Most species of birds like to roost in companies, partly because it is
safer to do so, partly for the sake of companionship, and sometimes, in
England at any rate, because by crowding together they keep each other
warm. Birds have their favourite roosting places. Certain trees are
patronised while others are not. Perhaps one clump will be utilised every
night for a month or longer, then a move will be made to another clump.
Later on a return may be made to the original site. I do not know what
determines these changes of locality.
The sunset hour is, I think, the most interesting at which to watch
birds. They seem to be livelier then than at any other time of the day;
they are certainly more loquacious. The dormitory of the crows, the
mynas, or the green parrots is a perfect pandemonium. Whilst listening to
the uproar one can only suppose each member of the colony to be bubbling
over with animal spirits and intent on recounting to his fellows all the
doings of the day.
Most people may be inclined to think that it is impossible to derive much
pleasure from observing so common a bird as the sparrow. This is a
mistake. Often and often have I watched with the greatest pleasure the
roosting operations of this despised bird. I know of a row of bushes that
forms the dormitory of hundreds of sparrows. To enable the reader to
appreciate what follows, let me say that the hedge in question is only
some twenty yards long, its height is not much greater than that of a
man, it is nowhere more than eight feet in breadth, and is within a
hundred yards of an inhabited bungalow. Less than six yards away from it
is a well, fitted with a creaking Persian wheel, at which coolies are
continually working.
If you happen to pass this hedge within an hour of sunset, you will hear
issuing from it the dissonance of many sparrows’ voices. You stop to
listen, and, as you wait, a flock of sparrows dives into the thicket. You
look about to see whether any more are coming and observe nothing.
Suddenly some specks appear in the air, as if spontaneously generated. In
two seconds these are seen to be sparrows. Within half a minute of the
time you first set eyes upon them they are already in the bushes. They
are followed by another little flock of six or seven, and another and
another. Flight after flight arrives in quick succession, each of which
shoots into the roosting hedge. I use the word “shoot” advisedly, for no
other term describes the speed at which they enter the bushes. Their
flight, although so rapid, is not direct; it takes the form of a
quavering zigzag. Some of the flocks do not immediately plunge into the
bushes. They circle once, twice, thrice, or even oftener, before they
betake themselves to their leafy dormitory. Sometimes part of a flight
dive into the hedge immediately upon arrival, while the remainder circle
round and then fling themselves into the bushes as though they were
soldiers performing a well-practised manœuvre; the first bird to reach
the bush entering at the nearest end, the next a little farther on, the
third still farther, and so on, so that the last sparrow to arrive enters
the hedge at the far end. Sometimes a flock perches for a time on a tree
near by before entering the hedge. Those who have only noticed sparrows
pottering about will scarcely be able to believe their eyes when they see
the speed at which they approach the roosting place. For the moment they
are transformed into dignified birds.
All this time those individuals already in the hedge are making a great
noise. Their chitter, chitter, chitter never for a moment ceases or even
diminishes in intensity. Once in the hedge, the sparrows do not readily
leave it. There is much motion of the leaves and branches, and birds are
continually popping out of one part of the bushes into another. It is
thus evident that there is considerable fighting for places. If, while
all this is going on, you walk up to part of the hedge and shake it, the
birds disturbed will only fly a yard or two and at once settle elsewhere
in the thicket.
Meanwhile the sun has nearly set; the coolies near by have ceased working
and are kindling a fire within a couple of yards of the bushes. But the
sparrows appear to ignore both them and their fire. Settling down for the
night engrosses their whole attention.
As the sun touches the horizon the incoming flights of sparrows become
fewer and fewer; and after the golden orb has disappeared only one or two
belated stragglers arrive. Sparrows are early roosters. Something
approaching three thousand of them are now perched in that small hedge,
yet none are visible except those that pop in and out, when jockeyed out
of positions they have taken up. But although only a few sparrows come in
after the sun has set, it is not until fully fifteen minutes later that
there is any appreciable abatement of the din. It then becomes more
spasmodic; it ceases for half a second, to burst forth again with
undiminished intensity.
Twenty minutes or so after sunset the clamour becomes suddenly less. It
is now possible to discern individual voices. The noise grows rapidly
feebler. It almost ceases, but again becomes louder. It then nearly stops
a second time. Perhaps not more than twenty voices are heard. There is
yet another outburst, but the twitterers are by now very sleepy. Suddenly
there is perfect silence for a few seconds, then more feeble twittering,
then another silence longer than the last.
It is not yet dark, there is still a bright glow in the western sky. The
periods of silence grow more prolonged and the outbursts of twittering
become more faint and of shorter duration.
It is now thirty-nine minutes after the sun has set and perfect stillness
reigns. The birds must have all fallen asleep. But no! one wakeful fellow
commences again. He soon subsides. It has grown so dark that you can no
longer see the sparrow-hawk perched on a tree hard by. He took up his
position there early in the evening, and will probably breakfast first
thing to-morrow morning off sparrow!
You now softly approach the bushes until your face touches the branches.
There are twenty or thirty sparrows roosting within fifteen inches of
you. You cannot see any of them, but if you were to stretch forth your
hand you could as likely as not catch hold of one. You disturb a branch
and there is a rustling of a dozen pairs of wings, so close to you that
your face is fanned by the wind they cause. You have disturbed some
birds, but they are so sleepy that they move without uttering a twitter.
You leave the bush and return an hour later. Perfect silence reigns. You
may now go right up to the roosting hedge and talk without disturbing any
of the three thousand birds. You may even strike a match without arousing
one, so soundly do they sleep.
Those who wish to rid a locality of a superabundance of sparrows might
well profit by the fact that the birds sleep so soundly in companies.
Could anything be easier than to throw a large net over such a hedge and
thus secure, at one fell blow, the whole colony?