chips thrown off as the inspiration seizes him, not mechanically sawn to
a set line. Now and again the blackbird feels the beauty of the time,
the large white daisy stars, the grass with yellow-dusted tips, the air
which comes so softly unperceived by any precedent rustle of the hedge.
He feels the beauty of the time, and he must say it. His notes come like
wild flowers not sown in order. There is not an oak here in June without
a blackbird.
Thrushes sing louder here than anywhere else; they really seem to sing
louder, and they are all around. Thrushes appear to vary their notes
with the period of the year, singing louder in the summer, and in the
mild days of October when the leaves lie brown and buff on the sward
under their perch more plaintively and delicately. Warblers and
willow-wrens sing in the hollow in June, all out of sight among the
trees--they are easily hidden by a leaf.
At that time the ivy leaves which flourish up to the very tops of the
oaks are so smooth with enamelled surface, that high up, as the wind
moves them, they reflect the sunlight and scintillate. Greenfinches in
the elms never cease love-making; and love-making needs much soft
talking. A nightingale in a bush sings so loud the hawthorn seems too
small for the vigour of the song. He will let you stand at the very
verge of the bough; but it is too near, his voice is sweeter across the
field.
There are still, in October, a few red apples on the boughs of the trees
in a little orchard beside the same road. It is a natural orchard--left
to itself--therefore there is always something to see in it. The palings
by the road are falling, and are held up chiefly by the brambles about
them and the ivy that has climbed up. Trees stand on the right and trees
on the left; there is a tall spruce fir at the back.
The apple trees are not set in straight lines: they were at first, but
some have died away and left an irregularity; the trees lean this way
and that, and they are scarred and marked as it were with lichen and
moss. It is the home of birds. A blackbird had its nest this spring in
the bushes on the left side, a nightingale another in the bushes on the
right, and there the nightingale sang under the shadow of a hornbeam for
hours every morning while "City" men were hurrying past to their train.
The sharp relentless shrike that used to live by the copse moved up
here, and from that very hornbeam perpetually darted across the road
upon insects in the fern and furze opposite. He never entered the
orchard; it is often noticed that birds (and beasts of prey) do not
touch creatures that build near their own nests. Several thrushes reside
in the orchard; swallows frequently twittered from the tops of the apple
trees. As the grass is so safe from intrusion, one of the earliest
buttercups flowers here. Bennets--the flower of the grass--come up; the
first bennet is to green things what the first swallow is to the
breathing creatures of summer.
On a bare bough, but lately scourged by the east wind, the apple bloom
appears, set about with the green of the hedges and the dark spruce
behind. White horse-chestnut blooms stand up in their stately way,
lighting the path which is strewn with the green moss-like flowers
fallen from the oaks. There is an early bush of May. When the young
apples take form and shape the grass is so high even the buttercups are
overtopped by it. Along the edge of the roadside footpath, where the
dandelions, plantains, and grasses are thick with seed, the greenfinches
come down and feed.
Now the apples are red that are left, and they hang on boughs from which
the leaves are blown by every gust. But it does not matter when you
pass, summer or autumn, this little orchard has always something to
offer. It is not neglected--it is true attention to leave it to itself.
Left to itself, so that the grass reaches its fullest height; so that
bryony vines trail over the bushes and stay till the berries fall of
their own ripeness; so that the brown leaves lie and are not swept away
unless the wind chooses; so that all things follow their own course and
bent. The hedge opposite in autumn, when reapers are busy with the
sheaves, is white with the large trumpet flowers of the great wild
convolvulus (or bindweed). The hedge there seems made of convolvulus
then; nothing but convolvulus, and nowhere else does the flower flourish
so strongly; the bines remain till the following spring.
Without a path through it, without a border or parterre, unvisited, and
left alone, the orchard has acquired an atmosphere of peace and
stillness, such as grows up in woods and far-away lonely places. It is
so commonplace and unpretentious that passers-by do not notice it; it is
merely a corner of meadow dotted with apple trees--a place that needs
frequent glances and a dreamy mood to understand it as the birds
understand it. They are always there. In spring, thrushes move along,
rustling the fallen leaves as they search among the arum sheaths
unrolling beside the sheltering palings. There are nooks and corners
whence shy creatures can steal out from the shadow and be happy. There
is a loving streak of sunshine somewhere among the tree trunks.
Though the copse is so much frequented the migrant birds (which have now
for the most part gone) next spring will not be seen nor heard there
first. With one exception, it is not the first place to find them. The
cuckoos which come to the copse do not call till some time after others
have been heard in the neighbourhood. There is another favourite copse a
mile distant, and the cuckoo can be heard near it quite a week earlier.
This last spring there were two days' difference--a marked interval.
The nightingale that sings in the bushes on the common immediately
opposite the copse is late in the same manner. There is a mound about
half a mile farther, where a nightingale always sings first, before all
the others of the district. The one on the common began to sing last
spring a full week later. On the contrary, the sedge-reedling, which
chatters side by side with the nightingale, is the first of all his kind
to return to the neighbourhood. The same thing happens season after
season, so that when once you know these places you can always hear the
birds several days before other people.
With flowers it is the same; the lesser celandine, the marsh marigold,
the silvery cardamine, appear first in one particular spot, and may be
gathered there before a petal has opened elsewhere. The first swallow in
this district generally appears round about a pond near some farm
buildings. Birds care nothing for appropriate surroundings. Hearing a
titlark singing his loudest, I found him perched on the rim of a tub
placed for horses to drink from.
This very pond by which the first swallow appears is muddy enough, and
surrounded with poached mud, for a herd of cattle drink from and stand
in it. An elm overhangs it, and on the lower branches, which are dead,
the swallows perch and sing just over the muddy water. A sow lies in the
mire. But the sweet swallows sing on softly; they do not see the
wallowing animal, the mud, the brown water; they see only the sunshine,
the golden buttercups, and the blue sky of summer. This is the true way
to look at this beautiful earth.
MAGPIE FIELDS
There were ten magpies together on the 9th of September 1881, in a field
of clover beside a road but twelve miles from Charing Cross. Ten magpies
would be a large number to see at once anywhere in the south, and not a
little remarkable so near town. The magpies were doubtless young birds
which had packed, and were bred in the nests in the numerous elms of the
hedgerows about there. At one time they were scattered over the field,
their white and black colours dotted everywhere, so that they seemed to
hold entire possession of it.
Then a knot of them gathered together, more came up, and there they were
all ten fluttering and restlessly moving. After a while they passed on
into the next field, which was stubble, and, collected in a bunch, were
even more conspicuous there, as the stubble did not conceal them so much
as the clover. That was on the 9th of September; by the end of the month
weeds had grown so high that the stubble itself in that field had
disappeared, and from a distance it looked like pasture. In the stubble
the magpies remained till I could watch them no longer.
A short time afterwards, on the 17th of September, looking over the
gateway of an adjacent field which had been wheat, then only recently
carried, a pheasant suddenly appeared rising up out of the stubble; and
then a second, and a third and fourth. So tall were the weeds that, in
a crouching posture, at the first glance they were not visible; then as
they fed, stretching their necks out, only the top of their backs could
be seen. Presently some more raised their heads in another part of the
field, then two more on the left side, and one under an oak by the
hedge, till seventeen were counted.
These seventeen pheasants were evidently all young birds, which had
wandered from covers, some distance, too, for there is no preserve
within a mile at least. Seven or eight came near each other, forming a
flock, but just out of gunshot from the road. They were all extremely
busy feeding in the stubble. Next day half-a-dozen or so still remained,
but the rest had scattered; some had gone across to an acre of barley
yet standing in a corner; some had followed the dropping acorns along
the hedge into another piece of stubble; others went into a breadth of
turnips.
Day by day their numbers diminished as they parted, till only three or
four could be seen. Such a sortie from cover is the standing risk of the
game-preserver. Towards the end of September, on passing a barley-field,
still partly uncut, and with some spread, there was a loud, confused,
murmuring sound up in the trees, like that caused by the immense flocks
of starlings which collect in winter. The sound, however, did not seem
quite the same, and upon investigation it turned out to be an incredible
number of sparrows, whose voices were audible across the field.
They presently flew out from the hedge, and alighted on one of the rows
of cut barley, making it suddenly brown from one end to the other. There
must have been thousands; they continually flew up, swept round with a
whirring of wings, and settled, again darkening the spot they chose.
Now, as the sparrow eats from morning to night without ceasing, say for
about twelve hours, and picks up a grain of corn in the twinkling of an
eye, it would be a moderate calculation to allow this vast flock two
sacks a week. Among them there was one white sparrow--his white wings
showed distinctly among the brown flock. In the most remote country I
never observed so great a number of these birds at once; the loss to the
farmers must be considerable.
There were a few fine days at the end of the month. One afternoon there
rose up a flock of rooks out of a large oak tree standing separate in
the midst of an arable field which was then at last being ploughed. This
oak is a favourite with the rooks of the neighbourhood, and they have
been noticed to visit it more frequently than others. Up they went,
perhaps a hundred of them, rooks and jackdaws together cawing and
soaring round and round till they reached a great height. At that level,
as if they had attained their ballroom, they swept round and round on
outstretched wings, describing circles and ovals in the air. Caw-caw!
jack-juck-juck! Thus dancing in slow measure, they enjoyed the sunshine,
full from their feast of acorns.
Often as one was sailing on another approached and interfered with his
course when they wheeled about each other. Soon one dived. Holding his
wings at full stretch and rigid, he dived headlong, rotating as he fell,
till his beak appeared as if it would be driven into the ground by the
violence of the descent. But within twenty feet of the earth he
recovered himself and rose again. Most of these dives, for they all
seemed to dive in turn, were made over the favourite oak, and they did
not rise till they had gone down to its branches. Many appeared about to
throw themselves against the boughs.
Whether they wheeled round in circles, or whether they dived, or simply
sailed onward in the air, they did it in pairs. As one was sweeping
round another came to him. As one sailed straight on a second closely
followed. After one had dived the other soon followed, or waited till he
had come up and rejoined him. They danced and played in couples as if
they were paired already. Some left the main body and steered right away
from their friends, but turned and came back, and in about half-an-hour
they all descended and settled in the oak from which they had risen. A
loud cawing and jack-juck-jucking accompanied this sally.
The same day it could be noticed how the shadows of the elms cast by the
bright sunshine on the grass, which is singularly fresh and green this
autumn, had a velvety appearance. The dark shadow on the fresh green
looked soft as velvet. The waters of the brook had become darker now;
they flowed smooth, and at the brink reflected a yellow spray of
horse-chestnut. The sunshine made the greenfinches call, the chaffinches
utter their notes, and a few thrushes sing; but the latter were soon
silenced by frosts in the early morning, which turned the fern to so
deep a reddish brown as to approach copper.
At the beginning of October a herd of cows and a small flock of sheep
were turned into the clover field to eat off the last crop, the
preceding crops having been mown. There were two or more magpies among
the sheep every day: magpies, starlings, rooks, crows, and wagtails
follow sheep about. The clover this year seems to have been the best
crop, though in the district alluded to it has not been without an
enemy. Early in July, after the first crop had been mown a short time,
there came up a few dull yellowish-looking stalks among it. These
increased so much that one field became yellowish all over, the stalks
overtopped the clover, and overcame its green.
It was the lesser broom rape, and hardly a clover plant escaped this
parasitic growth. By carefully removing the earth with a pocket-knife
the two could be dug up together. From the roots of the clover a slender
filament passes underground to the somewhat bulbous root of the broom
rape, so that although they stand apart and appear separate plants, they
are connected under the surface. The stalk of the broom rape is clammy
to touch, and is an unwholesome greenish yellow, a dull undecided
colour; if cut, it is nearly the same texture throughout. There are
numerous dull purplish flowers at the top, but it has no leaves. It is
not a pleasant-looking plant--a strange and unusual growth.
One particular field was completely covered with it, and scarcely a
clover field in the neighbourhood was perfectly free. But though drawing
the sap from the clover plants the latter grew so vigorously that little
damage was apparent. After a while the broom rape disappeared, but the
clover shot up and afforded good forage. So late as the beginning of
October a few poppies flowered in it, their bright scarlet contrasting
vividly with the green around, and the foliage above fast turning brown.
The flight of the jay much resembles that of the magpie, the same
jaunty, uncertain style, so that at a distance from the flight alone it
would be difficult to distinguish them, though in fact the magpie's
longer tail and white and black colours always mark him. One morning in
July, standing for a moment in the shade beside a birch copse which
borders the same road, a jay flew up into the tree immediately overhead,
so near that the peculiar shape of the head and bill and all the plumage
was visible. He looked down twice, and then flew. Another morning there
was a jay on the ground, searching about, not five yards from the road,
nor twenty from a row of houses. It was at the corner of a copse which
adjoins them. If not so constantly shot at the jay would be anything but
wild.
Notwithstanding all these magpies and jays, the partridges are numerous
this year in the fields bordering the highway, and which are not watched
by keepers. Thinking of the partridges makes me notice the anthills.
There were comparatively few this season, but on the 4th of August,
which was a sunny day, I saw the inhabitants of a hill beside the road
bringing out the eggs into the sunshine. They could not do it fast
enough; some ran out with eggs, and placed them on the top of the little
mound, and others seized eggs that had been exposed sufficiently and
hurried with them into the interior.
Woody nightshade grows in quantities along this road and, apparently,
all about the outskirts of the town. There is not a hedge without it,
and it creeps over the mounds of earth at the sides of the highways.
Some fumitory appeared this summer in a field of barley; till then I had
not observed any for some time in that district. This plant, once so
common, but now nearly eradicated by culture, has a soft pleasant green.
A cornflower, too, flowered in another field, quite a treasure to find
where these beautiful blue flowers are so scarce. The last day of August
there was a fierce combat on the footpath between a wasp and a brown
moth. They rolled over and struggled, now one, now the other uppermost,
and the wasp appeared to sting the moth repeatedly. The moth, however,
got away.
There are so many jackdaws about the suburbs that, when a flock of rooks
passes over, the caw-cawing is quite equalled by the jack-jucking. The
daws are easily known by their lesser size and by their flight, for
they use their wings three times to the rook's once. Numbers of daws
build in the knot-holes and hollows of the horse-chestnut trees in
Bushey Park, and in the elms of the grounds of Hampton Court.
To the left of the Diana Fountain there are a number of hawthorn trees,
which stand apart, and are aged like those often found on village greens
and commons. Upon some of these hawthorns mistletoe grows, not in such
quantities as on the apples in Gloucester and Hereford, but in small
pieces.
As late in the spring as May-day I have seen some berries, then very
large, on the mistletoe here. Earlier in the year, when the adjoining
fountain was frozen and crowded with skaters, there were a number of
missel-thrushes in these hawthorns, but they appeared to be eating the
haws. At all events, they left some of the mistletoe berries, which were
on the plant months later.
Just above Molesey Lock, in the meadows beside the towing-path, the blue
meadow geranium, or crane's-bill, flowers in large bunches in the
summer. It is one of the most beautiful flowers of the field, and after
having lost sight of it for some time, to see it again seemed to bring
the old familiar far-away fields close to London. Between Hampton Court
and Kingston the towing-path of the Thames is bordered by a broad green
sward, sufficiently wide to be worth mowing. One July I found a man at
work here in advance of the mowers, pulling up yarrow plants with might
and main.
The herb grew in such quantities that it was necessary to remove it
first, or the hay would be too coarse. On conversing with him, he said
that a person came sometimes and took away a trap-load of yarrow; the
flowers were to be boiled and mixed with cayenne pepper, as a remedy
for cold in the chest. In spring the dandelions here are pulled in
sackfuls, to be eaten as salad. These things have fallen so much into
disuse in the country that country people are surprised to find the
herbalists flourishing round the great city of progress.
The continued dry weather in the early summer of the present year, which
was so favourable to partridges and game, was equally favourable to the
increase of several other kinds of birds, and among these the jays.
Their screeching is often heard in this district, quite as often as it
is in country woodlands. One day in the spring I saw six all screeching
and yelling together up and down a hedge near the road. Now in October
they are plentiful. One flew across overhead with an acorn in its beak,
and perched in an elm beside the highway. He pecked at the acorn on the
bough, then glanced down, saw me, and fled, dropping the acorn, which
fell tap tap from branch to branch till it reached the mound.
Another jay actually flew up into a fir in the green, or lawn, before a
farm-house window, crossing the road to do so. Four together were
screeching in an elm close to the road, and since then I have seen
others with acorns, while walking there. Indeed, this autumn it is not
possible to go far without hearing their discordant and unmistakable
cry. They were never scarce here, but are unusually numerous this
season, and in the scattered trees of hedgerows their ways can be better
observed than in the close covert of copses and plantations, where you
hear them, but cannot see for the thick fir boughs.
It is curious to note the number of creatures to whom the oak furnishes
food. The jays, for instance, are now visiting them for acorns; in the
summer they fluttered round the then green branches for the chafers, and
in the evenings the fern owls or goat-suckers wheeled about the verge
for these and for moths. Rooks come to the oaks in crowds for the
acorns; wood-pigeons are even more fond of them, and from their crops
quite a handful may sometimes be taken when shot in the trees.
They will carry off at once as many acorns as old-fashioned economical
farmers used to walk about with in their pockets, "chucking" them one,
two, or three at a time to the pigs in the stye as a _bonne bouche_ and
an encouragement to fatten well. Never was there such a bird to eat as
the wood-pigeon. Pheasants roam out from the preserves after the same
fruit, and no arts can retain them at acorn time. Swine are let run out
about the hedgerows to help themselves. Mice pick up the acorns that
fall, and hide them for winter use, and squirrels select the best.
If there is a decaying bough, or, more particularly, one that has been
sawn off, it slowly decays into a hollow, and will remain in that state
for years, the resort of endless woodlice, snapped up by insect-eating
birds. Down from the branches in spring there descend long, slender
threads, like gossamer, with a caterpillar at the end of each--the
insect-eating birds decimate these. So that in various ways the oaks
give more food to the birds than any other tree. Where there are oaks
there are sure to be plenty of birds. Beeches come next. Is it possible
that the severe frosts we sometimes have split oak trees? Some may be
found split up the trunk, and yet not apparently otherwise injured, as
they probably would be if it had been done by lightning. Trees are said
to burst in America under frost, so that it is not impossible in this
country.
There is a young oak beside the highway which in autumn was wreathed as
artistically as could have been done by hand. A black bryony plant grew
up round it, rising in a spiral. The heart-shaped leaves have dropped
from the bine, leaving thick bunches of red and green berries clustering
about the greyish stem of the oak.
Every one must have noticed that some trees have a much finer autumn
tint than others. This, it will often be found, is an annual occurrence,
and the same elm, or beech, or oak that has delighted the eye with its
hues this autumn, will do the same next year, and excel its neighbours
in colour. Oaks and beeches, perhaps, are the best examples of this, as
they are also the trees that present the most beautiful appearance in
autumn.
There are oaks on villa lawns near London whose glory of russet foliage
in October or November is not to be surpassed in the parks of the
country. There are two or three such oaks in Long Ditton. All oaks do
not become russet, or buff; some never take those tints. An oak, for
instance, not far from those just mentioned never quite loses its green;
it cannot be said, indeed, to remain green, but there is a trace of it
somewhere; the leaves must, I suppose, be partly buff and partly green;
and the mixture of these colours in bright sunshine produces a tint for
which I know no accurate term.