Enemies of the water-vole—The heron—The death-stroke—Ways of the
heron—Watching for fish—A hint to naturalists—Observers in the New
Forest—Return to wild habits—The fox, the cow, and the owl—The heron
and the eel—The cormorant and the conger—The heron’s power of wing—How
the heron settles—Its resting-place—Power of the heron’s beak—Heronry
in Wanstead Park.
The water-vole has but few enemies whom it need fear, and one of them
is now so scarce that the animal enjoys a practical immunity from
it. This is the heron (_Ardea cinerea_), which has suffered great
diminution of its numbers since the spread of agriculture.
Even now, however, when the brook is far away from the habitations of
man, the heron may be detected by a sharp eye standing motionless in
the stream, and looking out for prey. Being as still as if cut out of
stone, neither fish nor water-vole sees it, and if the latter should
happen to approach within striking distance, it will be instantly
killed by a sharp stroke on the back of the head.
The throat of the heron looks too small to allow the bird to swallow
any animal larger than a very small mouse; but it is so dilatable that
the largest water-vole can be swallowed with perfect ease.
The bird, in fact, is not at all fastidious about its food, and will
eat fish, frogs, toads, or water-voles with perfect impartiality. It
has even been known to devour young waterhens, swimming out to their
nest, and snatching up the unsuspecting brood. In fact, all is fish
that comes to its beak.
If the reader should be fortunate enough to espy a heron while watching
for prey, let him make the most of the opportunity.
Although the heron is a large bird, it is not easily seen. In the first
place, there are few birds which present so many different aspects.
When it stalks over the ground with erect bearing and alert gestures
it seems as conspicuous a bird as can well be imagined. Still more
conspicuous does it appear when flying, the ample wings spread, the
head and neck stretched forwards, and the long legs extending backwards
by way of balance.
But when it is on the look-out for the easily-startled fish it must
remain absolutely still. So it stands as motionless as a stuffed bird,
its long neck sunk and hidden among the feathers of the shoulders, and
nothing but the glancing eye denoting that it is alive.
This quiescence must be imitated by the observer, should he wish to
watch the proceedings of the bird, as the least movement will startle
it. The reason why so many persons fail to observe the habits of
animals, and then disbelieve those who have been more successful, is
that they have never mastered the key to all observation, _i.e._,
refraining from the slightest motion. A movement of the hand or foot,
or even a turn of the head is certain to give alarm; while many
creatures are so wary that when watching them it is as well to droop
the eyelids as much as possible, and not even to turn the eyes quickly,
lest the reflection of the light from their surface should attract the
attention of the watchful creature.
One of the worst results of detection is that when any animal is
startled it conveys the alarm to all others that happen to be within
sight or hearing. It is evident that all animals of the same species
have a language of their own which they perfectly understand, though it
is not likely that an animal belonging to one species can understand
the language of another.
But there seems to be a sort of universal or _lingua-franca_ language
which is common to all the animals, whether they be beasts or birds,
and one of the best known phrases is the cry of alarm, which is
understood by all alike.
I need hardly say that it is almost absolutely necessary to be alone,
as there is no object in two observers going together unless they can
communicate with each other, and there is nothing which is so alarming
to the beasts and birds as the sound of the human voice.
Yet there is a mode by which two persons who have learned to act in
concert with each other can manage to observe in company. It was shown
to me by an old African hunter, when I was staying with him in the New
Forest.
In the forest, although even the snapping of a dry twig will give the
alarm, neither bird nor beast seems to be disturbed by a whistle.
We therefore drew up a code of whistles, and practised ourselves
thoroughly in them.
Then, we went as quietly as we could to the chosen spot, and sat down
facing each other, so that no creature could pass behind one of us
without being detected by the other. We were both dressed in dark grey,
and took the precaution of sitting with our backs against a tree or a
bank, or any object which could perform the double duty of giving us
something to lean against, and of breaking the outlines of the human
form.
Our whistled code was as low as was possible consistent with being
audible, and I do not think that during our many experiments we gave
the alarm to a single creature.
When the observer is remaining without movement, scarcely an animal
will notice him.
I remember that on one occasion my friend and I were sitting opposite
each other, one on either side of a narrow forest path. The sun had
set, but at that time of the year there is scarcely any real night, and
objects could be easily seen in the half light.
Presently a fox came stealthily along the path. Now the cunning of the
fox is proverbial, and neither of us thought that he would pass between
us without detecting our presence. Yet, he did so, passing so close,
that we could have touched him with a stick.
Shortly afterwards, a cow came along the same path, walking almost
as noiselessly as the fox had done. It is a remarkable fact that
domesticated animals, when allowed to wander at liberty in the New
Forest, soon revert to the habits of their wild ancestors.
As the cow came along the path, neither of us could conjecture the
owner of the stealthy footstep. We feared lest it might be that of
poachers, in which case things would have gone hard with us, the
poachers of the New Forest being a truculent and dangerous set of men,
always provided with firearms and bludgeons, having scarcely the very
slightest regard for the law, and almost out of reach of the police.
They would certainly have considered us as spies upon them, and as
certainly would have attacked and half, if not quite killed us, we
being unarmed.
But to our amusement as well as relief, the step was only that of a
solitary cow, the animal lifting each foot high from the ground before
she made her step, and putting it down as cautiously as she had raised
it.
Then, a barn owl came drifting silently between us, looking in the
dusk as large and white as if it had been the snowy owl itself. Yet,
neither the fox, nor the cow, nor the owl detected us, although passing
within a few feet of us.
In the daytime the observer, however careful he may be, is always
liable to detection by a stray magpie or crow.
The bird comes flying along overhead, its keen eyes directed downwards,
on the look-out for the eggs of other birds. At first he may not notice
the motionless and silent observer, but sooner or later he is sure to
do so.
If it were not exasperating to have all one’s precautions frustrated,
the shriek of terrified astonishment with which the bird announces the
unexpected presence of a human being would be exceedingly ludicrous.
As it is, a feeling of wrath rather prevails over that of amusement,
for at least an hour will elapse before the startled animals will have
recovered from the magpie’s alarm cry.
Supposing that we are stationed on the banks of the brook on a fine
summer evening, while the long twilight endures, and have been
fortunate enough to escape the notice of the magpie or other feathered
spy, we may have the opportunity of watching the heron capture its prey.
The stroke of the beak is like lightning, and in a moment the bird is
holding a fish transversely in its beak. The long, narrow bill scarcely
seems capable of retaining the slippery prey; but if a heron’s beak
be examined carefully, it will be seen to possess a number of slight
serrations upon the edges, which enable it to take a firm grasp of the
fish.
Very little time is allowed the fish for struggling, for almost as soon
as captured it is flung in the air, caught dexterously with its head
downwards, and swallowed.
It is astonishing how large a fish will pass down the slender throat
of a heron. As has been already mentioned, the water-vole is swallowed
without difficulty. Now the water-vole measures between eight and nine
inches in length from the nose to the root of the tail, and is a very
thickset animal, so that it forms a large and inconvenient morsel.
It is seldom that the heron has, like the kingfisher, to beat its prey
against a stone or any hard object before swallowing it, though when
it catches a rather large eel it is obliged to avail itself of this
device before it can get the wriggling and active fish into a suitable
attitude. The eel has the strongest objection to going down the heron’s
throat, and has no idea of allowing its head to pass into the heron’s
beak. The eel, therefore, must be rendered insensible before it can be
swallowed.
Generally it is enough to carry the refractory prey to the bank, hold
it down with the foot, and peck it from one end to the other until it
is motionless. Should the eel be too large to be held by the feet, it
is rapidly battered against a stone, just as a large snail is treated
by a thrush, and so rendered senseless.
If the feet of the heron be examined, a remarkable comb-like appendage
may be seen on the inside of the claw of the hind foot.
What may be the precise office of this comb is not satisfactorily
decided. Some ornithologists think that it is utilised in preening the
plumage, I cannot, however, believe that it performs such an office. I
have enjoyed exceptional opportunities for watching the proceedings of
the heron when at liberty, as well as in captivity, but never saw it
preen its feathers with its foot, nor have I heard of anyone who has
actually witnessed the proceeding.
[Illustration: IN WANSTEAD PARK.]
It is not always fair to judge from a dead bird what the living bird
might have been able to do. But I have tried to comb the plumage of a
dead heron with its foot-comb, and have not succeeded.
Another suggestion is that the bird may use it when it holds prey under
its feet, as has just been narrated. These suggestions, however, are
nothing more than conjectures, but, as they have been the subject of
much argument, I have thought it best to mention them.
Sometimes it has happened that the heron has miscalculated its powers,
and seized a fish which was too large and powerful to be mastered.
Anglers frequently capture fish which bear the marks of the heron’s
beak upon their bodies, and in such cases neither the fish nor the
heron is any the worse for the struggle.
But when the unmanageable fish has been an eel, the result has, more
than once, been disastrous for the bird. In Yarrell’s work on the
British birds, a case is recorded where a heron and eel were both found
dead, the partially swallowed eel having twisted itself round the neck
of the heron in its struggles.
A very similar incident occurred off the coast of Devonshire, the
victim in this case being a cormorant. The bird had attacked a
conger-eel, and had struck its hooked upper mandible completely through
the lower jaw of the fish, the horny beak having entered under the chin
of the eel.
The bird could not shake the fish off its beak, and the result was
that both were found lying dead on the shore, the powerful conger-eel
having coiled itself round the neck of the cormorant and strangled it.
The stuffed skins of the bird and eel may be seen in the Truro Museum,
preserved in the position in which they were found.
Having procured a sufficiency of prey, the heron will take flight for
its home, which will probably be at a considerable distance from its
fishing ground. Twenty or thirty miles are but an easy journey for the
bird, which measures more than five feet across the expanded wings, and
yet barely weighs three pounds. Indeed, in proportion to its bulk, it
is believed to be the lightest bird known. The Rev. C. A. Johns states
that he has seen the heron fishing at a spot fully fifty miles from any
heronry.
The peculiar flight of the heron is graphically described in a letter
published in the _Standard_ newspaper, Sept. 25th, 1883.
“One summer evening I was under a wood by the Exe. The sun had set, and
from over the wooded hill above bars of golden and rosy cloud stretched
out across the sky. The rooks came slowly home to roost, disappearing
over the wood, and at the same time the herons approached in exactly
the opposite direction, flying from Devon into Somerset, and starting
out to feed as the rooks returned home.
“The first heron sailed on steadily at a great height, uttering a loud
“caak, caak” at intervals. In a few minutes a second followed, and
“caak, caak” sounded again over the river valley.
“The third was flying at a less height, and as he came into sight
over the line of the wood, he suddenly wheeled round, and holding his
immense wings extended, dived, as a rook will, downwards through the
air. He twisted from side to side like anything spun round by the
finger and thumb as he came down, rushing through the air head first.
“The sound of his great vanes pressing and dividing the air was
distinctly audible. He looked unable to manage his descent, but at the
right moment he recovered his balance, and rose a little up into a tree
on the summit, drawing his long legs into the branches behind him.
“The fourth heron fetched a wide circle, and so descended into the
wood. Two more passed on over the valley—altogether six herons in about
a quarter of an hour. They intended, no doubt, to wait in the trees
till it was dusky, and then to go down and fish in the wood. Herons
are here called cranes, and heronries are craneries. (This confusion
between the heron and the crane exists in most parts of Ireland.)
“A determined sportsman who used to eat every heron he could shoot, in
revenge for their ravages among the trout, at last became suspicious,
and, examining one, found in it the remains of a rat and of a toad,
after which he did not eat any more herons. Another sportsman found a
heron in the very act of gulping down a good sized trout, which stuck
in the gullet. He shot the heron and got the trout, which was not at
all injured, only marked at each side where the beak had cut it. The
fish was secured and eaten.”
I can corroborate the accuracy as well as the graphic wording of the
above description.
When I was living at Belvedere, in Kent, I used nearly every evening
to see herons flying northwards. I think that they were making for the
Essex marshes. They always flew at a very great height, and might have
escaped observation but for the loud, harsh croak which they uttered
at intervals, and which has been so well described by the monosyllable
“caak.”
As to their mode of settling on a tree, I have often watched the
herons of Walton Hall, where they were so tame that they would allow
themselves to be approached quite closely. When settling, they lower
themselves gently until their feet are upon the branch. They then keep
up a slight flapping of the wings until they are fairly settled.
An idea is prevalent in many parts of England that when the heron sits
on its nest, its long legs hang down on either side. Nothing can be
more absurd. The heron can double up its legs as is usual among birds,
and sits on its nest as easily as if it were a rook, or any other
short-legged bird.
In many respects the heron much resembles the rook in its manner of
nesting. The nest is placed in the topmost branches of a lofty tree,
and is little more than a mere platform of small sticks. Being a larger
bird than the rook, the heron requires a larger nest, and on an average
the diameter of a nest is about three feet.
Like the rook, the heron is gregarious in its nesting, a solitary
heron’s nest being unknown. In their modes of feeding, however, the
two birds utterly differ from each other, the heron seeking its food
alone, while the rook feeds in company, always placing a sentinel on
some elevated spot for the purpose of giving alarm at the approach of
danger.
The heron is curiously fastidious in its choice of a nesting-place,
and, like the rook, prefers the neighbourhood of man, knowing
instinctively when it will be protected by its human neighbours.
Fortunately for the bird, the possession of a heronry is a matter of
pride among landowners; so that even if the owner of a trout-stream
happened also to possess a heronry, he would not think of destroying
the herons because they ate his trout.
In captivity the heron can be tamed; but it is not to be recommended as
a pet. It is apt to bestow all its affections on one individual, and to
consider the rest of the human race as enemies, whose eyes ought to be
pecked out.
I was for some time acquainted with such a bird, but took care to keep
well out of reach of its terrible beak, which it would dart to an
unexpected distance through the bars of its cage.
It formerly ran loose in a garden, and was almost slavishly
affectionate to the gardener, rubbing itself against his legs like a
pet cat, and trying in every way to attract his attention. He had even
taught it a few simple tricks, and I have seen it take his hat off his
head, and then offer it to him.
But just in proportion as it became friendly with the gardener it
became cross-grained with the rest of the world, attacking everyone
who came into the garden, and darting its beak at their eyes. Its last
performance caused it to be placed in confinement.
An elderly gentleman had entered the garden on business, when the bird
instantly assailed him. Knowing the habits of the heron, he very wisely
flung himself on his face for the purpose of preserving his eyes, and
shouted for help.
Meanwhile the heron, wishing to make the most of its opportunity,
mounted upon his prostrate victim, and succeeded in inflicting several
severe pecks upon his body and limbs before the gardener could come to
the rescue.
The peck of a heron’s beak is no trifle, the mandibles being closed,
and the blow delivered with the full power of the long neck, so that
each blow from the beak is something like the stab of a bayonet, and so
strong and sharp is the beak that in some foreign lands it is converted
into an effective spearhead.
Few people seem to be aware that a large and populous heronry exists in
Wanstead Park, on the very outskirts of London.
At the end of summer, when the young birds are fledged, the heronry
is nearly deserted, but during the early days of spring the heronry
is well worth a visit. The great birds are all in full activity, as
is demanded by the many wants of the young, and on the ground beneath
may be seen fragments of the pale-blue eggs. On an average there are
three young ones in each nest, so that the scene is very lively and
interesting, until the foliage becomes so thick that it hides the birds
and their nests.
(_To be continued._)
THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND;
OR,
THE OLD LADY OF THREADNEEDLE STREET.
BY EMMA BREWER.