its wealth of flowers and rich variety of leafage, my eyes happened to
light upon a greyish tuft of feathers in a rhododendron bush. Curiosity
led me to examine this tuft more closely, when, to my surprise, I found
it was a young brown owl—alive, but in a very exhausted condition. It
appeared to be only a few weeks old, fully feathered, but unable to feed
itself; I suppose it had fallen out of the nest and was dying for lack
of food. I need hardly say I carried it indoors, and did my best to feed
and restore the poor orphan, and right well did he second my efforts. A
juicy uncooked mutton chop was cut up and mixed with feathers, and with
resounding snaps of his great beak the morsels were received and
swallowed. A second chop was disposed of before my friend seemed
satisfied, and with such a mighty appetite I felt there would be no
difficulty in rearing this vigorous infant. Next morning I found two
sparrows and a mouse had been obtained. These soon disappeared, and had
to be supplemented by a piece of raw meat. And if this is the daily diet
of a very young owl, we may form some idea of the way in which
full-grown birds must reduce the hordes of mice and rats which would
otherwise overrun the country.
Whenever we passed the owl’s cage he gave a resounding snap with his
beak, not viciously but as a friendly recognition, and somehow this
habit suggested the name of the Assyrian king, the “noble Asnapper,” and
this, familiarly contracted to “Snap” for every-day use, became the
recognised title of our new pet.
Asnapper lived quietly enough during the day in a large cage well
covered from the light, but towards evening, when he had enjoyed his
second repast of raw meat, he began to wake up and long for exercise. He
was allowed his liberty in the house, and made full use of this
privilege by going about from room to room, either running along the
floor like a grey rabbit, or taking short flights with his noiseless
wings. He would gravely pursue his way up the stairs a step at a time,
and seemed to enjoy watching cattle in the fields whilst sitting
motionless on a window-sill.
Until the bird could feed himself it would have been no kindness to let
him go out of doors and starve, so I resolved to make the creature’s
life as happy as possible, whilst I had thus a good opportunity of
learning the habits of an interesting species of bird. I could not help
being somewhat afraid of his formidable curved beak, which looked as if
it could inflict a severe wound, but I soon learned how gently Asnapper
could use it; he would play with my fingers and hold them with such care
that we had merry games of play at evening recreation time, when he
looked to be let out of his cage and go where he pleased for an hour or
two.
If allowed to be in the drawing-room the sociable bird made himself
quite one of the party. Perched on the back of a chair, he would watch
all that went on with a grave air of consideration, or else he would
amuse himself by chasing a ball, or cotton reel, upon the floor, as if
trying to make believe it was a mouse. I could not have thought there
was so much latent fun in a solemn-looking owl, but then we are never
out at night perched up in the tree-branches to see what goes on there
amongst young owlets, so this afforded us a rather unusual glimpse into
the habits and manners of the bird of wisdom in his merry days of youth.
This species, called the brown or tawny owl (_Syrnium stridula_), is
found in most of the counties of England; it is rare in Scotland, and
has not, I believe, been met with in Ireland. It generally retires to
thick woods during the day, coming out at night to feed upon rabbits,
moles, rats, mice, frogs, and insects.
[Illustration: YOUNG BROWN OWL (ASNAPPER).]
When Asnapper had more food than he could consume at one meal he would
hide the rest, taking pains to secrete his choice morsels in some dark
corner where he thought we could not see them. His soft blue eyes used
to look very roguish as he peered round to see if we were watching him;
those eyes, by the way, changed to a rich dark brown as he grew older,
and would be, I fancy quite black when full grown.
I have several times observed a brown owl flying quite late in the
evening closely pursued by enraged blackbirds screaming their loudest
notes of anger and fear, and I gather from this that the owl is apt to
prey upon small birds and possibly robs their nests of eggs or young
fledglings.
Several writers assert that this bird also feeds on fish, being able to
catch those swimming near the surface. There can be no doubt of the
extreme value of owls in reducing the number of rats and mice, and it is
to be hoped that landowners, in their own interest, if for no better
motive, will take pains to instruct their gamekeepers to protect such
useful allies to the farmer and gardener. I met with an amusing instance
of the value of the owl as a mouser when staying at a farmhouse in
Surrey. The farmer’s daughter told me her brother had just discovered “a
'howl’s’ nest in the pigeon coo,” and going up a ladder to examine it
more closely had found two eggs in the nest, and ranged around it were
fourteen dead mice! If that was the result of one evening’s foraging, we
need no other proof that owls are worthy of encouragement and
protection.
This anecdote relates to a barn owl, which may well be called the
“farmer’s friend,” for it delights to roost in barns and outbuildings,
where it can find plenty of mice, its favourite food, and on that
account it should meet with a kind welcome instead of being trapped and
shot and hung up to decorate the end of some outhouse, where I often
grieve to see it, in company with the equally useful little kestrel and
other hawks.
[Illustration: ASNAPPER.]
The brown owl has very different tastes as to its home, preferring a
hollow tree in some secluded wood far away from human dwellings,
although, from Mr. Waterton’s experience, it will sometimes fly into
houses in the dusk of evening. He says: “This pretty aërial wanderer of
the night often comes into my room, and after flitting to and fro on
wing so soft and silent that he is scarcely heard, he takes his
departure from the same window at which he entered.” Mr. Waterton
suggests that these birds may be encouraged to settle in our woods; if
holes are made in pollard-trees that are slightly decayed, the brown
owls will readily adopt them as nesting-places.
I have not as yet heard Asnapper make any sound except the
characteristic snap of his beak, and a low whining cry of eager pleasure
at sight of his accustomed food. We are very familiar with the loud,
melancholy hoot of his kith and kin which we frequently hear at
intervals during the night in the gardens and woods around the house,
and Asnapper will join in the chorus, for, as soon as he can feed
himself, we shall bid him an affectionate farewell, and have the
pleasure of seeing him spread his broad wings and sail away to his
native woods.
WILLOW-WRENS.
“The least and last of things
That soar on quivering wings,
Or crawl among the grass-blades out of sight
Have just as clear a right
To their appointed portion of delight
As Queens or Kings.”
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
WILLOW-WRENS.
ONE afternoon towards the end of May I was strolling along a garden walk
which skirts the open common, when I overheard some boys saying, “Here’s
the nest, she can’t fly,” &c., and fearing some cruelty was going on, I
quickly went out to the lads and asked what they were doing. They
pointed to a tiny willow-wren sitting on the ground unable to move
because her wings were glued together with birdlime.
It was the work of some bird-catcher; he had placed the sticky birdlime
on bracken stems around the poor bird’s nest, which was in a tuft of
grass and heather, and as she alighted with food for her young ones she
was caught and held fast. It was a piteous sight! The five hungry little
nestlings were cheeping for food, the bright eyes of the mother-bird
looked up at me as if appealing for help. The boys were as grieved as I
was; but what were we to do? I could not let the poor victims die of
starvation, so I resolved to take the willow-wren and her family home
and see if I could feed the little ones and release the glued wings so
as to give the mother-bird power to fly once more. With great pains I
did succeed so far that the bird could plume her feathers, and, after a
few days, she could again use her wings. I fed the young birds, and in
this duty the tender little mother aided me, and would even take food
from my hand and put it into the gaping beaks that were always ready for
small morsels of raw meat or meal-worms, on which diet the young wrens
grew and flourished, until I was able one fine day to release the mother
and children and rejoice in the thought that their innocent lives had
been saved from a cruel death.
I can but hope that no reader of this book would ever dream of catching
our songsters with birdlime, but there is a form of cruelty of which
thousands of ladies _are_ guilty, and against which I, for one, shall
never cease to protest until the hateful fashion has entirely ceased.
How often I wish I could lead those of my own sex to think of the
terrible suffering they are causing to millions of birds as sweet and
innocent as my little willow-wren. Can any one conceive my having had
her killed and stuffed, and then placed as a trimming on my bonnet! The
thought of the willow-wren’s mother-love ought to make such an idea
abhorrent to any gentle-minded woman. But cannot my sisters be brought
to reflect that every wing and bird’s body they wear on their headgear
means the cruel death of a creature of both use and beauty that was
enjoying its innocent life, and doing us only good by carrying out its
appointed duties in God’s creation? I cannot express the pain it gives
me to see aigrettes, wings, and whole birds still so lavishly used in
trimming hats and bonnets. Loving birds as I do, I cannot help pleading
for them from time to time, in the hope that public opinion may have
some influence, and ladies may learn at last to be ashamed to be seen
decked with an ornament which proclaims them both thoughtless and
unfeeling.
The willow-wren, one of the most useful of our insect-eating birds,
abounds in my old garden, and keeps the rose-trees free from aphides and
other pests. It chooses very unsafe places for its nest, the smallest
tuft of grass being deemed a sufficient shelter. One such nest, I
remember, was located two years ago close to the field road where my hay
carts were continually passing. The brave little mother seemed to have
no fear, but as a heedless footstep might unwittingly have destroyed the
nest, some branches were placed round the spot for her protection, and I
hope she succeeded in rearing her family.
It is a charming sight to see a party of willow-wrens methodically
clearing the insects from a rose-tree. Like a band of tiny acrobats they
flit about sideways, upside down, in and out, until every twig has been
examined and all the prey secured, then, with happy chirpings, away they
flit to the next tree to resume their useful operations.
The sweet, warbling song of this migrant seems a truly summer sound, for
the bird seldom arrives until the middle of April, and leaves us again
about the end of September; its note therefore suggests sunshine and
flowers and the hum of insect-life.
TAME DOVES.
“Was not the Dove the first of all the birds
Loosed by the patriarch from the stranded ark,
Which roved not idly o’er the new-born world,
But backward turn’d, though winds were whistling past—
Though palm-groves and the flowery mead allured—
And bore the olive-branch to glad _his_ sight
Whose hand had smooth’d so oft its ruffled plumes.”
LADY F. HASTINGS.
“Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves,
That could not live asunder day or night.”
SHAKESPEARE.
TAME DOVES.
IT is always interesting to note how gentle kindness shown towards our
pet animals and birds will bring out various traits of character in
them. Curious differences will be observed even between specimens which
are of the same age and family and have been treated exactly alike from
their earliest years. A pet creature can only show its true nature when
it is brought up so kindly as to be without fear. Alas, how seldom this
is the case!
Almost all captive song-birds I have seen, excepting canaries, are sure
to flutter more or less when any one approaches their cage, and this
instinctive effort to escape shows timidity and unhappiness. I confess I
could never find any pleasure in keeping a tiny captive which I knew was
breaking its little heart in fruitless longings for fresh air and
liberty.
To show what thoughtful kindness will do in creating happy confidence, I
should like to relate the history of my tame doves, Peace and Patience.
These birds used to belong to a poor woman in our village; her only
means of housing them was in a wooden box with a wire front. It was a
wonder that they continued to live in such discomfort; yet, without a
bath, a nest-box, or anything to make their lives pleasant or healthy,
they showed the grace of patient endurance by living on with merely
their bare allowance of food and water.
However, they were redeemed at last from their hard bondage, placed in a
large wicker cage with plenty of suitable provender, enabled to sun
themselves in a pleasant verandah, and to take a bath in pure water
whenever they felt inclined. Their plumage soon began to improve, and
became as smooth and soft as grey satin. After a time they were let out
to fly about in the dining-room, and the male bird, Peace, might often
be seen sitting on the marble clock, gazing at himself in the
looking-glass over the mantelpiece. I suppose he admired his own
reflection, for he would go again and again to bow and curtsey and coo
most lovingly to the bird he saw in the glass, and never seemed to find
out it was all the while himself.
In spite of this foppishness he was a most devoted mate, paying all
kinds of tender attentions to his gentle little wife, following her
about and often feeding her with any special dainty he might come
across.
Under these new and happy circumstances Peace and Patience began to
think of rearing a family, and we found them searching everywhere for
materials wherewith to build their nest. Not finding much that was
suitable in my sitting-rooms, they went to the flower-vases and began
pulling out the orchids and maiden-hair fern to line their nest.
It looked very pretty to see the little grey bird flying across the room
with a great pink flower in her beak; but we thought a more suitable
substance might be offered to them, and very gladly they welcomed some
little twigs and dried grass, with which, after much cooing and
confabulation, they constructed the family home. In a day or two a pair
of snow-white eggs appeared, and then for a fortnight the little
hen-bird sat patiently brooding over them, scarcely leaving them long
enough to take her necessary food.
In due time we found two little doves were hatched. Small, pink,
feeble-looking creatures they were; it seemed quite wonderful to think
that they could ever grow up to be like their parents.
Patience was so tame that she would let me peep under her soft feathers
to see how the tiny birds were progressing, and even if I took one of
her children away to show to my friends she was in no way perturbed.
It is a great surprise to see doves feeding their young ones. They take
the tender little beak within their own and then pass the soft food,
with which nature provides them at that time, from their own crop into
the beak of the fledglings. The young birds seemed to have excellent
appetites and grew rapidly, developing tiny quill-feathers all over
their bodies, and in a few weeks they were clothed with soft grey
plumage, so that we could hardly tell parents from children.
I have often heard doves spoken of as being less intelligent than other
birds. On the contrary, my birds seem to think and almost to reason, as
I believe my readers will agree when I tell them some of the clever
things they have done.
One day when I was sitting in a room some distance from the verandah
where the doves were, Peace found me out and came tapping with his bill
against the window. I am always accustomed to attend at once to any such
appeal from a bird or animal, since I generally find it to mean that
they urgently require something.
In this case, as the evening was chilly, I let the three doves into
their cage and brought it indoors; but I soon found all was not right,
for the male bird was greatly excited, apparently longing to get out
again, so I opened the cage door and the window of the room, and away he
flew. Presently I heard Peace cooing loudly, and, following the sound I
found him under the verandah with the young dove that was missing; he
was evidently trying to show me his truant child, and as soon as I took
them both up and carried them to the cage, Peace was quite happy and
content.
When the weather became warm and sunny the little pair decided that
their next nest should be built in some clematis growing up the pillars
of the verandah. It was a charming spot to select, for the little
mother-bird had flickering sunbeams shining upon her whilst she sat, and
leaves to shelter her from the heat.
Now again a domestic difficulty arose and Peace came to tell me about
it. What was he to do for building materials? I provided small flexible
birch twigs, and was amused to find that when I offered one, the little
builder took it gladly, and, flying off to the nest, presented it to his
wife and she wove it into the family dwelling.
Later on in the day it seemed to me that the comfort of the home would
be improved by some softer material than interlacing twigs, so I added a
carpet of fine soft shavings; these also were quite approved, and after
a time the nest was considered perfect. I felt inclined to call it our
nest, as I provided the materials and was allowed to help in the
building.
Two snowy eggs soon appeared, and then the parents took it by turns to
sit upon the nest for about four hours at a time. This should teach us a
beautiful lesson of unselfishness, for it must seem a little hard to
have to sit still hour after hour and see another bird able to fly about
enjoying the air and sunshine. I think my dove was well named Patience,
but doubtless the strong feeling of mother-love made it easy, and the
affectionate little father-bird seemed always ready to take his turn in
the domestic duties.
The first heavy shower after the nest was built made me rather anxious
for the comfort of the sitting bird; she would soon have been soaked
with rain, so I racked my wits to devise a shelter. With some
contrivance I managed to fix a slanting roof of stiff cardboard so as to
keep off rain and scorching sunshine. By talking quietly to my pet she
seemed quite to understand that she was not to be alarmed, and sat
calmly on her nest whilst I fixed her shelter.
The bird that is off duty is fond of coming to visit me in the house. I
am quite accustomed to see a dove sitting amongst my working materials;
I have even found an egg lying on my writing-table as a modest gift and
token of affection from my gentle Patience.
Peace looks very pretty when he perches on a white marble bust in the
drawing-room. He dearly likes investigating anything fresh, and I once
found him in the museum busily pulling an old nest to pieces, because it
contained some materials he thought would be desirable for his own home.
I learn many lessons from my little doves. I see how affection begets
confidence. These little creatures trust me perfectly, and that gives me
true pleasure, and makes them very dear to me. I think it is thus our
Heavenly Father would have us show our love to Him. He says, “I love
them that love Me,” and the text goes on to say, “and those that seek Me
early shall find Me.”
Then let all the dear young people who read about my doves try to learn,
from their history, how they can please God by showing their love and
trust in Him, by going to Him continually with all their difficulties,
not doubting that He will hear, and abundantly answer their prayers.
FEEDING WILD BIRDS IN WINTER.
“Blithe Robin is heard no more:
He gave us his song
When summer was o’er
And winter was long:
He sang for his bread and now he is fled
Away to his secret nest.
And there in the green
Early and late
Alone to his mate
He pipeth unseen
And swelleth his breast.
For, as it is o’er,
Blithe Robin is heard no more.”
ROBERT BRIDGES.
FEEDING WILD BIRDS IN WINTER.
ANY winter’s day a charming sight may be witnessed outside the long
French window of my drawing-room, but this is especially the case in
frosty weather, when the frozen-out birds come in flocks to partake of
my bounty. Virtue is its own reward in this instance, for I derive
untold pleasure from the lively scene which greets my eyes when I sit
down each morning to carry on the dual occupation of writing letters and
watching the birds.
This winter (February, 1895) is one of exceptional severity. More than a
month of intense frost will have killed thousands of birds, especially
of the insect-eating species. Tits have even attacked the woody galls
upon the oak-trees, and extracted the grubs from them, thus doing the
forest-trees good service.
[Illustration: MY WINDOW VISITORS.]
It is curious how plainly individual character comes out in hungry
birds. Nine robins are now, whilst I write, carrying on a guerilla
warfare, pecking and flying at one another like little furies, as indeed
they are. Much as I love robins, I must own they have villainous
tempers, and will treat their own kith and kin with persistent cruelty.
Now a dozen or more fussy starlings have arrived for their breakfast,
and eagerly pick up the coarse oatmeal, which seems to suit the
requirements of most birds when they cannot get their own special diet.
I like to listen to the busy chatter the starlings keep up all the time
they are eating; it is varied by little tiffs, which constantly arise,
when two birds spring into the air, peck at each other furiously for a
moment, and then, the insult being avenged, drop down and resume their
breakfast until there comes a scare about something, when away they all
rush. Starlings are good emblems of perpetual motion—cheerful, busy
creatures, they never seem to have a minute to spare, and make so much
ado about both work and play that they are amongst the most amusing of
the visitants to my window. Blackbirds, on the contrary, are sedately
stolid, and usually keep in one position until their hunger is appeased,
or, if compelled to fly off in the middle of their repast, they have the
forethought to carry away a lump of bread or fat, which they can enjoy
in private.
As a rule the thrushes stay away from my food supplies until they have
exhausted other stores, but when they do join the throng of pensioners
and accept outdoor relief, it is with a calm, fearless air, as if they
had a full right to the choicest morsels. When all the rest take flight
at some sudden noise, the thrushes generally remain and go on feeding
with quiet dignity, as if quite above the silly frights of the vulgar
herd. The busy scene would lose much of its interest without the calm
effrontery of the blue tits. They perch upon the lumps of fat, assuming
every possible attitude of graceful agility, and those who trench upon
their domain have occasion to learn that their absurd little beaks can
be exerted with considerable force and effect. The snowy lawn which
forms the background to my bird-picture is a real “study in black and
white.” About fifty rooks are either feeding under the tulip-tree or
walking about on the frozen surface of the snow. Hardly any bird shows
the inner working of its mind so clearly as the rook. One may learn from
its actions the dawning of an idea and the subsequent working out of the
same.
[Illustration: FIR-TREE IN WINTER.]
One of these birds is at this moment weighing pros and cons as to
whether it would be safe to join the party at the window. Whilst all are
feeding quietly it decides to come, and marches slowly on; then, when
the starlings take one of their sudden flights, the rook stops, looks
this way and that, and feels doubtful. However, a second rook joins the
waverer, and the two take courage and advance together. One of them
stands on a lump of suet and breaks off pieces with its huge beak—the
rook sharing with other birds the universal love of fat—the lump becomes
smaller and smaller, and at last the great beak grips it firmly and away
flies the rook, closely pursued by a crew of sable comrades, who are all
eager to share in the spoil which they were not brave enough to secure
for themselves.
[Illustration: YEW-TREE SEAT AND WEEPING BIRCH.]
I have not spoken of the sparrows; their name is legion. And how they do
eat! No other bird clears away the food so quickly. The sparrows do not
move more than they can help, and peck with the utmost rapidity, as
though absolutely starving.