forgotten it for so many long years, since I now perceived that it
was a fable of the right sort; that, in fact, it was a true story--in
other words, true to the creature’s character. Stories about reasoning
and talking animals do not always conform to this rule, which has made
the terse fables of Æsop a joy for ever. Whether the author knew it or
not, it is a fact that the squirrel is subject to fits of discontent
with his surroundings, which send him rushing off in quest of some
better place to live in; and at such times he will make his way, or
try to, over wide stretches of barren, unpromising country. Thus,
when trees are planted in a treeless district, by and by squirrels
make their appearance, even when their nearest known haunts are many
miles distant. Nor is this only an occasional outbreak of a gipsy
roving disposition of the animal, since he too is subject to migratory
impulses at the same time of year as the birds. In some countries large
numbers of squirrels are affected simultaneously in this way, and have
been observed migrating, many perishing when attempting to cross rivers
too wide or swift for them.
I also liked the story because it recalled a squirrel’s adventure told
to me a short time before by an old fisherman at Wells-next-the-Sea, in
Norfolk. Wells lies at the edge of a marsh a mile and a quarter back
from the sea, and has a harbour, a river or estuary which at full tide
is deep enough to enable small vessels to come up to the town. Near the
river’s mouth there is a row of tall guiding poles in the channel, and
one afternoon my informant noticed a squirrel sitting hunched up on
the summit of the outermost pole, about thirty feet above the water.
Evidently he had come through the pine plantation on the sand-dunes
on the Holkham or north side of the river; but, anxious to continue
his travels southward along the shore and over the vast flat saltings
towards Blakeney, he had cast himself into the river at low tide, and
finding the current too strong, had just saved himself from being
carried out to sea by climbing up the last pole. Now the current was
the other way, and the river full from bank to bank: the poor squirrel
on his pole-top was in the middle of the swirling current, and dared
not venture into the water again, either to go forward or back to the
wood.
The fisherman went home to his tea; but, two hours later, just about
sunset, he strolled back to the sea-front, and there still sat the
squirrel hunched up on the top of his pole. Presently a fishing-boat
came in from the sea, with only one person, a young man, in it. The old
man hailed him, and called his attention to the squirrel on the pole.
“All right; I see him!” shouted back the young fellow. “I’ll try to get
him off!”
Then, as the swirling current carried the boat up to within about three
yards of the pole, he leant forward and thrust out an oar until the
blade touched the pole; and no sooner had it touched than down like
lightning came the squirrel from his perch, leaped upon the oar, and
from the oar to the boat, then quickly bounded up the mast and perched
himself on the top.
The squirrel had not understood the man’s friendly intentions, and
his lightning-quick action appeared not to have been prompted either
by reason or instinct, but rather by that intuitive faculty one is
half-inclined to believe in, which causes an animal suddenly threatened
with destruction to take instantly the one line by which it may be
saved.
The boat went swiftly on, driven by the rushing tide, until it reached
the quay at Wells, and no sooner did the keel touch the stones at
the landing-stage than down the squirrel flew from the mast-top, and
rushing to the bow, took a flying leap to the land, then dashed off
toward the town at topmost speed. A number of children playing on the
quay saw him, and with a wild cry of “Squirrel! squirrel!” went after
him. Luckily there was no dog about; and the squirrel being faster
than the boys, kept well ahead, and, dodging this way and that among
coal-trucks and wagons and horses, and men occupied in unloading, got
through them all, then crossing the lower or coast road, dashed into
one of the wynds or narrow streets which run up to the higher part of
the town. There more yelling children joined the hunt, and the people
of the wynd ran out of their houses to find out what all the uproar was
about.
The wynd ends at the upper street, and facing it is a long brick wall
ten feet high, and up this wall went the squirrel without a pause or
slip, as swiftly as when going over the level earth, and disappeared
over the top into the orchard on the other side. There the loud
advancing wave of young barbarians was stayed by the wall, as by an
ocean-facing cliff.
It had been a dashing performance, and the squirrel could now have
settled safely down in that sheltered spot among its fruit and shade
trees, since the tenant, who lived a hermit life in the house, was
friendly to all wild creatures, and allowed neither dogs nor cats nor
fiends in shape of boys with loud halloo and brutal noise to intrude
into his sacred grounds.
But this would not have suited the squirrel; the town noises and
lights, the shrill cries of children at play in the evening, and the
drum and fife band of the Boy Scouts would have kept him in a constant
state of apprehension. Squirrels are nervy creatures. No doubt when
the town was asleep and silent that night he scaled the back-wall and
crossed other orchards and gardens until he came out to the old unkept
hedge on that side, and followed it all the way to Holkham Park, a
vast green solitude with many ancient noble trees, in one of which he
probably first saw the light.
And there, at home once more, he perhaps resolved, like the
Discontented Squirrel of the fable, never again to attempt to better
himself by migrating.
VII
MY NEIGHBOUR’S BIRD STORIES
We sometimes make mistakes, and I certainly made one about my neighbour
over the way, Mr. Redburn, when I formed the conclusion that I had no
use for him. For I was just then birding in an east-coast village, and
when engaged on that business I look for some interest in the subject
which absorbs me, some bird-lore in those I meet and converse with.
If they are entirely without it, they are negligible persons; and Mr.
Redburn, a retired bank manager and a widower, living alone in a house
opposite my lodgings, fell quite naturally into this category. A kindly
man with friendly feelings towards a stranger, one it was pleasant to
talk with, but unfortunately he knew nothing about birds.
One day we met a mile from the village, he out for a constitutional,
and I returning from a prowl; and as he seemed inclined to have a talk,
we sat down on a green bank at the roadside and got out our pipes.
“You are always after birds,” he said, “and I know so little about
them!” Then to prove how little he knew of their ways and wants, he
related the history of a thrush he once kept in a cage hanging at
the back of his house, where there was a garden, and where he amused
himself by cultivating flowers and vegetables. The bird had been taken
from the nest and reared by hand; consequently it had never learnt to
sing a true thrush song, but had invented a song of its own, composed
of imitations--cackling fowls, whistling boys, and various other
village noises, including those from the smithy. The village postman,
who lived close by, had a peculiar shrill double whistle which he
always emitted when nearing his house, to bring his wife to the door.
This sound, too, the thrush mimicked so cleverly that poor Mrs. Postman
was always running to the door for nothing, and at length had to beg
her husband to invent some other sound to announce his approach.
Seeing that the bird was always cheerful and noisy, it was a puzzle to
Mr. Redburn that it never looked well. It was supplied with clean water
and good food--bread and milk and crushed rape-seed--every day; but
it never seemed to enjoy its food, and its plumage had a dry, loose,
disarranged appearance, and was without a gloss. It was a perfect
contrast in this respect to a wild thrush that used to visit the garden.
One day, when the bird had been in his possession for a little over a
year, he happened to be sitting in his garden smoking, when this wild
thrush came on the scene and began running about the lawn looking for
something to eat. By chance he noticed that his thrush in its cage was
watching the wild bird intently. Presently the bird on the lawn spied
a worm which had incautiously put its head out of its hole, and dashed
at and seized it, then began tugging away until it pulled it out,
after which it proceeded to kill and devour it with a good appetite.
The caged bird had watched all this with increasing excitement, which
culminated when the worm was killed and swallowed.
“Now I wonder if he wants a worm too?” said Mr. Redburn to himself, and
getting up he took a spade and dug up two big worms, which he placed
in the cage as an experiment; and no sooner did the thrush see than he
flew at and killed and devoured them as if mad with hunger. Every day
after that he dug up a few worms for his thrush, and the sight of him
with a spade in his hand would always start the bird hopping wildly
about his cage.
As a result of this addition to his diet the thrush in due time took on
a brighter, glossier coat.
Mr. Redburn had congratulated himself on having made a happy
discovery--happy for his thrush. It had taken him a year of twelve
months, but he had never made the more important discovery, which it
appeared to me he had come so near making, that the one and only way
to give perfect happiness to your captive thrush is to open the cage
and let him fly to find worms for himself, and to get a mate, and with
her assistance build a deep nest in a holly bush, and be the parent of
five beautiful gem-like blue eggs spotted with black.
The only other bird he had ever possessed was a jackdaw, a charming
fellow, full of fun, with uncut wings, so that he was free to go and
come at will; but he was a home-loving bird, very affectionate, though
loving mischief too, and never happier than when his indulgent master
allowed him to use his head as a perch.
One day, when Mr. Redburn was busy in his study, his little daughter,
aged seven, came crying to him to complain that Jack was plaguing
her so! He wanted to pull the buttons off her shoes, and because she
wouldn’t let him he pecked her ankles, and it hurt her so, and made her
cry. He gave her his stick, and told her, with a laugh, to give Jack
a good smart rap on the head with it, and that would make him behave
himself. He never for a moment imagined that such a clever, quick bird
as Jack would allow himself to be struck by a little girl with a long
walking-stick; nevertheless this incredible thing happened, and the
stick actually came down on Jack’s head, and the child screamed, and,
running to her, he found her crying, and Jack lying to all appearance
dead on the floor! They took him up tenderly and examined him, and said
he was really and truly dead, and then tenderly, sorrowfully, put him
down again. All at once, to their astonishment and delight, he opened
his mischievous little grey eyes and looked at his friends standing
over him. Then he got up on his legs and began rocking his head from
side to side, after which he shook his feathers two or three times;
then tried to scratch his poll with his claw, but didn’t succeed. He
was in a queer state, and didn’t know what had happened to him; but he
soon recovered, and was just as fond of his little playmate as ever,
although he never again attempted to pull her buttons off or peck her
ankles.
Some time after this Jack disappeared for a day or two, and was brought
back by a boy of the village, who was warmly thanked and rewarded with
a few pence. From that day every little boy who was so lucky as to find
Jack out of bounds, and could catch him, expected a gratuity on taking
him to the house; and as the little boys were all very poor and hungry
for sweets, they were perpetually on the look-out for Jack, and went
about with something in their ragged little pockets to entice him into
their cottages. Every day Jack was lost and found again, until the good
man, who was not rich, concluded that he could not afford to keep so
expensive a pet; and so Jack was given to a gentleman who had a pet
daw of his own and wanted another. In his new home he had nice large
grounds with big trees, and Jack with a chum of his own tribe was very
happy until his end, which came very suddenly. The two birds roosted
side by side together on a tall tree near the house, and one summer
night this tree was struck by lightning; next morning the two birds
were found lying dead at the roots.
My neighbour had one more bird story, the best of all to tell, and
this about rooks, the only wild birds he had ever observed with the
object of finding out something about their habits. There was a
small rookery in some elm trees growing at the bottom of the garden
of the house he then lived in, and the way the birds went on during
nest-building time moved his curiosity to such a degree that one Sunday
morning he resolved to give the whole day to a careful inquiry into
the domestic affairs of these black neighbours. No doubt, he thought,
they were subject to a law or custom which enabled them to exist in
a community, living and rearing their young in nests placed close
together. Nevertheless it was evident that it was not an ideal society,
and that the noise was not due merely to animal spirits, as in the case
of a lot of boys out of school; there was a great deal of scolding
and quarrelling, and from time to time a mighty hubbub, as if the
entire colony had suddenly been seized with an angry excitement. What
occasioned these outbursts? It was just to try to find this out that
he planted himself in a chair near the trees on that Sunday morning.
The nearest tree contained one nest only, a new one not yet finished,
and eventually he thought it best to concentrate his attention on this
point, and watch the movements of the one pair of birds. He had quickly
found that it only worried and confused him to keep a watch on the
movements and actions of several birds and their nests. The two birds
he attended to went and came, sometimes together, then first one, and
then the other, and sometimes one would remain at the nest during the
absence of its mate. This went on for about three hours, and nothing
unusual happened at the nest; at other points of the rookery there were
little storms of noise and some shindies, but he was determined not to
let his attention wander from his two birds. At length he was rewarded
by seeing one of the pair fly to an unguarded nest about thirty yards
away, on a neighbouring tree, and deliberately pull out a stick, which
it brought back and carefully adjusted in its own nest. By and by
the two birds who had been robbed returned together and immediately
appeared to be aware that something was wrong with their home. Standing
on the nest, they put their heads together, fluttering their wings and
cawing excitedly, and presently they were joined by others, and others
still, until almost the entire colony was congregated on the tree, all
making a great noise. After two or three minutes they began to quarrel
among themselves, and there were angry blows with beaks and wings,
after which the tumult subsided, and the company broke up, every pair
going back to its own nest. After that comparative peace and quiet
continued for some time, but Mr. Redburn now noticed that one bird
always remained on guard on the nest where the stick had been stolen.
His two birds quietly continued to work and go and come, and by and
by, about two hours after the commotion, they both flew away to the
fields together, and no sooner were they gone than the bird they had
robbed, keeping guard on his tree, flew straight to the nest they had
left, and after what appeared like a careful examination took hold of a
stick and tugged vigorously until he succeeded in pulling it out. With
the stick in his beak he flew back to his nest and proceeded to adjust
it in the fabric.
What would happen now, Mr. Redburn asked, when the dishonest couple
came back and discovered that they had been deprived of their loot? He
watched for their return with keen interest, and by and by they came,
and, to his astonishment, nothing happened. They settled on their nest,
looked it over in the usual way to see that it was as they had left it,
and although they no doubt saw that it was not so they made no fuss.
The most remarkable thing in all this affair was, to Mr. Redburn’s
mind, that the robbed birds appeared to know so well who the thief was
and where the stick could be looked for.
To me it was remarkable that my neighbour, who “knew nothing about
birds,” had yet, in one day’s watching, succeeded in seeing something
which throws a stronger light on the law of the rookery than any single
observation contained in the ornithological books.
In this case, as he relates it, the robbed birds appeared to know very
well who the culprits were among their neighbours. Why, then, were
the robbers not attacked, and seeing that they waited their time and
went quietly and recovered their own, why all that preliminary fuss? It
sometimes happens, we know, that the entire rookery becomes infuriated
against a particular pair; that in such cases they fall upon and
demolish the nest, and in extreme cases expel the offenders from the
rookery. I take it that such attacks are made only on the incorrigible
ones, those that obtain all their materials by thieving, and so make
themselves a nuisance to the community. It seems probable that in this
instance the colony, although excited at the news of the robbery and
the outcry made by the victimised pair, declined to take too serious
a view of the matter, and after some discussion and quarrelling left
the angry couple to manage their own affairs. We may think, too, that
in a majority of cases an occasional offence is condoned among birds
that have a social law but do not observe it very strictly. Thus, at
home, the rook is a stealer of sticks when the occasion offers, and a
wooer of his neighbour’s wife when his neighbour is out of the way.
Too severe a code would not do; it would, in fact, upset the whole
community, and rooks would have to go and live like carrion crows,
each pair by itself. At all events, in this instance we see that only
after the angry outcry made by the victims had failed to bring about an
attack they quietly waited their opportunity to recover their property.
Then the meek way in which the robbers took it appears to show that
they too understood the whole business very well indeed. They were in
a dangerous position, and were quite ready to lose what they had taken
and say no more about it.
VIII
THE TOAD AS TRAVELLER
One summer day I sat myself down on the rail of a small wooden
foot-bridge--a very old bridge it looked, bleached to a pale grey
colour with grey, green, and yellow lichen growing on it, and very
creaky with age, but the rail was still strong enough to support my
weight. The bridge was at the hedge side, and the stream under it
flowed out of a thick wood over the road and into a marshy meadow on
the other side, overgrown with coarse tussocky grass. It was a relief
to be in that open sunny spot, with the sight of water and green grass
and blue sky before me, after prowling for hours in the wood--a remnant
of the old Silchester forest--worried by wood-flies in the dense
undergrowth. These same wood-flies and some screaming jays were all the
wild creatures I had seen, and I would now perhaps see something better
at that spot.
It was very still, and for some time I saw nothing, until my wandering
vision lighted on a toad travelling towards the water. He was right
out in the middle of the road, a most dangerous place for him, and
also difficult to travel in, seeing that it had a rough surface full
of loosened stones, and was very dusty. His progress was very slow; he
did not hop, but crawled laboriously for about five inches, then sat up
and rested four or five minutes, then crawled and rested again. When
I first caught sight of him he was about forty yards from the water,
and looking at him through my binocular when he sat up and rested I
could see the pulsing movements of his throat as though he panted with
fatigue, and the yellow eyes on the summit of his head gazing at that
delicious coolness where he wished to be. If toads can see things forty
yards away the stream was visible to him, as he was on that part of the
road which sloped down to the stream.
Lucky for you, old toad, thought I, that it is not market day at
Basingstoke or somewhere with farmers and small general dealers flying
about the country in their traps, or you would be flattened by a hoof
or a wheel long before the end of your pilgrimage.
By and by another creature appeared and caused me to forget the toad.
A young water-vole came up stream, swimming briskly from the swampy
meadow on the other side of the road. As he approached I tapped the
wood with my stick to make him turn back, but this only made him swim
faster towards me, and determined to have my own way I jumped down and
tried to stop him, but he dived past the stick and got away where he
wanted to be in the wood, and I resumed my seat.
There was the toad, when I looked his way, just about where I had last
seen him, within perhaps a few inches. Then a turtle-dove flew down,
alighting within a yard of the water, and after eyeing me suspiciously
for a few moments advanced and took one long drink and flew away. A few
minutes later I heard a faint complaining and whining sound in or close
to the hedge on my left hand, and turning my eyes in that direction
caught sight of a stoat, his head and neck visible, peeping at me out
of the wood; he was intending to cross the road, and seeing me sitting
there hesitated to do so. Still having come that far he would not turn
back, and by and by he drew himself snake-like out of the concealing
herbage, and was just about to make a dash across the road when I
tapped sharply on the wood with my stick and he fled back into cover.
In a few seconds he appeared again, and I played the same trick on him
with the same result; this was repeated about four times, after which
he plucked up courage enough to make his dash and was quickly lost in
the coarse grass by the stream on the other side.
Then a curious thing happened: flop, flop, flop, went vole following
vole, escaping madly from their hiding-places along the bank into the
water, all swimming for dear life to the other side of the stream.
Their deadly enemy did not swim after them, and in a few seconds all
was peace and quiet again.
And when I looked at the road once more, the toad was still there,
still travelling, painfully crawling a few inches, then sitting up and
gazing with his yellow eyes over the forty yards of that weary _via
dolorosa_ which still had to be got over before he could bathe and make
himself young for ever in that river of life. Then all at once the
feared and terrific thing came upon him: a farmer’s trap, drawn by a
fast trotting horse, suddenly appeared at the bend of the road and came
flying down the slope. That’s the end of you, old toad, said I, as the
horse and trap came over him; but when I had seen them cross the ford
and vanish from sight at the next bend, my eyes went back, and to my
amazement there sat my toad, his throat still pulsing, his prominent
eyes still gazing forward. The four dread hoofs and two shining wheels
had all missed him; then at long last I took pity on him, although
vexed at having to play providence to a toad, and getting off the rail
I went and picked him up, which made him very angry. But when I put
him in the water he expanded and floated for a few moments with legs
spread out, then slowly sank his body and remained with just the top of
his head and the open eyes above the surface for a little while, and
finally settled down into the cooler depths below.