THE ALPS IN SEPTEMBER.
[Illustration: The Alps in September.]
As I observed in a former chapter, the movements of the birds of the
Alps are, or ought to be, of very great interest to the ornithologist,
owing partly to the wonderful variety of food and climate afforded by
the gigantic structure of this mountain district, and partly to its
geographical position, lying as it does in the very centre of the
various routes of migration in spring and autumn.
I had long been anxious to obtain some more reliable information about
these movements than I had acquired when my third chapter was written,
and to obtain it as far as possible at first hand; and I eagerly seized
the opportunity, in September of the present year (1886), of a visit to
relations in Germany, to make a rapid _détour_ to the Alps, about the
time when the more delicate birds would be beginning to leave the higher
valleys and pastures, now fast becoming too cold at night to suit their
tender frames. I was able to remain only a very few days, but I saw and
heard enough to occupy my attention fully during that short time, and am
disposed to hope that by setting down my experiences I may attract the
attention of autumn travellers to a matter which lends new interest to a
hackneyed region, after the flowers have disappeared, and when the days
are getting too short for ambitious mountain-climbing.
I arrived at Lucerne on the morning of September 16, and went on at once
to Alpnacht, at the extreme end of the south-western arm of the lake,
having on my left the starting-point of our former walk. I did not
expect to see anything of autumn migration quite so early as this, or I
should have taken the St. Gotthard line direct to the great tunnel, and
then have established myself at once at or near the head of the Reuss
valley which the railway follows; but I wished to see what birds were
still to be found in the lower levels, and determined to spend a day or
two in the great valley of Hasli, where I left my reader at the end of
my third chapter. Before I take him further on this second round of
exploration, I must ask him to look with me at a map of Switzerland, in
order that we may understand the geographical conditions of the problem
about which I was now going to try and learn a little.
A little study of a good map will show that the true alpine region of
Switzerland proper consists of two enormous mountain barriers, fencing
in, to north and south, a deep trench, nearly a hundred miles in length.
This trench represents the valleys of the Rhine and Rhone, which start
within a short distance of each other, and are only interrupted for a
few miles, in the very centre of the region, by the upper part of the
valley of the river Reuss, which here forms a kind of elevated plain,
enclosed, like the trench itself, between vast mountains; this plain is
the bed of an ancient lake, which once escaped from its prison through a
narrow opening at the eastern end, where the Devils’ Bridge now stands.
On the northern side of the trench, throughout its whole length, the
mountain barrier is pierced by ordinary summer routes at three points
only: beginning from the west, at the Gemmi Pass, north of the Rhone,
where the opening is artificial rather than natural; at the Grimsel
Pass, which debouches upon the source of the Rhone in its Glacier; and
at the point mentioned just now, where the lake made its escape, and
where a tunnel driven through the rock has taken the place of an ancient
hanging bridge. Nothing can be more striking to a geographical eye than
the fact that from the point where it abuts upon the lake of Geneva
(where communication is of course easier) to the point where the Rhine
curves round to the north at Chur, the northern barrier of the trench
offers only these three passages to the ordinary human traveller. The
southern rampart, though for the most part broader, and including the
highest European peaks, admits the traveller southward at several
points, and is pierced by two excellent carriage roads, those of the
Simplon and the St. Gotthard.
During the summer, the parts of Switzerland north of the trench and its
two barriers, are occupied by countless fragile birds, which have come
from Africa over Italy, and must return there in the autumn. How do they
come, and how do they return? Of their arrival I have had no personal
experience, and shall therefore say nothing; for it does not follow that
birds always come and go in exactly the same manner and by exactly the
same route. But of the departure of some of them I can now tell
something, having had the evidence of my own eyes that a double barrier
such as I have described is not a fatal obstacle to their progress. The
main facts of the migration have indeed been long known, and only too
well known, to the inhabitants of the district; for the people of Canton
Tessin, which consists of the valleys to the south of the central part
of the Alps, sharing the tastes of their neighbours the Italians, were
until a few years ago in the habit of lying in wait for the birds, and
snaring them in vast numbers. When the hold of the Central Federal
Government over the individual Cantons was made stronger a few years
ago, the same absolute prohibition of wanton slaughter was extended to
this canton, which had long been respected in the others; and in spite
of a cantonal appeal to be allowed to revert to the old licence, the
“Bund” held its own, and succeeded in protecting the migrants. No bird
may now be killed at any time of the year in any part of Switzerland,
without either a game licence, of which the cost is considerable, or a
permission to procure specimens for a scientific object.
We took no gun with us on this occasion, being more anxious to observe
movements than to identify species. My plan was, after noting the
bird-population of the lower levels, which we called Region No. 1, to
pass through the northern barrier by the Grimsel or the St. Gotthard,
and take my station at the head of one of these passes, in the highest
ground of the great trench, and there to look about me, and also to make
inquiries about the ‘Vögelzug.’ Accordingly, after leaving the lake of
Lucerne, I turned in the direction of the great valley of the Aar, or
Haslithal, which leads up to the Grimsel Pass, knowing that at
Meiringen, which lies in the flat of it, not far from its issue into the
lake of Brienz, I should be able to see almost in a single walk what
summer migrants were still to be found in it. But I halted for the night
at the beautiful village of Lungern, in order to enjoy the walk over to
the Haslithal in the early morning of the next day; and here I was met
by my old friend Anderegg, who was as eager as myself for a week of
diligent observation.
The next morning was one of those which seem to stir the hearts of all
living creatures, urging them to the enjoyment of autumn warmth while it
lasts, and to the pursuit of food while it is still abundant. We had
hardly entered the first pine-wood when Anderegg detected the querulous
sibilation of the Crested Tit, and two minutes later we had a little
family around us, searching the fir-branches without showing any anxiety
at our presence. Shortly afterwards a pair of Ravens passed over us,
twisting themselves round as they flew through the morning mist, in a
peculiar way, and without any object as far as I could see; and at the
same moment a small party of Crossbills on the very top of a pine began
to chatter with indignation at the appearance of a possible enemy. A few
minutes later my sharp-eared companion heard the voices of the Great
Black Woodpecker and of the Greater Spotted Woodpecker (Schild-specht);
but the forest was here so large and dense that we were obliged to move
on without seeing either. Passing slowly upwards, and enlivened by the
close neighbourhood of Jays, Nutcrackers, Missel-thrushes, and by the
occasional song of both Robin and Wren, we arrived near the highest
point of the Brünig carriage-road, where it runs for some distance
almost at a level, and is carried along the side of a steep ascent, the
hollow below it being covered with undergrowth stretching down to sunny
meadows, while the pine-forest rises above it sharp and dense. A better
position for an ornithologist could hardly be desired; for as he stands
at the edge of the road his eye must catch every movement in the bushes
below him, while his ear commands for a considerable distance the
pine-wood above him. Here I walked up and down for some time, scanning
the multitudinous Cole-tits and Marsh-tits which were playing in the
cover below the road, and mentally comparing their plumage with that of
our British forms of the same species; and while thus occupied, a Great
Black Woodpecker, the first I had ever seen alive, hove in sight and
fixed himself on a pine at no great distance, enabling me to watch him
for some time with my strongest glass, as he went to work on the bark,
now and again twisting his head round watchfully, like a Wryneck, and
giving me an excellent view of his powerful bill. Presently, with rapid
wing-strokes, like those of the Green Woodpecker, he flew over our
heads, and was lost in the forest above us. As he flies, he utters a
series of laughing notes, and often gives out a prolonged call after
settling on a tree. He is a very fine and remarkable bird; as large,
said Anderegg, as a fowl, using precisely the same comparison which
occurred to Aristotle two thousand years ago.
We then descended rapidly into the Haslithal, where I spent one whole
day in noting such of its feathered inhabitants as had not already
deserted it, or were likely to stay in it during the winter. The most
remarkable feature of this broad and flat hollow in the hills, is the
river Aar, which has been artificially confined for several miles within
a strong stone embankment. On this particular day the stonework on each
side was literally alive with Wagtails; the left bank seemed almost
exclusively occupied by the gray species, and the right bank by the
white. All these were continually flying out over the swift glacier
water, hovering for a few moments as they sought for flies, and then
retiring to their station on the bank; and this was going on for the
length of a full mile between the two bridges, so that the whole number
of Wagtails must have been enormous. I could hardly avoid the conclusion
that these birds had collected in view of migration. The Gray Wagtail,
Anderegg tells me, is never to be seen here in the winter, and the white
species seldom; but as to what becomes of them I am unable as yet to be
sure. Perhaps they simply move down the river into the lower and warmer
districts of western and northern Switzerland; just as in England also
there is a general movement of Wagtails in the autumn from the more
mountainous districts into the regions of plain and meadow.
Another unusual sight was the vast assembly of Carrion Crows, which
gathered in the evening, first to drink (not in the rushing Aar, but in
a stream quiet enough to give me a momentary view of a Kingfisher); then
to perch on a number of small fruit-trees, and finally to wheel round
and round among the pines and precipices, until they settled down to
roost for the night. But for their voices and their black bills, it was
hard to believe that they were not rooks; but no rook was visible, and
this bird seems almost unknown in the valley. After seeing this strange
sight, I find it hard to assent to the universally accepted proposition,
that the Crow is never, strictly speaking, a gregarious bird. So
constant is their habit here of roosting together, that Anderegg told me
that he had more than once, when out hunting at night, been almost
deafened with the noise they made when threatened by the gigantic
Eagle-owl.
[Illustration: Crossbills on top of pine.—p. 189.]
Of the ordinary summer birds there were few to be seen, though the
weather was warm for September. The Chiff-chaff sang now and then from
the hotel garden, and a certain number of Willow-warblers were still
about the beans and flax in the fields; Bonelli’s Warbler (see p. 109) I
was quite unable to detect. There were a few Swallows, House-martins,
and Crag-martins; Goldfinches in fair abundance, very busy with seeds in
the cultivated land; a few Robins, and a solitary Whinchat. I began to
fear that I had come too late to witness any considerable migration; for
even the Black Redstart, the representative bird of these valleys in
summer, was in much smaller numbers than usual. Even the Starlings had
all departed to a bird, not to return till March. On the other hand, the
birds of the higher regions were already showing a disposition to come
down to lower levels; among these the most interesting were the
Nutcrackers (often in company with Jays) and the Crossbills. These
last-mentioned birds, which are so seldom to be seen in England, were
now to be found in the lowest instead of the highest pinewoods, in pairs
or in small companies, giving warning of their presence by a rapidly
repeated alarm-note. Generally they were on the very top twigs of a
pine, where it was difficult to obtain a good sight of them; but one
morning Anderegg’s son, who is beginning to pick up his father’s powers
of observation, detected a pair on a pine _below_ us, which both his
elders had passed by unheeding. They were breakfasting each on the seeds
of a cone, and I was able to observe with the glass how admirably the
crossed mandibles are adapted for cutting into the heart of the fruit.
The plumage of the male was a sober red, less brilliant than it will be
next spring; and the female’s dull greenish colouring was hardly
recognizable against the pines. The presence of these birds close down
to the valleys denoted the rapid approach of a cold season, and it
became plain that if I were to catch the southward migrants I must
hasten upwards towards St. Gotthard. This I determined to do by the
shortest possible route, crossing the Susten Pass eastwards into the
Reuss valley at Wasen, and so getting easily to the highest point of the
great trench.
The Alps have a beauty of their own in September, even when there are
few flowers left, and the snow has long disappeared in all the highest
pastures. This is the time when the second crop of grass is cut; and the
mowing leaves a short and beautiful mossy golden turf, which shines
brightly in the sun, and lies softly and smoothly where a pine or a
boulder casts its shadow on the ground. The walk through the Gadmenthal
up to the Susten Pass was one to be remembered for beauty, though not
ornithologically productive. The only curiosity that I saw was a Creeper
running up a _house_; a very natural proceeding on the part of the bird,
where the houses are of wood, containing abundance of insects in the
crannies.[46] The great curiosity of the valley, the three-toed
Woodpecker, whose ‘fatherland’ (as Anderegg called it) is among the
highest pine-woods at the head of the valley, would not show himself;
though in the village of Gadmen we were told by an inhabitant that he
had lately seen no less than seven of this species—a whole family, I
suppose—on a single tree. Perhaps they too had come downwards in
expectation of the winter. Alpine autumn was indeed around us, and at
Gadmen we saw the first signs of the general migration of man, beast,
and bird, which takes place at this time of year. A flock of sheep,
which had been all the summer on the elevated Wendenalp, had just come
down, and was being penned in front of the inn as we arrived. Great part
of the population of the valley had assembled to claim their own, and
when the penning was done all plunged into the living mass, men, women,
boys, and sheep being mixed up in one confused struggle. Anxiety sat
upon their faces, for no man knows whether he shall find his own sheep;
some wander away and are lost, and some few—a fact of interest to me—are
not too big to be carried off by the Golden Eagles that dwell in the
vast precipices of the Titlis above the valley.
Above Gadmen the valley rapidly narrows, soon becoming little more than
a cleft in the mountains, until it opens out into a pleasant little
basin of uneven rocky pasture, much of which has been eaten away by a
great mass of glacier which has descended into it within the present
century, and is now again rapidly retreating. In this little basin—the
Stein-alp, as it is appropriately called—is an excellent little inn; and
here is the very place to catch the migrants of the Hasli and Gadmen
valleys, if they should be passing this way; for the narrowing of the
glen below must bring them all into this little basin, before they rise
to the final ascent immediately above the inn. On the morning of
September 17, as I was greeting Anderegg, and suggesting to him that we
should make a second attempt to find the rare Woodpecker, he informed me
with animation that he had seen, first a large collection of small
Finches flying overhead, and secondly, a great number of Pipits
assembled on the Alp a few minutes’ walk from the house. We at once went
to look for these, but they had all disappeared; and we continued our
walk downwards in search of the Woodpecker. But we had not gone far when
our attention was attracted by a flock of Redstarts, working slowly
upwards a little above the path; and turning back again, we followed
these for some distance, assuring ourselves that they were no accidental
assembly, but must be on their way to the head of the pass, and so
onwards to the line of St. Gotthard into Italy. As we arrived again at
the inn, we saw the flock of little birds which Anderegg had described
in the morning; they were still about the inn, but so restless and so
playful that even with a strong glass I could not be certain of their
species. My own impression was that they were Redpolls; Anderegg,
however, positively asserted that he had caught the voice of Citril and
Serin Finches.
I now proposed that we should mount to the top of the pass, in order to
observe whether the birds we had noticed in flocks lower down were still
making way upwards. The result of this movement was that we found the
Pipits—all Alpine-pipits (see p. 93), as far as I could ascertain—in a
sunny hollow just above the glacier; they were there in great numbers,
but did not mount further so long as we remained. The Redstarts too we
found still slowly working upwards on the same side of the valley on
which we had seen them in the morning; they were now just opposite to
the glacier. But on the top of the pass, where it was too cold to stay
long, we saw no signs of migrants; it was occupied only by a few Alpine
Accentors, while high above, at a height of full 9000 feet above the
sea, the Alpine Choughs were enjoying the sunshine. As we were
descending, I caught sight of a tiny little tarn on the opposite side of
the glacier, on the rocky alp high up above the inn, which struck me as
a likely place for birds, especially as it was sheltered by a little
crest of stunted trees of some kind. Here, after the mid-day meal, we
made our way, and finding nothing at all, lay down on the grass to enjoy
a splendid view of the craggy defile below us. But we had not been lying
long before a twittering was heard, and the little flock which had
puzzled us in the morning came dancing overhead, and settled so deep in
the stunted pines I had noticed from the top of the pass, that though we
could see the movements of the branches, we could not once get a clear
sight of a single individual. This was too provoking, and I at once
proceeded to crawl slowly towards the bushes, getting round to the flank
of the birds on a rising bit of ground, until I was within a few yards
of them. All that I saw were Redpolls,[47] and all of the ‘Mealy’ form
known to ornithologists; the autumn moult had left them very white on
breast and belly, and very mealy on wings and back. They were, as far as
I could judge, a little larger than our British Lesser Redpoll. Were
they too migrating, or were they going to spend the winter in the
Gadmenthal? I suspect that they stay all their lives in the Alps, and
instead of moving southward to a warmer climate when under stress of
weather, have but to make a short journey to a lower station in the
valley, to find at once a warmer temperature and abundance of the food
they seek.
The next day, September 20, we packed up our baggage, and left this
health-giving spot with its iced air and scented breezes, and again
climbed the pass on our way to Wasen, being anxious to get to the head
of the St. Gotthard before the fine weather should desert us. I was not
unwilling to see my fellow-creatures again, as I had been quite alone on
the Stein-alp, except for a single hour which an Englishman of education
and intelligence had made very enjoyable as he took his ‘Mittagessen’
and smoked his cigarette with me. As it happened, we left just in time
to enable us, as the reader will learn shortly, to see things worth
recording at Hospenthal the following day.
On going up the ascent from the inn, I noticed that the Pipits were now
in great numbers at a _lower level_ than yesterday, and this suggested
the conclusion that a fresh instalment had arrived from below, while
those of yesterday had gone still higher or descended on the other side.
This idea was fully confirmed by what I saw afterwards; for a good many
more were at or about the top, and as we sat there for a few minutes,
one flew right over us and disappeared in the depths of the valley in
the direction of Wasen. All the way down too on the other side little
parties were making their way in the same direction; and thus it became
clear that these birds at least do not take flight all at once, but move
in a continuous stream of parties smaller or greater, much as the late
Mr. A. E. Knox described the migration of the Pied Wagtails from west to
east in the south coast of England, in his admirable _Ornithological
Rambles in Sussex_.[48] But we may well ask the question, Do they arrive
in the same manner? The Susten Pass is 7000 feet above the sea, and is
covered with snow from October to June. I myself once crossed it on June
29, when its deep snow bore no trace of human footsteps, and it was
possible to make glissades over slopes where now not a vestige of snow
was to be seen. Are we to suppose that the Pipits and their friends pass
it in spring in spite of the snow, and travel in the same gradual
manner? I cannot yet answer this question, nor is it likely that I shall
ever be able to witness the arrival of the Susten Pipits as I witnessed
their departure; but I contrived in the course of a week in these
regions to set a few intelligent natives in an inquiring mood with
regard to these matters, and it is possible that next spring may bring
me some scraps of useful information. At present I am content to
remember that Mr. Knox, in the passage just now referred to, was the
first to discover that the arrival and departure of our English species
are not performed in exactly the same manner.
We saw nothing of special ornithological interest in the melancholy
Meienthal, which leads down from the Susten to the St. Gotthard railway
at Wasen; but I was reminded of a passage in my third chapter (p. 83)
when we arrived at the first considerable pasture, and found a whole
community of men, women, children, cows, and goats, on the very point of
migrating from their cool and healthy summer home. The cows were all
gathered in front of the ‘Sennhütten,’ and when doors and windows had
been made fast for the winter, all the human migrants stood for a few
minutes in prayer, doubtless thanking God for the provision He had made
for them and their cattle, and asking for a blessing on the pasture for
the summers yet to come. Then all these Catholics of Uri streamed
downwards with their cows in long procession, the head ‘Senner’ walking
in front followed by one fine animal; and to-day the pasture is as still
and desolate as it will be all the coming winter. Even the very stream
that washes it will be less voiceful, when the first frosts have bound
once more the snow that feeds and fills it through all the warm season.
It was indeed most curious and interesting to find man, beast, and bird
all leaving it on the same day.
On arriving at Wasen, being still alarmed lest I should be too late to
see much on this side of the great double barrier—for it now became
evident that the birds were taking advantage of the last fine weather—I
had half a mind to go through the tunnel to Airolo, and catch them on
the southern side. My second thoughts, however, were in this expedition
unusually lucky, and I fortunately decided to stay for a night or two at
Hospenthal, which lies just at the northern mouth of the St. Gotthard
Pass proper, in that curious elevated valley mentioned at the beginning
of this chapter, which lies just between the two halves of the great
trench formed by the valleys of the Rhine and Rhone. Any birds crossing
the St. Gotthard into Italy must necessarily pass Hospenthal, and I had
heard enough already of migration in this district to make me pretty
confident of getting information here, even if I were not lucky enough
to see anything myself.
When we issued from the ‘Urner-loch’ into this broad and grassy valley,
it was just beginning to grow dark; but we could see great numbers of
swallows and martins on the church steeples both of Andermatt and
Hospenthal, which are about a mile apart. As I came down the next
morning at 7 a.m., I was met by Anderegg, who informed me that the
gathering on the Hospenthal steeple had left their station in a body at
6 a.m., had circled high into the air for a few minutes, and then taken
a directly southward course, not by the St. Gotthard road, but over the
shoulder of the mountain which separates that road from a parallel
valley to the east of it. That this account was true I was able to prove
to my own satisfaction, for on the morning of the next day I was up in
time to see a new party depart in precisely the same manner and the same
direction. Like the Pipits, these Swallows and Martins migrate in
considerable flocks coming one behind the other; and so far as we could
ascertain from walks taken during the day, these flocks occupy
successively the steeples of Andermatt and Hospenthal, coming up from
the lower valley and settling first on the former, then leaving it when
the other is free, and so eventually leaving that also to rise for their
last flight over the great barrier. How long this process goes on I
could not very clearly ascertain. But there were still young martins in
the nests at Hospenthal, which would hardly be ready to fly for some
days, and as we subsequently found a certain number of martins (though
very few swallows) when we returned to the Haslithal, I am inclined to
think that it occupies a considerable time, and differs in length
according to the weather. On the occasion of my visit, though it was
fine and warm, the barometer was falling, and the very next day a
continuous rain and snow-fall set in, lasting nearly three days; so that
it seemed as if the birds were making haste to escape from a climate
which might very well be dangerous to them. In Meiringen I was told that
great numbers of them were caught and killed by severe weather in
September last year. And the waiter in the hotel at Hospenthal, who most
fortunately has some interest in these matters, and keeps his eyes open
in his idle autumn hours, declared that he had seen the martins so eager
to induce their young to leave the nest before it was too late, that at
last they pulled them out by main force and compelled them to join the
general assembly on the steeple.
This same man had also noticed a migration of another kind, which it may
be worth while to record here. Sitting in front of the hotel, with
nothing to do, he had observed a constant stream of _dragon-flies_
making their way up the valley; and during my walks that day I was able
fully to verify his statement. All the way from Hospenthal to Andermatt
these creatures were to be seen coming up _against the wind_, which was
now blowing from the west. Doubtless I should never have noticed them,
if my attention had not been drawn to them by this most fortunately
situated observer. There was no mistake about it; countless numbers were
steadily passing up the valley, but whither they were going it was
hopeless to ascertain; they did not seem to turn up the St. Gotthard
road, for I remarked them the whole way up the valley to the foot of the
Furka Pass westwards. Frau Meyer, landlady of the hotel, told me that
she had once witnessed an extraordinary flight of countless butterflies
at Hospenthal; but could not tell me the species. I had myself
previously noticed the tendency of the Apollo butterfly at the Stein-alp
to fly _up_ the pass—every individual I saw being apparently on his way
upwards. And this was against an east wind, close to a glacier, and on
the 19th of September!
The migrating birds, however, did not seem to get any further up the
valley than Hospenthal; and indeed at no point further up would they
have found a route into Italy so comparatively free from difficulty. We
took a walk in the afternoon in order to ascertain whether this were so,
and the result was interesting. Let it be understood that at Hospenthal
the St. Gotthard road turns sharp to the south up a narrow valley, while
the elevated valley or plain in which Hospenthal lies extends for
several miles further to the foot of the Furka Pass, which leads, not
into Italy, but into the Rhone valley westwards. Exactly as the human
traveller into Italy follows the road up the narrow defile, leaving the
broad plain behind him, so do the birds change their direction at this
point, and prepare to leave food and comfort until they are on the
southern side of the barrier. All day long a little tract of broken
ground lying between the hotel and the river had been alive with Pipits;
but when we walked further up the main valley westwards not a bird was
to be seen, except here and there a lingering Redstart. The desolation
was complete; yet no sooner had we returned to Hospenthal, than we were
greeted again by Pipits, Wagtails, Martins, and even by a solitary
Wheatear, who seemed left behind by his relations. This was the only
bird of its kind which I saw during my stay in the Alps. The Wheatears
are, as in England, the first migrants which arrive in the spring, and
doubtless they are also among the first to depart. The only other bird
which was common here at this time was the Kestrel—the Thurmfalk
(tower-falcon) as he is here called; they nest in the Alps in old towers
or rocks, and several were always to be seen about the old Lombard tower
which overlooks the village, and once overawed its inhabitants.
The next day I resolved to try whether the Grimsel Pass, the second
principal opening from the north through the great barrier, would show
us anything new; but in this project I was disappointed, for rain and
intense cold came on, which drove me down to Meiringen and deprived me
of any opportunity of further observation. And here, as I write, the sun
has once more broken through the clouds, a bracing north wind blows, the
mountains above us are covered with fresh snow, the trees are beginning
to lose their summer green, the cow-bells are ringing in the valley
instead of upon the alps, and alpine autumn is here in all its health
and beauty. The hotel is empty, and my only companions are the faithful
Anderegg and my host, Herr Willi, now Cabinet Minister of his Canton,
who entertains me with discourse of the history of the Haslithal, the
antiquities of which he has been the first to explore. Some summer birds
are still here; the Chiff-chaff for a single moment uttered its voice
outside the window by which I write. The Robins are in fair abundance,
and a few will stay in the valley, where the cold is not greater than in
our own climate, throughout the winter. A walk this morning showed us
the House-martin, the Crag-martin, and a single individual of the
numerous Alpine Swifts, which in the summer haunt the gigantic
precipices that frown upon the valley.
We have seen how the Swallow-tribe departs from the Alps, and have also
learnt something of the movements and migration of other birds; but I
have still to discover in which direction the tenderer birds, the
various members of the tribe of warblers, find a way to their southern
winter home. I can hardly believe that they can traverse the wild and
shelterless mountain passes with their short wings and fragile bodies;
yet in the long sea voyages which they make they are no less at the
mercy of the elements than they would be when in the jaws of the most
savage defile of the St. Gotthard.
While I have been fortunate in seeing so much in the course of a very
few days, it is obvious that much remains to be discovered, and that
future visits to Switzerland, whether in spring or autumn, may not be
without their reward; for I have little doubt that there is no European
region where the peculiar conditions of temperature, and the
extraordinary variety of food, are so likely to produce abnormal effects
on the living population—effects which as yet are perhaps comparatively
little understood. I feel that my hastily collected information is but a
single item in the vast repertory of material which stands ready to the
hand of any one whose fortune may send him here at the right time, and
with the requisite qualifications. Many Englishmen now pass the Alps in
spring by way of the St. Gotthard railway on their return from Italy and
the Riviera; if among these there be any that are curious about birds,
let them halt for a day or two on each side of the pass, and learn what
they can of the arrival of migrants from the south. And let me add, that
any occupation which brings a foreigner into close contact with the more
intelligent Swiss, especially at a time when they are not hard driven by
the touring world of all nations, will give new life and interest to
even the shortest visit to a country whose history and institutions are
as wonderful as its scenery, or as its animal and vegetable life. We are
apt to think of the Swiss as a self-seeking people, whose only object is
to make capital out of the natural beauties of the extraordinary land
they live in. But this is not a happy impeachment in the mouth of
Englishmen, who know so well how to make the best of their own
resources, and who have contributed not a little to stimulate the ardour
of the Swiss for gain and speculation. He who would really know the
peasant of the Alps must see him in his natural state, struggling hard
against adversity, heavily taxed for education and improvements, loving
labour and doing it cheerfully; a human being wrestling hard with
Nature, who yields her wealth for him with a very sparing hand, while
she lavishes upon the birds that live around him untold abundance and
endless resource.
[Illustration: JOHANN ANDEREGG.]