It was Tennyson who first set us looking for kingfishers in March,
though, indeed, the ‘sea-blue bird’ makes the riverside beautiful at all
seasons. There is a little creek here, winding away from the main
current of the river through a thicket of willow and alder, where, coming
stealthily along the shadowed footpath, you can always hear the shrill,
creaking pipe of the bird, and generally catch the glint of his gay
plumage as he darts down-stream, or sits on some branch overhanging the
clear, brown water.
But it was from the stern-seat of the old ferryman’s boat that I learnt
whatever I know about kingfishers and river life in general; and these
secret excursions seldom began until March was well under way. For me,
therefore, the kingfisher, as for all Tennyson lovers, is most clearly
associated with the still barren hedgerows and brakes, the song of the
thrush mounted high amidst leafless branches, and that wonderful array of
crimson tassels and brown bobbins, all set in a mist of pale green
needles, which at this time makes the larch one of the sights of the
country-side.
I have said secret excursions; and, indeed, all my relations with old
Runridge during recent years have necessarily taken on this furtive
character. It was not always so. In happier days, when the old man was
a widower, I used to drift down to his cabin by the water-side for a
quiet pipe at all seasons of the day and openly, whenever the mood seized
me. Then, if tide and the weather served, we would take the little skiff
and go off for hours together exploring the shiest nooks of the river,
either with or without the ancient fowling-piece that hung over his
kitchen hearth. At these times the ferry was left to take care of
itself, which it did sufficiently well, there being often quite a little
collection of pennies on the thwart of the boat when the old man got back
from these unpremeditated truantries.
But, one fateful day, a distant cousin of Runridge’s arrived on a visit—a
sedate, ponderous woman, very black as to brows and eyes, and with a
hard, shiny face whose colour seemed all on the surface, like red paint.
She never went away again, for within the month she became Mrs. Runridge.
From that day, for peace and quiet’s sake, the old ferryman and I pursued
our ancient courses only by stealth. Fortunately Mrs. Runridge had a
genius for household economy, which led her to eschew the village shop,
and took her off with her basket at least once a week to Stavisham and
its cheaper wares. This was always our opportunity; and regularly on the
town market-days, when Mrs. Runridge and her basket had been safely
stowed into the carrier’s cart and it had turned the distant bend of the
lane, the little green wherry set forth over the shining tide with its
self-congratulatory crew, bent on visiting the ‘harns,’ or looking for
reed-warblers’ nests, or anything else that might fit the occasion.
To-day we went up on the full tide, and turned into the little creek
where the kingfishers have their nests. It has been one of those
dead-still, cloudless days, that so often come in mid-March just before
the gales of the equinox—a halcyon day, in very truth. As our little
craft sped up the glittering pathway of the waters, hardly a whisper
sounded in the dense jungle of reeds that flanks the river here on either
side. The treetops stood motionless against the sky—one clear, blue arch
except where just above the horizon a series of white clouds peered over
the hill-tops like a row of beckoning hands. The willows on the banks
were full of yellow blossom in which the bees crowded; their soft music
was with us wherever we went. Larks carolled overhead. Thrushes,
blackbirds, hedge-sparrows sang in every bush. There was a great cawing
and dawing from the rookeries, where the black companies had returned for
the season, and were busy furbishing up their nests. We drove our boat’s
prow through the willow branches that all but hid the entrance to the
creek, then let her drift idly down the narrow way until we gained the
broader basin near the footbridge, and moored her to an overhanging
branch.
Keeping quiet and still in our corner, we had only a few minutes to wait.
The familiar, high-pitched cry rang out from the sunny breadth of the
river. And then, into the cool, grey light, came what looked like a
flying spark of emerald fire. The bird pitched on a wand of sallow that
drooped nearly to the water just opposite our retreat. Here he sat
awhile carelessly preening his magnificent feathers. Below him the water
lay glassy-still and clear, reflecting his tawny breast and the rich
chequer-work of gold blossom and blue sky overhead. The kingfisher did
not watch the stream with that motionless vigilance that one reads of in
the nature books. He seemed to give the gliding water scarce a thought,
but to be intent only on the contemplation of his own finery, as he
twirled on his perch, reaching now and again over his shoulder to set
straight a feather that had gone awry.
But suddenly he stopped in this popinjay performance, pointed his bill
downward, and plunged like a stone. The glittering emerald vanished. On
the mirror of the waters there spread ring within ring of light. What
seemed like whole minutes passed in waiting and silence. And then all
the brilliant green and blue and amber burst into view again, as the bird
came up in a scatter of diamonds, and lanced straight back to his perch.
Now we could see he held a minnow, a little writhing atom of silver,
crosswise in his beak. He struck it to and fro on the hard wood until he
had killed it. Then, at a single gulp, it was down his throttle. Again
the kingfisher sat preening his gorgeous plumage, with the same
dilettante touch and light carelessness, as though the shining treasury
of the waters below concerned him not a jot.