often seen on the Thames, and are a costly and rather striking
contrivance, adding greatly to the picturesqueness of parts of the river.
They are very ancient, and date from days when the "eel-run" was one of
the annual events of river life. The eels went down in millions to the
sea, and the elvers came up in such tens of millions that they made a
black margin to the river on either side by the bank, where they swam
because the current was there weakest. The large eels were taken, and are
still taken, on their downward journey in autumn. It is then that the
Thames fills, and at the first big rush of water the eels begin to descend
to reach the mud and sands at the Thames mouth, where they spawn. They
always travel by night, and it is then that the heavy eel-bucks are
lowered. Often hundredweights are taken in a night, all of good size, one
of the largest of which there is any record being one of 15 lb., taken in
the Kennet near Newbury. In the "grig-wheels" they are taken as small as 3
oz. or 4 oz.; but in the bucks they rarely weigh less than 1 lb. The
darkest nights are the most favourable. Moonlight stops them, and they do
not like still weather. The upward migration of eels goes on from February
till May on the Thames, but the regular "eel-fare" of the young grigs do
not assume any great size till May, when as many as 1,800, about three
inches long, were seen to pass a given point in one minute. So say the
records. But who could have counted them so fast?
A few recent developments of the eel trade elsewhere show how valuable
this may be. Quite lately the Danes discovered that the Lim-fiord and some
other shallow Broads on the West Danish Coast were a huge preserve of
eels. They began trawling there steadily, and have established a large and
lucrative trade in them. On the Bann, in Ireland, eel catching is still
done in a large way, and the fish shipped to London. But the most ancient
and yet most modern of eel fisheries is on the Adriatic, at Comacchio,
where lagoons 140 miles in circumference are stocked with eels, and eel
breeding and exporting are carried out on a large scale. Even as early as
the sixteenth century the Popes used to derive an income of L12,000 from
this source.
SHEEP, PLAIN AND COLOURED
In the Thames Valley there are two very distinguished breeds of sheep--the
Cotswolds at the head of the watershed, and the Oxford Downs, near
Wallingford. Wallingford lamb is supposed to be the best in the market.
There are also the Berkshire Downs sheep, but these are, I think, more
obviously cross-bred, or else of the Hampshire breed. The Cotswold sheep
are probably a very old breed. They are evidently the original of the
woolly "baa-lamb" of the nursery, with long, fleecy wool. The Oxford Downs
are a short-woolled sheep. One of the flocks of this breed has been
improved by selection, mainly in regard to fecundity, to such an extent
that I believe twins are the normal proportion among the lambs. The
shepherds, as elsewhere on the large down farms, form a race apart. They
are not always on the best of terms with the ordinary farm labourers, I
notice. "The shepherd be a working against I," is a complaint I sometimes
hear. The real reason is that the shepherd thinks, above all things, of
his flock, and of finding them _food_. The feud between the keeper of
sheep and the raiser of crops dates from the days of Cain and Abel.
I heard lately from a gentleman who very frequently occupies the
honourable position of judge or steward at the leading agricultural shows,
that it is proposed that in future no sheep sent to shows are to be
allowed to have their coats rouged, and the judges are in future to make
their decisions uninfluenced by the beauties of cosmetics. This decision
comes as a great blow to the skilled hands in the business of the
"improver," who, by long experience and a nice knowledge of the weaknesses
of judges, had brought the art of "making up" pedigree sheep of any
particular breed to something very nearly approaching the ideal of
perfection. Their wool was clipped so artistically as to resemble a bed of
moss, and this being elegantly tinted with rouge or saffron, the sheep
assumed the hue of the pink or primrose, according to taste and fancy. The
reason for the demand which now requires that the champions of the flock
shall be shown "plain" and not coloured is not too technical to appeal to
the general public. Those who know the acute anxiety with which the
exhibitors of prize animals, from fancy mice to shorthorns, watch them
"coming on" as the hour for the show approaches, will treat tenderly, even
if they cannot condone, the little weaknesses into which the uses of rouge
and saffron led them. When a Southdown which ought to have a contour
smooth and rounded as a pear still showed aggravating little pits and
hollows where there ought to be none, nothing was easier than to postpone
clipping those undesirable hollows till the moment before the show, or if
there were bumps where there should be no bumps, to shave the wool down
close over them. Left to Nature, the newly-clipped wool would show a
different tint from the rest of the fleece; but the rouge or saffron then
applied made all things even, to the eye, and the judges to find out
whether the animals were "level" or not had to feel them all over. Feeling
every six inches of some two hundred sheep's backs is very tiring work; so
the judges have struck against rouge, and there is an end of it.
One night, some years ago, an extraordinary thing happened on both lines
of downs by the Thames, near Reading, and also along the Chilterns. Most
of the flocks over a very large area took a panic and burst from their
folds, and next morning thousands of sheep were wandering all over the
hills. I feel certain that there must have been an earthquake shock that
night. Nothing else could have accounted for such a wide and general
stampede. The last authenticated earthquake shock in the South Midlands
took place hereabouts in 1775, and was noted at Lord Macclesfield's Castle
of Shirbourne, where the water in the moat was seen to rise against the
wall of one of the towers.[1]
Are our domestic sheep, except for their highly artificial development of
wool, really very different from their wild ancestors, the active and
flat-coated animals which still feed on the stony mountain-tops? The ways
of sheep, not only in this country but abroad, show that a part at least
of their wild nature is still strong in them; and if type photographs of
all the representative domestic animals of our time, had been possible a
few centuries ago, it may be that even in this country the shape of the
animal would be found to have been far nearer to the sheep of St. Kilda
and of the wild breeds than it is to-day.
In one of the old Cloth Halls of Norfolk are two fine reliefs in plaster,
one showing the _Argo_, bringing the golden fleece, the other a flock
of sheep of the day, with a saint in Bishop's mitre and robes preaching to
them. The shepherd, in a smock, is spinning wool with a distaff; and the
sheep feeding around him, though carefully modelled, are quite unlike any
of the modern breeds. Many of the domestic sheep of hot countries are more
slender and less woolly than the wild sheep of the mountains. The
black-and-white Somali sheep, for instance, are as smooth as a pointer
dog.
But it is in temperament and habits that the close connection between the
wild and tame breeds is most clearly shown. The _excessive_
domestication of the flocks of Southern England has killed all interest in
them even among those who live in the country, and are keen and
sympathetic observers of the ways of every other creature in the fields.
The beauty of the lambs attracts attention, and the prettiness of the
scene when they and their mothers are placed in some sheltered orchard
among the wild daffodils and primroses, or in an early meadow by the
brook, makes people wonder why they are so stupid when grown up. But the
fact is that when not penned up by hurdles and moved from square to square
over a whole farm, so that each inch of food may be devoured, each member
of the flock can think for itself, and would, in less artificial
surroundings, make for itself a creditable name for independence and
intelligence. All sheep have retained this distinguishing habit of their
ancestors, that they are by nature migratory, and share with nearly all
migrant animals a capacity for thought and organisation, and a knowledge
of localities. Wild sheep are migratory because they live by preference on
the rocky and stony parts of hills just below the snow-line. This is why
the tame sheep do so well on the moors of Scotland and mountains of
Switzerland. But as the snow-line descends each winter far below their
summer feeding haunts, wild sheep either migrate to the lower slopes of
the mountains, or, like the deer of the Rockies, move off altogether to
great distances. Every winter, for instance, the lower valleys of
Yellowstone Park are filled with deer and antelope from the distant
mountains. So the tame flocks of Greece, Thrace, Spain, and even Scotland
are migratory. In Scotland their transport is modernised, and they travel
regularly by steamer from the islands to winter in the Lowlands, and by
train from the Highlands. Two years ago a flock of migratory sheep from
Ayrshire came for early spring feeding to Hyde Park, and were there shorn,
with their Highland collies looking on. In the "old countries" and the
non-progressive East of Europe the migration of the flocks is on a vaster
and far more romantic scale. In Spain there are some ten millions of
migratory sheep, which every year travel as much as two hundred miles from
the plains to the "delectable mountains," where the shepherds feed them
till the snows descend. These sheep are known as _transhumanies_ and
their march, resting places, and behaviour are regulated by ancient and
special laws and tribunals dating from the fourteenth century. At certain
times no one is allowed to travel on the same route as the sheep, which
have a right to graze on all open and common land on the way, and for
which a road ninety yards wide must be left on all enclosed and private
property. The shepherds lead the flocks, the sheep follow, and the flock
is accompanied by mules carrying provisions, and large dogs which act as
guards against the wolves. The Merino sheep travel four hundred miles to
the mountains, and the total time spent on the migration there and back is
fourteen weeks. In Thrace the migration of the flocks is to the northern
ranges of Mount Rhodope. The sheep are said to be no less alert than the
Pomak shepherds, obeying a signal to assemble at any moment given by the
shepherd's horn. The dogs are ferocious in the extreme, as the enemies of
sheep in these parts are more commonly men than wild beasts, and the
gentle shepherd, who has, since the Russo-Turkish War, exchanged his long
gun for a Winchester rifle, shoots at sight and asks no questions.
The more nearly domestic sheep can approach the life of the primitive
stock, the more intelligent their way of life becomes. The cleverest sheep
live on the hills, and the stupidest on the plains. In Wales, for
instance, if a new tenant takes over the flock of an outgoing tenant, the
latter is by law allowed a higher price if the flock is one which knows
the boundaries and paths on the hills. On the plains of Argentina, as Mr.
Hudson tells us, the lambs are born so stupid that they will run after a
puff-ball rolling before the wind, mistaking it for their mother.
[1] This was a tremor of the great earthquake at Lisbon.
SOME RESULTS OF WILD-BIRD PROTECTION
Among the happiest results of the modern feeling about birds is the
conversion of the whole of the Thames above the tideway into a "protected
area." This was not done by an order of the Secretary of State, who, by
existing law, would have had to make orders for each bit of the river in
different counties, and often, where it divides counties, would have been
obliged to deal separately with each bank. The Thames Conservancy used
their powers, and summarily put a stop to shooting on the river throughout
their whole jurisdiction. The effect of this was not seen all at once; but
little by little the waterfowl began to return, the kingfishers to
increase, and all the birds along the banks grew tamer. Then the County
Councils of Oxfordshire, Buckinghamshire, and Berkshire forbade the
killing of owls and kingfishers, and this practically made the river and
its banks a sanctuary.
The water-hen are so numerous that at Nuneham Lock they run into the
cottages, and at other locks the men complain they eat all their winter
cabbages. As many as forty at a time have been counted on the meadows. Mr.
Harcourt has also established a wild-duck colony on and about the island
at Nuneham. The island has a pond in the centre, with sedges and ancient
willows and tall trees round. There the really wild ducks join the
home-bred ones in winter. Lower down, the scene on late summer days is
almost like a poultry-yard, with waterfowl and wild pigeons substituted
for ducks and chickens. Young water-hens of all sizes pipe and flutter in
the reeds, and feed on the bank within a few feet of those rowing or
fishing, and their only enemies are the cats, which, attracted by their
numbers, leave the cottages for the river and stalk them, while the old
water-hens in vain try to get their too tame young safe on to the water
again.
Though kingfishers have increased fast they are less in evidence, being
naturally shy after years of persecution. In summer they keep mainly at
the back of the willows, away from the river, so long as the latter is
crowded with boats.
It was not till November, 1899, that I saw the kingfishers at play, as I
had long hoped to do, in such numbers as to make a real feature on the
river. It was a brilliant, warm, sunny morning, such as sometimes comes in
early winter, and I went down before breakfast to Clifton Bridge. There
the shrill cry of the kingfishers was heard on all sides, and I counted
seven, chasing each other over the water, darting in swift flight round
and round the pool, and perching on the cam-shedding in a row to rest.
Presently two flew up and hovered together, like kestrels, over the
stream. One suddenly plunged, came up with a fish, and flying to the
other, which was still hovering, put the fish into its beak. After this
pretty gift and acceptance both flew to the willows, where, let us hope,
they shared their breakfast.
In a row down the river extending over ten miles I saw more than twenty
kingfishers, most of them flying out, as is their custom, on the side of
the willows and osiers averse from the river, but some being quite content
to remain on their perches from which they fish, while the boat slipped
down in midstream. As they sit absolutely motionless, and the reddish
breast, and not the brilliant back, is turned to the water, it needs quick
eyes to see these watchers by the stream.
The total prohibition of shooting on the water or banks is also producing
the usual effect on the other birds and beasts. They are rapidly becoming
tame, and the oarsman has the singular pleasure of floating down among all
kinds of birds which do not regard him as an enemy. Young swallows sit
fearlessly on the dead willow boughs to be fed by their parents; the
reed-buntings and sedge-warblers scarcely move when the oar dips near the
sedge on which they sit; wood-pigeons sit on the margin and drink where
the pebble-banks or cattle-ways touch the water; and the water-rats will
scarcely stop their business of peeling rushes to eat the pith, even if a
boatload of children passes by.
[Illustration: NIGHTJAR AND YOUNG ONE. _From a photograph by R.B. Lodge_.]
[Illustration: REED BUNTING. _From a photograph by R.B. Lodge_.]
The return of the birds, and especially of wild fowl, to the London river
is the result partly of the same causes which have restored the fish to
its waters; partly, also, of measures affecting a wider area, but carried
out with far less physical difficulty. Their presence is evidence that the
tidal Thames now yields them a stock of food so abundant as to tempt birds
like the heron, the water-hen, and the kingfisher back to their old
haunts. It shows, secondly, that the by-laws for the protection of birds
passed by the counties of London, Surrey, and Middlesex, and by the Thames
Conservancy (which was the pioneer in this direction by forbidding
shooting on the river), are so far effective that the stock is rapidly
increasing; and, lastly, that the birds are preserved and left in peace to
a great extent on the London river itself. The following are the most
marked instances of this return of river fowl which have come under the
writer's notice; but in every case there have been preliminary advances on
the part of the birds, which show that what is now recorded is only one
step further in the general tendency to resume their old habits, or even
to go beyond their former limits of place and time in resorting to the
river. The herons from Richmond Park have extended their usual nightly
fishing ground, which formerly ended at Kew Bridge, four miles further
down the river, almost to Hammersmith Bridge, and in place of coming late
at night, under cover of darkness, have made a practice of flying down at
dusk, and pitching on the edge of Chiswick Eyot.[1] Their regular
appearance led to various inquiries as to the nature of the "big birds
like geese" which flew down the river and made a noise in the evening,
questions which were answered, in one case, by the appearance of one of
the birds as it swung round in the air opposite a terrace of houses, and
dropped in the stream to fish, not twenty yards from the road. As the
heron is naturally among the shyest of all waterside birds, and seeks
solitude above all things, these visits show that the quantity of fish in
the lower river must be great, and also that the London herons, now never
shot at, are losing their inbred dislike of houses and humanity. Their
footprints have been found on the mud opposite a creek in Hammersmith,
round which is one of the most crowded quarters of the poorer folk of West
London. The birds had been fishing within ten yards of the houses, which
at this point are largely inhabited by organ-grinders and vendors of
ice-creams, callings which do not promote quiet and solitude in the
immediate neighbourhood. In the evening and early morning a few wild ducks
accompany the herons as low as the reach above Hammersmith Bridge, and
single ducks have been seen even at midday flying overhead. At sunrise one
Midsummer Day I saw a sheldrake (probably an escaped bird) flying down the
river, looking very splendid in its black, white, and red plumage, in the
bright light of the morning. It haunted the reach for some days, and was
not shot. Among other visitors to this part of the river and its island
during spring were a curlew, which fed for some time on the eyot during
the early morning, and a pair of pheasants, one of which, an old-fashioned
English cock bird, was subsequently captured unhurt. A flock of sandpipers
remained there for some weeks, and during the summer numbers of
sedge-warblers have nested on and around the eyot; the cuckoo has been a
regular visitor to the osier-bed in the early morning, probably with a
view to laying its eggs in the sedge-warblers' nests. As a set-off to
these early visits of the cuckoo, a nightjar has hunted round the islet
for moths, both at dusk and during the night, when its note may often be
heard. This is a fairly long list of interesting birds revisiting a
portion of the river which the London boundary crosses. At a distance of
less than half a mile, on some ornamental water near the river, an even
more unexpected increase of the bird population has been noted. A pair of
kingfishers nested and reared their brood in an old gravel-pit, while
several nests of young dabchicks hatched by the pool.[2] There also during
the spring a pair of tufted ducks appeared, and remained for some days
before going on their journey to their breeding haunts. One lamentable
event in the bird life of the Thames deserves mention. A pair of swans
ventured to nest within a few hundred feet of the London boundary. The
hen, a very shy young bird, laid three eggs on Chiswick Eyot, and the
pair, being supplied with material, diligently built up their nest day by
day until it was above the tide level. They sat for five weeks, the cock
bird keeping anxious guard day and night, while the hen would probably
have died of starvation unless fed by kindly neighbours, for the river
affords very little food for a swan, and this required far longer time to
find than the bird was willing to spare from her nest. This was then
robbed in the night, and the cock bird maltreated in defending it. The
return of fish and fowl to the London Thames shows by the best of tests
that the efforts of the Thames Conservancy to preserve the amenities of
the river, of the Sewage Committee of the County Council to maintain its
purity, or rather to render it less impure at its mouth, and of the
adjacent County Authorities to protect bird life, are all yielding good
results, and justify the courage with which such an apparently hopeless
task was undertaken. To the Conservancy I would offer one or two
suggestions, which County Councillors might also consider. The river is
the only large _natural_ feature still left in the area of London and
Greater London. Now that it contains water in place of sewage, there is a
guarantee that its main element as a natural amenity in a great city will
be maintained, and as it becomes purer, so will the facilities which it
offers for boating, fishing, and bathing increase. But it should not be
_embanked_ beyond the present limit at Putney. Stone walls are not a
thing of beauty, and a natural river-bank is. At present, from Putney to
Richmond the greater part of the Thames flows between natural boundaries.
If these can be maintained, the growth of willows, sedge, hemlock, reeds,
water ranunculus, and many other fine and luxuriant plants affords insect
food for the fish and shelter for the birds, besides giving to the river
its natural floral border. If this is replaced by stone banks the birds
and the fish will move elsewhere.
[1] Mr. J.E. Vincent tells me that in 1902 the herons were heard as far
down the river as Chelsea.
[2] In the beautiful grounds of Chiswick House, where the present
occupier, Dr. T. Tuke, carefully preserves all wild birds.
OSIERS AND WATER-CRESS