the place, and found only a small part of the roof still standing. It
was, however, sufficient to protect him from the rain, which was still
falling. There was a pile of stones and rubbish immediately under the
roof, and having gathered together as much dry grass as he could find,
and spread it on the stones, he lay down in a reclining position. In
this position he soon fell fast asleep.
[Sidenote: _A BAD NIGHT’S SLEEP._]
How long he had slept he did not know; but he was awakened by a
quivering sort of motion about his head. He at first thought it was
caused by the sinking of the stones, and that his head was going down
with them. He sat bolt upright, clutched his gun and wallet to save
them, and felt the stones with his hands to ascertain whether they had
sunk or not. They were quite undisturbed. He again lay down, thinking
that he had only been dreaming. But before he could fall asleep, the
movement under his head again commenced. Thinking it might be a
weasel, and not wishing for his company, he moved to one side, adjusted
his bedding, moved the grass, and prepared to lie down again.
[Sidenote: _PERTINACIOUS RATS._]
His sleep this time was of very short duration, for the tug-tugging
again commenced. He now raised his hand, at the same time that he
opened his eyes, and seized hold, not of a weasel, but of a rat. He
threw him away, thinking that that would be enough. Being assured that
there were no weasels there—for rats and weasels never associate—he now
thought he should be able to get a little sleep. He had no idea that
the rat would return.
But in this he was disappointed. He was just beginning to sleep when
he heard the rat again. He looked up, and found that two rats were
approaching him. So long as there were only two, he knew he could
manage them. He allowed them to climb up the stones and smell all about
him. One of them mounted his face, and sat upon it. They next proceeded
to his wallet, and endeavoured to pull it from under his head. They had
almost succeeded in doing so, when he laid hold of his wallet and drove
them off.
Being now in a sort of fossilised state from wet and cold, Edward did
not attempt to sleep again, but rose up from his bed of stones, secured
all his things, and marched away to recover his animal heat and resume
his explorations.
[Sidenote: _THE OTTER._]
Speaking of the Otter as a night-roamer, Edward observes:—“I am not
aware who first burlesqued the Otter as an amphibious animal. He must
have known very little of the animal’s true habits, and nothing at all
of its anatomical structure. The error thus promulgated seems to have
taken deep root. That the Otter is aquatic in habits is well known.
He goes into the water to fish, but he is forced to come up again to
breathe. In fact, a very small portion of the Otter’s life is spent
in the water. There are many birds that are far more aquatic than the
Otter. There are some, indeed, that never leave the water night nor
day; yet no one calls them amphibious birds. I have seen the Otter, in
his free, unfettered, and unmolested condition, both in the sea and
the river, go into the water, and disappear many a time, and I have
often watched for his reappearance. The longest time that he remained
under water was from three to four minutes; the usual time was from
two to three minutes. I have also watched numbers of water birds, who
have also to descend for their food, and I must say that the greater
number of them exceed the Otter in the time that they remain below
water. Some of them remain double the time. I once saw a Great Northern
Diver remain below water more than nine minutes. A porpoise that I
once watched, remained down about ten minutes; and so on with other
sea-birds and animals.”
Many of these night-roaming animals—such as the weasel, rat, badger,
otter, and polecat—are seen during the day; but these may only be
regarded as stray individuals, their principal feeding time being at
night. The rat may forage in the daytime, and the weasel is sometimes
to be seen hunting when the sun is high. But there was one circumstance
in connection with the manners and habits of these creatures which
surprised Edward not a little, which was,—that although he very seldom
saw any of them in the evening, or until after it was dark,—he never
missed seeing them in the morning, and sometimes after it had become
daylight. The same remark is, in a measure, applicable to many of the
night insects, to land crustaceans, beetles, many of the larger moths,
sandhoppers, and slaters.
[Illustration: THE CASTLE OF THE BOYNE.]
[Sidenote: _THE FUMART._]
One of the most severe encounters that Edward ever had with a nocturnal
roamer was with a Polecat or Fumart[26] in the ruined castle of the
Boyne. The polecat is of the same family as the weasel, but it is
longer, bigger, and stronger. It is called Fumart because of the fœtid
odour which it emits when irritated or attacked. It is an extremely
destructive brute, especially in the poultry-yard, where it kills far
more than it eats. Its principal luxury seems to be to drink the blood
and suck the brains of the animals it kills. It destroys everything
that the gamekeeper wishes to preserve. Hence the destructive war that
is so constantly waged against the polecat.
[Sidenote: _BOYNE CASTLE._]
The ruined castle of the Boyne, about five miles west of Banff, was
one of Edward’s favourite night haunts. The ruins occupy the level
summit of a precipitous bank forming the eastern side of a ravine,
through which the little river Boyne flows. One of the vaults, level
with the ground, is used as a sheltering place for cattle. Here Edward
often took refuge during rain, or while the night was too dark to
observe. The cattle soon got used to him. When the weather was dry,
and the animals fed or slept outside, Edward had the vault to himself.
On such occasions he was visited by rats, rabbits, owls, weasels,
polecats, and other animals.
One night, as he was lying upon a stone, dozing or sleeping, he was
awakened by something pat-patting against his legs. He thought it must
be a rabbit or a rat, as he knew that they were about the place. He
only moved his legs a little, so as to drive the creature away. But the
animal would not go. Then he raised himself up, and away it went; but
the night was so dark that he did not see what the animal was. Down
he went again to try and get a sleep; but before a few minutes had
elapsed, he felt the same pat-patting; on this occasion it was higher
up his body. He now swept his hand across his breast, and thrust the
intruder off. The animal shrieked as it fell to the ground. Edward knew
the shriek at once. It was a Polecat.
[Sidenote: _WAITS FOR THE POLECAT._]
He shifted his position a little, so as to be opposite the doorway,
where he could see his antagonist betwixt him and the sky. He also
turned upon his side in order to have more freedom to act. He had in
one of his breast pockets a water-hen which he had shot that evening;
and he had no doubt that this was the bait which attracted the polecat.
He buttoned up his coat to his chin, so as to prevent the bird from
being carried away by force. He was now ready for whatever might
happen. Edward must tell the rest of the story in his own words:—
“Well, just as I hoped and expected, in about twenty minutes I observed
the fellow entering the vault, looking straight in my direction. He was
very cautious at first. He halted, and looked behind him. He turned
a little, and looked out. I could easily have shot him now, but that
would have spoilt the sport; besides, I never wasted my powder and
shot upon anything that I could take with my hands. Having stood for
a few seconds, he slowly advanced, keeping his nose on the ground. On
he came. He put his fore-feet on my legs, and stared me full in the
face for about a minute. I wondered what he would do next,—whether
he would come nearer or go away. When satisfied with his look at my
face, he dropped his feet and ran out of the vault. I was a good
deal disappointed; and I feared that my look had frightened him. By
no means. I was soon reassured by hearing the well-known and ominous
_squeak-squeak_ of the tribe. It occurred to me that I was about to be
assaulted by a legion of polecats, and that it might be best to beat a
retreat.
[Sidenote: _FIGHT WITH THE POLECAT._]
“I was just in the act of rising, when I saw my adversary once more
make his appearance at the entrance. He seemed to be alone. I slipped
quietly down again to my former position, and waited his attack. After
a rather slow and protracted march, in the course of which he several
times turned his head towards the door—a manœuvre which I did not at
all like—he at last approached me. He at once leapt upon me, and looked
back towards the entrance. I lifted my head, and he looked full in my
face. Then he leapt down, and ran to the entrance once more, and gave a
_squeak_. No answer. He returned, and leapt upon me again. He was now
in a better position than before, but not sufficiently far up for my
purpose. Down went his nose, and up, up he crawled over my body towards
the bird in my breast pocket. His head was low down, so that I couldn’t
seize him.
“I lay as still as death; but, being forced to breathe, the movement
of my chest made the brute raise his head, and at that moment I gript
him by the throat! I sprang instantly to my feet, and held on. But I
actually thought that he would have torn my hands to pieces with his
claws. I endeavoured to get him turned round, so as to get my hand to
the back of his neck. Even then, I had enough to do to hold him fast.
How he screamed and yelled! What an unearthly noise in the dead of
night! The vault rung with his howlings! And then what an awful stench
he emitted during his struggles! The very jackdaws in the upper stories
of the castle began to _caw!_ Still I kept my hold. But I could not
prevent his yelling at the top of his voice. Although I gripped and
squeezed with all my might and main, I could not choke him.
[Sidenote: _THE POLECAT CHLOROFORMED._]
“Then I bethought me of another way of dealing with the brute. I had
in my pocket about an ounce of chloroform, which I used for capturing
insects. I took the bottle out, undid the cork, and thrust the ounce of
chloroform down the fumart’s throat. It acted as a sleeping draught. He
gradually lessened his struggles. Then I laid him down upon a stone,
and, pressing the iron heel of my boot upon his neck, I dislocated
his spine, and he struggled no more. I was quite exhausted when the
struggle was over. The fight must have lasted nearly two hours. It
was the most terrible encounter that I ever had with an animal of his
class. My hands were very much bitten and scratched; and they long
continued inflamed and sore. But the prey I had captured was well
worth the struggle. He was a large and powerful animal—a male; and I
desired to have him as a match for a female which I had captured some
time before. He was all the more valuable, as I succeeded in taking him
without the slightest injury to his skin.”[27]
The Birds that roam at night are more easily described. Although the
Bat comes out pretty early in the evenings, it is not on night insects
that he chiefly feeds. It is rather on the day insects which have not
yet gone home to their rest. The bat flies mostly at twilight, and
inhabits ruins and buildings as well as hollow trees in the woods.
[Sidenote: _THE LONG-EARED OWL._]
The Owl is a nocturnal bird of prey. It flits by, as the twilight
deepens into night, and hoots or howls in hollow and lugubrious tones.
Though Edward was by no means given to fear, he was once scared at
midnight by the screech of a Long-eared owl (_Strix otus_). It was
only about the third or fourth night that he had gone out in search
of specimens. When he began his night-work, he was sometimes a little
squeamish; but, as he became accustomed to it, he slept quite as
soundly out of doors as in bed. He was as fearless by night as by day.
No thought of ghosts, hobgoblins, water-kelpies, brownies, fairies,
or the other supposed spirits of darkness, ever daunted him. But, on
this particular night, he had one of the most alarming and fearful
awakenings that he had ever experienced.
There had been a fearful thunderstorm, during which he had taken
shelter in a hole in the woods of Mountcoffer. He had fallen asleep
with his head upon the lock of his gun. Before he entered the burrow,
he had caught a field-mouse, which he wished to take home alive. He
therefore tied a string round its tail, attaching the other end of the
string (which was about six feet long) to his waistcoat. The little
fellow had thus the liberty of the length of his tether.
[Sidenote: _THE OWL’S SCREECHES._]
While Edward was sleeping soundly, he was awakened by something
tug-tugging at his waistcoat; and then by hearing a terrific series
of yells, mingled with screeches, close at his head. He was confused
and bewildered at first, and did not know where he was, or what the
dreadful noises meant. Recovering his recollection, and opening his
eyes, he looked about him. He remembered the mouse, and pulled back the
string to which it had been attached. The mouse was gone. Nothing but
the skin of its tail remained. He looked up, and saw an Owl sitting on
a tree a few yards off. He had doubtless begun to scream when he found
that his capture of the mouse was resisted by the string attached to
its tail. Edward emerged a little from his burrow, and drew out his
gun for the purpose of shooting the owl; but, before he could do this,
the owl had taken to his wings and fled away with his booty.
Besides the Long-eared owl, Edward also met with the Brown owl,—the
only two species that he met with in his district, or of which he can
speak from personal observation. Both of these owls uttered a _too-hoo_
when sinking down upon their prey; and, after they had secured it, they
would fly away without any further noise; but, if obstructed, they
would both set up a loud screech. Edward had many opportunities of
witnessing this trait in their characters. The best instance occurred
in the wood of Backlaw.
[Sidenote: _AN ORCHESTRA DISTURBED._]
“Near the centre of this wood,” he observes, “and not far from the
farm of the same name, there is a small piece of stagnant water. I was
reclining against a tree one night, listening to a reptilian choir—a
concert of frogs. It was delicious to hear the musicians endeavouring
to excel each other in their strains, and to exhibit their wonderful
vocal powers. The defect of the concert was the want of time. Each
individual performer endeavoured to get as much above the concert
pitch as possible. It was a most beautiful night,—for there are
beautiful nights as well as days in the north,—and I am certain that
these creatures were enjoying its beauty as much as myself. Presently,
when the whole of the vocalists had reached their highest notes,
they became hushed in an instant. I was amazed at this, and began to
wonder at the sudden termination of the concert. But, looking about, I
observed a Brown Owl drop down, with the silence of death, on to the
top of a low dyke close by the orchestra.
[Sidenote: _THE BROWN OWL._]
“He sat there for nearly half an hour, during which there was perfect
silence. The owl himself remained quite motionless, for I watched him
all the time. Then I saw the owl give a hitch, and move his head a
little to one side. He instantly darted down amongst the grass and
rushes, after which he rose with something dangling from his claws.
It was a frog: I saw it quite distinctly. He flew up to a tree behind
the one against which I was leaning. I turned round a little, and
looked up to see how the owl would proceed with his quarry; whether he
would tear him in pieces, or gobble him up whole. In this, however,
I was disappointed. Although I moved very quietly, the quick eye
or ear of the owl detected me, and I was at once greeted with his
_hoolie-gool-oo-oo_ as loud as he could scream. I might have shot him;
but my stock of powder and lead was very low, and I refrained. Besides,
he soon put it out of my power by taking wing and flying off with his
prey.”
[Sidenote: _NIGHT BIRDS._]
There were two other birds which Edward often observed prowling about
in the twilight in search of food,—namely, the Kestrel and Merlin. On
one occasion he shot a specimen of the latter, when it was so dark
that he could scarcely see it. He did not know that it was a hawk. He
thought it was a goatsucker by its flight. Many of the birds of prey
roamed about by night as well as by day. The harsh _scream_ of the
heron, the _quack_ of the wild duck, the _piping_ of the kittyneedy
(common sandpiper), the _birbeck_ of the muirfowl, the _wail_ of the
plover, the _curlee_ of the curlew, and the _boom_ of the snipe, were
often heard at night, in the regions frequented by these birds. Then
again, by the sea-side, he would hear by night the shrill _piping_
of the redshank and ring-dotterel, and the _pleck-pleck_ of the
oyster-catcher, as they came down from their breeding-grounds to the
shore, to feed or to hold their conclaves.
The Coot and Water-hen sometimes get very noisy after sunset. The
Landrail _craiks_ the whole night through, until some time after
the sun rises. The Partridge too either moves about or is on the
alert during spring and summer, as may be known by its often
repeated _twirr-twirr_. “The only bird we have here,” says Edward,
“that attempts to give music at the dead hours of night, is the
Sedge-warbler. It appears to be possessed of the gift of song during
the night as well as the day, and it is by no means niggardly in
exercising its vocal powers.
“Well do I remember,” he continues, “how the little mill-worker, of
scarcely ten years of age, was struck with admiration and almost
bewildered with delight, at the first of this species he had ever
heard exhibiting its mimicking powers; whereas now, I considered this
to be neither more nor less than the bird’s own natural melody. And if
there be any change in the delight with which I hear the Sedge-warbler,
although I have now turned the corner of ten times six, and have become
an old cobbler instead of a juvenile factory operative, yet when I hear
the little songster, I drink in the pleasure with even greater delight
than I did in those long-past years.”
[Sidenote: _THE ROOK._]
The Rook, too, is in a measure nocturnal in his habits during a certain
term of the year, especially when building his nest or when bringing
up his progeny. From the time when the foundation of the nest has been
laid, to the end of the matrimonial proceedings for the year, and
until the last chick has left the nest, the rookery is in a state of
continual _caw-cawing_ from morning till night. As the young brood of
rooks grow up, their appetites increase, and hence the incessant labour
of their parents in scouring the country for worms and grubs to furnish
them with their late supper or their early morning breakfast.
“I once,” says Edward, “during one of my country excursions, slept
beside a very large rookery in the woods of Forglen. Slept? no, I
could not sleep! I never was in the midst of such a hideous bedlam of
cawings. I positively do not believe that a single member of that black
fraternity slept during the whole of that night. At least I didn’t. If
the hubbub slackened for a moment, it was only renewed with redoubled
vehemence and energy. I found the rookery in the evening in the wildest
uproar, and I left it in the morning in the same uproarious condition.
I took good care never to make my bed so near a rookery again. Still,
in all justice, I must give the rook the very first and highest
character for attention to its young. It is first out in the morning to
search for food, and the last to provide for its family at night. The
starling is very dutiful in that way; but the rook beats him hollow.”
[Sidenote: _THE SONGSTERS AT NIGHT._]
“As a rule,” says Edward, “so far as I have been able to observe, the
Skylark is the first songster in the morning, and the Corn-bunting the
last at night. It was no uncommon thing to hear the lark carolling
his early hymn of praise high up in the heavens, before there was any
appearance of light, or before I thought of rising to recommence my
labours. Nor was it unusual to hear the bunting stringing together
his few and humble notes into an evening song long after sunset, and
after I had been compelled to succumb from want of light to pursue my
researches. So far as I can remember, I do not think that I have heard
the Skylark sing after sundown.
[Sidenote: _MORNING SERVICE OF SONG._]
“Amongst the sylvan choristers, the Blackbird is the foremost in
wakening the grove to melody, and he is also among the latest to retire
at night. As soon as the first streaks of grey begin to tinge the
sky, and break in through the branches amidst which he nestles, the
Blackbird is up, and from the topmost bough of the tree he salutes the
newborn day. And when all the rest of the birds have ended their daily
service of song and retired to rest, he still continues to tune his
mellow throat, until darkness has fairly settled down upon the earth.
[Illustration: FRASERBURGH.]
“After the Skylark and Blackbird have heralded the coming day, the
Thrush rises from her couch and pours out her melodious notes. The
Chaffinch, the Willow-wren, and all the lesser songsters, then join the
choir, and swell the chorus of universal praise.”
FOOTNOTES:
[25] _Dyke_ or _dike_, in the North, means a stone or earth wall, not a
ditch, as it means in the South.
[26] _Fumart_, from _ful merde_, old French.
[27] An encounter between an eagle and a polecat in the forest of Glen
Avon, Banffshire, is thus described in the _New Statistical Account of
Scotland_. “The eagle builds its eyrie in some inaccessible rock, and
continues from year to year to hatch its young in the same spot. One
of these noble birds was killed some years ago, which measured upwards
of six feet from tip to tip of the wings. One of the keepers of the
forest being one day reclining on the side of a hill, observed an eagle
hovering about for his prey, and, darting suddenly down, it caught hold
of a polecat, with which it rose up, and flew away in the direction
of an immense cliff on the opposite hill. It had not proceeded far,
when he observed it abating its course, and descending in a spiral
direction, until it reached the ground. He was led by curiosity to
proceed towards the spot, which was about a mile distant from him, and
there he found the eagle quite dead, with its talons transfixed in the
polecat. The polecat was also dead, with its teeth fixed in the eagle’s
gullet.”