Of course I suppose I ought to be grateful for the opportunity of having
a front seat at one of Nature's romances, but I imagine she reaps more
applause at matinées than at soirées. I know that I--But judge for
yourself.
The _dramatis personæ_ were corncrakes, neighbours of mine. The
heroine--a neat line in spring birdings--I labelled "Thisbe," and she
had evidently inspired affection of no mean degree in the hearts of two
enthusiastic swains, Strong-i'-th'-lung and Eugène. I know all this
because Thisbe's home is a small tuft of grass not distant from my
bedroom, and her admirers wooed her at long range from opposite corners
of my field.
Now, as a cursory study of ornithology will tell you, the corncrake's
method of attracting his bride is by song, and the criterion of
excellence in C.C. circles is that the song shall be protracted,
consistent and perfectly monotonous. To those who are unacquainted with
his note I would describe it as rather similar to the intermittent
buzzing noise which an inexperienced telephone operator lets loose when
she can't think of a wrong number to give you. It has also points of
resemblance to the periodic thud of the valve of a motor-tube when one
is running on a deflated tyre. But there is no real standard of
comparison. As a musical feat it is unique, and I for one am glad it is.
It was night. Eugène was in possession of the stage when I began to take
an interest in the romance. I cannot say for how long he had serenaded
his divinity before I became conscious of his lay, but I do know that
thereafter he put in one and a half hours of good solid craking before
he desisted. I then felt grateful for the silence, rolled over and
prepared to get on with my postponed slumber.
But Strong-i'-th'-lung decreed otherwise. With a contemptuous snort at
his rival's performance he opened his epic. He was splendid. For one and
three-ninths hours he descanted on the glories of field life, on the
freshness of the night, on the brilliance of the June foliage; for the
next two hours he ardently proclaimed the surpassing beauty of Thisbe's
eye, the glossiness of her plumage, the neatness of her claw, and he
wound up with a mad twenty minutes of piercing monotony as he depicted
the depth of his devotion for her.
When he ceased, in a silence which was almost deafening, I could
visualise Thisbe dimpling with satisfaction and undoubtedly filled with
tenderness toward a lover capable of expressing himself so eloquently. I
turned over with a sigh of relief and closed my eyes in pleasurable
anticipation of rest.
But Eugène felt it necessary to reply. I think his intention was to
crake disbelief of his rival's sincerity, to throw cold water on his
burning professions, perhaps even to question the excellence of his
intentions. But his nerve was obviously shaken by his competitor's
undoubtedly fine performance, and he craked indecisively. At 4.30
a.m. I distinctly heard him utter a flat note. At 4.47 he
missed the second part of a bar entirely. Thisbe's beak, I must believe,
curled derisively; Strong-i'-th'-lung laughed contemptuously, and at
5.10 a.m. Eugène faltered, stammered and fled from the field
defeated.
The sequel I have had to build up on rather fragmentary data, but it
appears that Eugène fled as far as Pudberry Parva, and endeavoured to
cool his discomfiture in a dewy hayfield.
To him there came an old crone, the "father and mother" of all
corncrakes, who comforted him, cossetted him, and from a fund of deep
experience offered him hints on voice production. She also gave him of a
nostrum of toadwort and garlic, which mollified his lacerated chords,
and she prescribed massage of the throat by rubbing against a young
beech stem.
Within two days Eugène was back in my field. In tones that feigned to
falter he craked a few bars to open the performance. Strong-i'-th'-lung
at once rose full of pitying confidence and craked for two and a half
hours the song of the practically accepted suitor. It was a good song,
and Thisbe seemed pleased, though I fancy she rather resented the note
of assurance which he imparted to his ballad.
Then Eugène came on. Bearing well in mind all the instruction of his
recent benefactress, he commenced at 11.45 p.m. such a masterpiece as
has never before been heard in the bird world. His consistency of period
was masterly, his iteration superb and his even monotony incomparable.
Crake succeeded crake with dull regular inevitability. So far as I know
he carried his bat. He was still playing strongly when I fell on a
troubled sleep about 5.30....
The next day, walking through the field, I put up two birds which flew
away together. One was Thisbe. And the other? Well, not
Strong-i'-th'-lung. I stumbled across him a little later, dead without a
wound.
* * * * *
"Wanted Music Master for 2 girls; also Mincing
Machine."--_Local Paper._
One way or another they seem determined that the poor girls shall be
"put through it."
* * * * *