The COMMON STARLING (_Sturnus vulgaris_) combines all the many
peculiarities of its family, and we have therefore selected it as the
most suitable representative of their principal characteristics. The
plumage of this bird varies considerably with age or the season of the
year; in the spring the adult male is black, shaded with purple and
green, these tints seeming lighter upon the wings and tail on account
of the broad grey border by which the feathers are surrounded; some of
those upon the back have greyish-yellow spots at their tips. The eyes
are brown, the beak black, and the feet reddish brown. No sooner has the
process of moulting been fully accomplished than the appearance of the
bird is entirely changed, for all the feathers upon the nape, back, and
breast are then tipped with white, and thus give the plumage the effect
of being spotted; the beak also becomes considerably darker. The female
resembles the male, but her plumage is even more spotted than that of
her mate during the spring months of the year. The young are of a dark
brownish grey, the region of the face being lighter than the rest of the
body; the beak is greyish black, and the feet brownish grey. The length
of this species is from eight and a half to eight and three-quarter
inches, its breadth fourteen to fifteen inches; the wing measures rather
more than four, and the tail from two and a half to two and three-quarter
inches.
* * * * *
The COMMON STARLING is met with throughout almost the whole of Europe,
principally frequenting its more southern portions, and preferring such
wooded pastures or plains as are well watered or marshy. During its
migrations it very frequently visits Northern Africa, and is an annual
winter guest in Egypt and Algiers, but for the most part the flocks
do not leave the Continent of Europe, and pass the colder part of the
year in flying about the country in company with Ravens, Thrushes, and
other similar birds. Few of the feathered tribe are endowed with so
joyous and contented a disposition as is the Starling, whose cheerful
voice may be heard amidst the utmost inclemencies of the weather, as it
perches fully exposed to all the attacks of wind or rain, and appears
philosophically indifferent to the scantiness of its supply of food. No
sooner has spring commenced than the males may be seen about towns or
villages, perching upon the steeples or high trees and pouring out their
song, which is accompanied by a variety of animated gesticulations. We
are, however, perhaps, giving our readers a wrong impression by speaking
of the sounds uttered by the Starling as being a _song_, for it is, in
fact, little more than a succession of harsh, loud, distinct sounds,
uttered by the energetic vocalist with so much gaiety and expression as
to render the performance quite attractive, especially when combined, as
it occasionally is, with imitations of the songs of many other birds.
Even such noises as the creaking of a door, the clattering of a windmill,
or the crowing of a cock may often be clearly distinguished amongst its
attempts at mimicry; the little singer will frequently continue its vocal
exercise for many hours at a time, only pausing occasionally in order
to go in search of food. The breeding season commences early in spring,
when Starlings build their nests, usually in the hollows of trees, or,
should these not be attainable, in holes of walls or old buildings, and
many are the disputes and combats that take place among the members of
a flock before all are suited with a home. The nest itself is formed of
stalks of grass, thickly lined with a bed of soft feathers, collected
from the neighbouring farmyards; but, should such warm materials not be
procurable, the architect is equally contented to employ hay, straw, or
even small twigs. The brood consists of five or six long, large eggs,
having a somewhat rough but glossy shell, of a light blue colour; upon
these the female alone sits, but both parents assist in obtaining the
constant supply of food required by the nestlings, though the father
of the family manages now and then to steal away from his duties and
pass an hour in singing with a party of pleasure-seeking companions. No
sooner have the young left the nest than the vocal performances to which
we have alluded may be heard throughout the entire day, for they do not
require attention from their parents except during the first week; after
leaving their home they immediately associate themselves with others of
their kindred, and fly about in companies that are often very numerous,
being in time strengthened by the addition of the second families, to the
rearing of which the parents almost immediately turn their attention.
When the duties of incubation are terminated, the old birds at once leave
their nests, and congregate in immense flocks, which pass the night
either amongst the trees or in beds of reeds or osiers. These swarms,
occasionally containing hundreds or rather thousands of Starlings, fly
about in dense masses during the day, and retire at night to the same
roosting-place, their numbers frequently occasioning the reeds upon which
they settle to break beneath their great weight, thus obliging them to
seek shelter elsewhere, a proceeding always accompanied by an amount of
squabbling and screaming that is absolutely deafening. Before leaving the
country, the parent birds revisit their nests, upon which they perch and
sing every morning and evening. They only commence their migrations when
compelled to seek shelter from the snow and frost, and lead as blithe and
active a life in the countries to which they resort as they do in their
summer haunts.
[Illustration: THE COMMON STARLING (_Sturnus vulgaris_).]
Few species are so deserving of the protection of man as these most
useful birds, an account of whose services in clearing the ground from
snails and other hurtful creatures would sound almost incredible, were
we to compute the hosts of active destroyers from whose attacks our
fields and gardens are thus preserved. With characteristic patience,
a German naturalist has been at the trouble of ascertaining that a
single young Starling will consume 140 snails in fourteen hours out
of the twenty-four, during which the young nestlings are constantly
fed, only about three minutes intervening between the arrivals of the
parents with fresh supplies for the hungry beaks of the little family.
We cannot follow the writer through all his intricate calculations
concerning a large swarm of Starlings that visited the part of Thuringia
in which he lived, and must content ourselves by giving our readers
the extraordinary result--namely, that the 180,000 birds of which this
unusually large flock was composed could not have cleared the ground
of less than 12,600,000 snails and worms daily during the time they
remained in that neighbourhood. The proceedings of the Starling when in
search of food are extremely amusing, as it runs hither and thither,
prying into every conceivable nook with keen eyes and ready beak, so as
to render it impossible for its victims to escape detection; even when
search by sight is impracticable, the tongue is employed to feel amongst
the grass, and accomplishes its duty with most unerring precision. When
exposed to the attacks of their foes, the cunning of these birds is of
the utmost service in securing their safety. It will frequently happen
that when flying about in company with Crows and Jackdaws, the enjoyment
of the party is interrupted by the sudden appearance of a Falcon or
Sparrow-hawk; no sooner does the enemy approach than the vigilant
Starlings at once take the alarm and beat a hasty and quiet retreat,
leaving the bird of prey to seek a victim among their less intelligent
or observant companions. From man they have little to fear, for by him
their numerous services are too fully appreciated to allow of any great
number being doomed to a life of confinement. Still, when caged their
qualifications are such as to render them general favourites. When kept
alone they are readily tamed, but, on the contrary, should they be placed
with other birds, they soon become quarrelsome: and, not content with
constantly squabbling with their companions, have often been known to
tear the nests of the latter to pieces, and throw out not merely the
eggs but the young. In our own aviary we on one occasion found a very
lively Starling flying about with a piece of white paper in its beak,
and chasing the terrified occupants in all directions, this sportive
performance apparently affording the greatest delight to the perpetrator
of the joke, who seemed to enjoy the alarm and screams thus excited.
Most extraordinary are the tales told of the facility with which this
species can be taught to speak or imitate almost any sound; an instance
is recorded of a Starling having learnt to repeat the Lord's Prayer quite
distinctly, without missing a word; the naturalist Lenz, to whose curious
calculations respecting these birds we have already alluded, kept one of
them tame, and tells us that this creature not only whistled two tunes,
and could utter syllables, but that it understood and obeyed his words
and gestures like a dog.
The following narrative, for which we are indebted to the kindness of
Dr. McFarlane McBirnie, will be read with interest:--"My father," writes
Dr. Birnie, "from boyhood was passionately fond of birds, when under ten
years of age he travelled from Balpon to Linlithgow and back, a distance
of forty miles, in order to get a canary. A few years after, having
broken his leg, he was confined to the recumbent position for two months,
the tedium of which was relieved by the company of his favourites. In
1845 he bought a fledgling Starling for eighteen-pence, and at once
commenced its education. He spent three hours a day (not, of course,
consecutively) for twelve months before he brought it to perfection.
From the very first, poor 'Richard,' as it was called, showed a love of
learning, he seemed actually to drink it in; he would lie with his head
inclined, as a person does when he wishes to listen intently, and would
lean against the wires of his cage to be as near as possible to the
sound; and I would here remark that in training a bird to sing and speak,
the instruction should be imparted in a subdued, semi-whispering tone,
in a darkened chamber, where there is nothing to distract the attention.
My father made it a point to give Richard half an hour's tuition every
night after ten o'clock, in total darkness, and he says he found it more
tractable then than at any other time. It would take up too much space to
show the _rationale_ of this; I may state, however, that in early morning
birds are intent on procuring food, and cannot be expected to listen to
instruction, and then, during the day there are so many things going on
in a house, so many diverse sounds, that it is impossible for them to
single out the vocables we wish, whereas, after three hours' repose, when
there is no desire for food, no wish for the pleasure of muscular motion,
no sounds or sights to withdraw their attention, then is the fitting
time to teach. By the time Richard was able to hop from perch to perch,
his master saw that his pupil was striving to imitate him; never was
scholar more apt or more gratified at receiving a prize than Richard was
at getting a bit of hard-boiled egg on achieving two or three additional
notes, and in this way he soon became the Mario of Starlings. At the word
of command--as at the down-beat of a conductor's baton--Richard started
off with the 'Hills of Glenorchy.' I regretted my father had not selected
a more popular tune; yet I question if one could have been got more
adapted for the vocalisation of a bird: prolonged notes, such as minims
or dotted crotchets, a bird is not able to maintain; a tune with quavers,
and in marching time, is best adapted to their sustaining powers. After
having whistled the 'Hills of Glenorchy,' Richard paused, as it were
to draw breath, and said, 'That's the "Hills of Glenorchy"--that's a
tune for the ladies;' 'A wee gill o' the best, here--quick, quick, make
haste;' 'Richard's a pretty, pretty bird;' 'A coach and six for pretty
Richard;' 'Richard's the boy for kissing the lasses;' here he imitated
the sound of kissing, familiar to every one, which convulsed his audience
with laughter, especially if a number of ladies were present; then
added, 'Now for the "Hills of Glenorchy,"' and began _de novo_. I have
heard many birds articulate, and am sure I shall be corroborated in the
statement that, more particularly in the Parrot tribe, the words are
often a mere screech--harsh and dissonant to a musical ear, and in many
cases a stranger would require to be informed beforehand what the bird
was going to say, ere he could properly understand it; with Richard it
was quite the reverse; his whole performance was thoroughly musical, and
so accurate was his vocalisation, that when at his best the tuning-fork
showed that his notes had not fallen to any appreciable extent at the
end of his song. Hundreds of times have I seen him roused from sleep at
midnight, to gratify parties who had come from a distance to hear him;
my father would bend over the cage, and say in a petting sort of way,
'Come, now, Richard, give us the "Hills of Glenorchy,"' when the poor
bird would hop over to the wires, place his bill in my father's mouth,
get a kiss, and then go through the whole performance as often as he was
asked. Richard had, besides his _chef-d'oeuvre_, many stray sentences,
which of themselves would have rendered him famous, such as calling the
dog, ordering coals, &c.; but these my father discouraged. Richard died
at the patriarchal age of sixteen, deeply regretted by those who had, for
so many years, looked upon and spoken to him as one of the family. While
I write, he is looking down on me from his glass shrine."