ON HEATHS AND MARSHES.
The title of the present chapter, to some readers, may seem rather a
misnomer, especially the first portion of it. We have already made a
brief survey of bird-life among the heather, but then a moor is not
exactly a heath. For the purpose of the present volume the definition
of the word "heath" must be taken to be a small area of uncultivated
ground, covered with bracken, brambles, gorse, and briars, with patches
of heather here and there, studded with stunted trees and bushes, and
in not a few cases surrounded with woods, arable lands, and pastures.
There are many such delightful bits of waste ground in the northern
shires, not only inland, but at no great distance from the sea. Of
the bogs and marshes we may claim a fair share, although drainage and
reclamation have reduced their area considerably in not a few cases, or
removed others entirely. The fens of the low-lying eastern counties--of
Norfolk and Suffolk--scarcely come within our limits, whilst those of
Lincolnshire exist almost only in name. The bird-life of these heaths
and marshes is characteristic and interesting, although perhaps there
is greater similarity between the species and those of more southern
localities than we have hitherto found to be the case.
[Illustration: The Nightjar.]
Heaths have always been favourite places of ours. They are never of
such barren and forbidding aspect as the moorlands, even in mid-winter;
vegetation is more generous; trees, in which we delight, are not
altogether absent; and most important attraction of all, bird-life in
considerable variety may be found upon and near them throughout the
year. Although many bits of heath known to us have been cleared and
brought into cultivation, there are not a few still left where birds
of various species linger unmolested. For instance (to indicate but
a few), there are such areas in the Sherwood Forest district; here
and there in north Lincolnshire, in north Derbyshire, and in south
Yorkshire, especially in the vicinity of Wharncliffe Crags, a few miles
north-west of Sheffield. One of the most interesting birds found upon
these heaths is the Nightjar, or perhaps even better known by the name
of Goatsucker. Like most birds possessing some peculiarity in note or
appearance easily remarked by the multitude, the present species has
many aliases, some of which at any rate are as undeserved as they are
disastrous. Thus, that of "Night-hawk" brings the bird into evil repute
with gamekeepers, and it is shot down in many localities under the
firm belief that it preys upon young Pheasants and Partridges! That
of "Goatsucker" is even more widely prevailing, not only in our own
country, but it has an equivalent in almost every European language,
in some cases dating from a very remote antiquity. Needless to say
that this appellation has proved even more fatal, and has caused the
poor bird needless persecution in many other countries than ours,
owing to the absurd superstition it describes and fosters of the
Nightjar's utterly fictitious habit of sucking the teats of cows and
goats! Lastly, it has been the long-suffering possessor of the names
of "Fern Owl" or "Churn Owl", one relating to its haunts, the other
to its singular note, and both suggestive of birds that have been
sorely persecuted by man, in most cases for purely imaginary offences.
Anything flying under the name of "Owl", whether with "fern", or
"wood", or "barn", or "horned" attached, is considered harmful, and
fair food for powder and shot, so that the poor Nightjar has suffered
with the rest. To his habits and appearance most, if not all, his
misfortunes are due. He flies about at dusk and during the night-time,
and has a way of flitting round the cattle in the meadows close to
the heath in quest of moths and cockchafers; his plumage is soft and
pencilled and Owl-like, whilst his enormous mouth, to the ignorant
countryman, seems capable of swallowing anything! And yet there is no
more harmless bird in the British Islands than the Nightjar. It preys
upon no single creature that man might covet (if perhaps we except
the entomologist, who does not like to see rare moths and beetles
disappear like magic in the evening gloom), but, on the other hand,
rids the fields and groves of countless numbers of injurious insect
pests. Apart from any concrete injury that it may be thought to do, it
also falls under the ban of the superstitious, its weird and curious
notes, together with its crepuscular habits, being very apt to inspire
dread in the credulous countryfolk, who are firm believers in omens,
prognostics, and the like, notwithstanding the unprecedented extent to
which the schoolmaster has been abroad during the past twenty years
or more. We ought also to mention another name bestowed upon the
Nightjar, and which, like most of the others, has caused the poor bird
not a little senseless persecution. This is "Puckeridge", a term also
applied to a fatal distemper which often attacks weanling calves. The
Nightjar was thought by the ignorant countryman to convey this disorder
to the calves whilst flitting about them. Poor little Nightjar! The
wonder is that there are any of its species left to struggle under
such an overwhelming burden of bad names begotten of superstition
and ignorance. In some districts this bird is known as the "Eve-jar"
or "Evening-jar", and in others as the "Wheel-bird"--names innocent
enough, suggestive of no ill-deeds, but eminently expressive of its
habits and its notes combined. In Devonshire it is known locally as
the "Dor-hawk", from its habit of catching dor-beetles or cockchafers;
also as the "Night-crow", possibly the least applicable in the entire
series, unless we interpret it as being derived from the bird's habit
of calling (crowing) at night. It is possibly a fortunate thing for the
Nightjar that it only spends a few months out of the twelve in Europe,
amongst such a crowd of civilized enemies of all countries and creeds,
finding fewer, if any, human persecutors amidst the dusky heathen
races of Africa, whither it retires after visiting us. It is one of
our latest birds of passage, not even reaching the southern parts of
England before the end of April or early May--a date which is not quite
coincident with its arrival in the northern shires, which it does not
reach much before the middle of the latter month. The life-history
of this pretty and much-maligned bird is packed full of interest.
Unfortunately the Nightjar is only abroad of its own choice during
hours when darkness renders observation difficult; we must perforce
crowd most of our scrutiny into the twilight hour, and just before
the rising of the sun. The bird, like the bat and the Owl, sleeps
during the daytime, either crouched flat upon the ground under the
bracken or underwood, or seated lengthwise on some broad flat branch
of a tree where dense foliage gives the shade and gloom it seeks, and
where its beautifully mottled and vermiculated plumage harmonizes most
closely with surrounding tints. It is said that the Nightjar sometimes
comes abroad during mid-day, and that it even calls at that time, but
such has never been our experience of this species, and we should be
inclined to think that when seen out and about at such a time it had
been disturbed from its diurnal resting-place. At the approach of
evening, however, the sleepy bird rouses itself, and, hungry and alert
and active enough, leaves its daytime haunt and commences its evening
peregrinations in quest of food and enjoyment. As the sun sinks lower
behind the western hills and the shadows intensify, the Nightjars
become more lively. The most impressive thing about them is their
curious music. It is a song that appeals to the most casual listener,
compelling recognition by its very singularity. Whilst on the wing
circling to and fro the note is an oft-repeated cry, resembling the
syllables _co-ic_, _co-ic_, _co-ic_; but when the bird drops lightly
down on to some wall or fence or gate, another and still more curious
sound is produced. This is the familiar "churring" or vibrating noise,
long continued, and putting one in mind of the monotonous reel of the
Grasshopper Warbler, so far as its pertinacity is concerned. This
latter noise is never heard unless the bird is sitting. The bird also
makes another sound whilst in the air, produced by striking its wings
smartly together; otherwise the flight of this species is remarkably
silent and Owl-like. It is by no means shy, and will hawk for insects
round our head, dart to and fro on noiseless pinions, or circle about
in chasing and toying with its mate, with little show of fear. The
wings of the male bird are marked with three white spots, one on each
of the first three primaries, and these are very conspicuous during
flight, as are also the white tips to the outermost tail-feathers.
This even applies to young males in their first plumage, although the
spots are buff instead of white. It is possible that these markings are
sexual recognition marks, enabling the female to follow or discover
the whereabouts of her mate in the gloom. The Nightjar breeds in May
or June, a little later in the north than in the south. It makes no
nest, but the hen bird lays her two curiously oval eggs on the bare
ground, sometimes beneath a spray of bracken or a furze bush, less
frequently on the flat low branch of a convenient tree. These eggs are
very beautiful, and he who finds them cannot confuse them with those
of any other species that breeds in our islands. They are generally
white and glossy, the surface mottled, blotched, streaked and veined
with various shades of brown and gray. The young are covered with
down--in this respect showing affinity with the Owls--but are otherwise
helpless, being fed by their parents not only during infancy, but for
some time after they can fly. The old birds show great solicitude for
them should they be disturbed, fluttering round the intruder's head,
and seeking to attract all attention to themselves. The Nightjar leaves
the northern shires in September for its winter quarters in Africa,
although it is by no means uncommonly observed quite a month later
in the extreme south and south-west of England. It is said, by the
way, that the Nightjar captures cockchafers with its feet, and that
its serrated middle claw is for this purpose. But this we have never
noticed, although we have had a life's experience with the bird, and
it seems more than doubtful when we bear in mind the extremely short
legs and comparatively weak feet of this species--so unlike those of
the Kestrel, which we know frequently catches these insects with its
feet. But we have lingered too long already with the Nightjar, and must
pass on to a notice of other birds upon the heath. The unusual interest
attaching to it must be our sole excuse.
Another very interesting little bird not unfrequently met with upon
the heaths, especially those where the soil is sandy and trees are
numerous around them, is the Wood-lark. Unfortunately the bird-catcher
has literally exterminated this species in not a few localities, the
bird's lovely song being the attraction. Here we have a species that
becomes rarer and more local in the northern shires than it is farther
south. The Wood-lark is not only a most industrious and persistent
singer, but is almost a perennial one. That is to say, in the south;
up here amongst the northern shires it seldom warbles during winter,
unless tempted into voice by exceptionally mild weather. Its regular
breeding song is not resumed so early in the year up here, and we
should say there is a month or more between the nesting season in north
and south respectively. We have known of Devonshire nests as early as
March, of Nottingham ones as late as May. Possibly this Lark is only
double-brooded in the more southern portions of its British range. The
birds seem much attached to certain spots, and, like the Tree Pipit,
seldom wander far from their nesting-grounds throughout the breeding
season. Unlike the Sky-lark, which very exceptionally indeed perches
upon a bush or a tree, the Wood-lark may be constantly seen high up
the branches. Indeed, like the Tree Pipit, the cock bird selects some
favourite branch, and here early and late he sits, and ever and anon
flies out and upwards to warble his rich and joyous song. There are
those who maintain that the song of the Wood-lark is even superior to
that of the Sky-lark. It may be to some extent a matter of taste, and
possibly they are right; but on the other hand the song of the Sky-lark
is far better known, more popular with the multitude, and we always
thinks it seems more cheerful, as it certainly is somewhat louder. The
Wood-lark has more flute-like music in his voice, more melody, and
even more continuity. There are not a few persons that confuse the two
birds together, although the Wood-lark may be readily distinguished by
its short tail, more rounded wing, and its habit of perching in trees.
One has only to watch the aerial songster long enough to notice the
latter peculiarity without fail. When once the bird has been surely
identified, the difference between the songs of the two species will
soon be impressed upon the listener, even though the species until then
had been unfamiliar to him. The bird will also warble just as sweetly
and just as continuously not only whilst sitting on the branches, but
when standing on the ground. We may also mention that the Wood-lark is
not so aerial as the commoner species, never ascending to such vast
elevations during the course of its song. This Lark becomes gregarious
in autumn like most, if not all, its congeners, and then wanders more
or less from its native heath. It builds an unassuming little nest upon
the ground, usually under the shadow of some bush or inequality of the
turf, composed of dry grass and lined with hair. In this it lays four
or five eggs, the markings on them being more distinct and scattered
than is the case with those of the Sky-lark. The latter species is
by no means an uncommon one upon the heaths, but after what we have
already said there need be no confusion between the two.
There are various other Passerine birds to be found in these
localities, due attention being given to the predominant vegetation.
The silvery-throated Whitethroat is a regular visitor each spring-time
to the thickets of briar and bramble; the Grasshopper Warbler may be
heard where the vegetation is most tangled, reeling off his seemingly
interminable chirping song, if in reality it is worthy of such a name
in the company of so many more sweet-voiced choristers. The Stonechat,
gay in his black-and-white and chestnut livery, perches on the topmost
sprays of the cruel-thorned gorse and eyes us suspiciously, with a
flicking tail and a harsh tac of welcome or resentment. The equally
beautiful Linnet, with swollen carmine breast, bears him company
amongst the gorse; whilst the Yellow Bunting may not unfrequently
be noticed crying his few monotonous notes time after time, and as
often answered by some rival near at hand, both of them perched as
high as possible on the stunted thorns or the silver-barked birches.
All through the early summer the cheery notes of the Cuckoo (not a
Passere, by the way) are a familiar sound on or near these heaths, and
now and then the blue-gray bird himself, looking all wings and tail,
may be seen skimming across to the distant belt of trees, or his mate
may be watched poking about the thickets in a suspicious sort of way
seeking some unprotected nest in which to drop her alien egg. One bird,
however, we miss from these northern heaths in particular, and that is
the Dartford Warbler. He seldom penetrates as far north as Yorkshire,
although we have taken his nest in a gorse covert within a few miles
of Sheffield. But that was long ago, and, truth to tell, we failed to
recognize the importance of our discovery for years afterwards, and
when nest and eggs had been lost. This Warbler is said to breed in
Derbyshire, but we have had no experience of it in that county. It is
interesting to remark that the species appears first to have been made
known to science from a pair that were shot on a Kentish heath near
Dartford, a century and a quarter ago. Few other British birds have,
therefore, a more unassailable right to their trivial name.
[Illustration: The Stone Curlew.]
That curious bird the Stone Curlew, perhaps equally as well known as
the "Thick-knee", is to be found on certain heaths as far northwards
as Yorkshire. It becomes more numerous possibly in Lincolnshire, and
thence it is generally dispersed over Norfolk and Suffolk and most
of the "home counties". Owing to drainage, the haunts of this bird
have become much more restricted than formerly, and in not a few
localities it has been exterminated completely. It loves the more open
and bare heath-lands, especially such as are interspersed with stony
and chalky ground and free from trees and brushwood, for cover is in
no way essential to its requirements. It derives safety in another
way. Its plumage of mottled brown is eminently protective on these
chalky heaths, and when alarmed, if it does not take wing, it quietly
crouches flat to the ground, extending its neck and head, which are
also pressed close to the soil, and there, perfectly motionless, it
awaits until danger is past, or until it is almost trodden under
foot, when it is reluctantly compelled to disclose itself. The Stone
Curlew is known by various local names, all more or less expressive
of some of its characteristics or relating to the haunts it affects.
That of Stone Curlew probably refers to the stony haunt and the very
Curlew-like appearance of the bird itself; whilst those of Norfolk
Plover and Stone Plover are indicative of a favourite resort of the
species in England and a more correct determination of its affinities,
for there can be no doubt that the bird is more closely allied to
the Charadriinæ than to the Scolopacinæ. Less happily the bird has
been called the "Thick-knee" because of the peculiar enlargement of
the tibio-tarsal joint, but this is not the "knee" in an anatomical
sense, but analogous to the ankle-joint in man. With more propriety,
therefore, if with less euphony the bird should be termed a
"Think-ankle", or a "Thick-heel". Lastly, it is known to some as the
"Thick-kneed Plover" or "Thick-kneed Bustard". In this latter case
popular judgment is to some extent supported by anatomical facts, for
the Stone Curlew is by no means distantly related to the Bustards,
certainly more nearly than to the Curlews. It is rather a remarkable
fact that the Stone Curlew is a migratory bird, when we bear in mind
that on both shores of the Mediterranean it is a sedentary species,
and that its food--worms, snails, beetles, frogs, and mice--might be
obtained in sufficient abundance in England throughout the winter.
In fact, there are many instances on record of this bird passing the
winter in England, although we should scarcely feel disposed to class
these individuals as indigenous to our country, but rather as lost and
wandering birds from continental localities. Be all this as it may,
the Stone Curlew visits us in spring to breed, arriving in April, and
returns south in autumn, leaving in October. Its large eyes (bright
yellow in colour) betoken it to be a nocturnal bird, and during the
night it obtains most of its food. It then often wanders far from its
dry parched native heath, and visits more marshy spots, especially
arable lands and wet meadows; sometimes lingering, both in going and
returning, to fly about the air uttering its loud and plaintive cry.
The Stone Curlew seems to be fully alive to the fact that the safest
hiding-place is often the most conspicuous and open one. In this matter
it resembles the Missel-thrush, which often builds in safety its bulky
nest in such an exposed spot that we marvel afterwards (when the young
are fledged and gone) how it could have escaped notice. Acting on this
principle the Stone Curlew, in May or June, lays its two eggs side by
side upon the barest of ground, and where their tints and markings so
closely resemble the yellow stones and pebbles scattered around them
that discovery is extremely difficult. The sitting bird renders the
deception more complete by running from the eggs at the least alarm
and leaving them to that almost perfect safety that their protective
colours ensure. These eggs are buff in ground colour, blotched,
spotted, or streaked with brown and gray of various shades. We ought
also to mention, by the way, that the artful bird selects, as a rule,
some little eminence for its breeding-place, where it can command a
good view of approaching danger and slip quietly away. We have heard
countrymen insist that the Stone Curlew will remove its eggs if it
becomes aware that they have been discovered, but we cannot vouch for
the accuracy of the statement.
We occasionally meet with three of our most familiar Game Birds upon
the heaths; perhaps we might add a fourth, as we include Lincolnshire
in our area of the northern shires, for there is some evidence to
suggest that the alien Red-legged Partridge is invading the latter
county. On many heaths the English Partridge lives at the present time,
and the harsh crow of the Pheasant is by no means an unfamiliar sound
in these localities, especially when they adjoin covers. This latter
bird is a confirmed wanderer, given to straying far from its usual
haunts. We have repeatedly noticed fine old cock birds on the moors,
miles from coverts. Whether these wanderers ever interbreed with the
Grouse we cannot say, and we are not aware that hybrids between these
species have ever been obtained or recorded. Lastly, the Black Grouse
has a weakness for the heaths, especially in localities where a belt
of timber adjoins them. Strange as it may seem, we must include the
Mallard as a heath bird. To mention one locality only where this bird
breeds regularly upon heaths we may name the Sherwood Forest area. We
have taken nests here far from water or wet ground of any description,
made amongst dead bracken; and what is also worthy of remark, these
nests were by far the handsomest we have ever seen of this Duck. They
were composed principally of down from the female's body, intermixed
with fronds of bracken, and were raised from eight to ten inches above
the surrounding ground. Here again we had another instance of nests
being most difficult to see in the barest localities. Some were made
where the bracken had been cut, amongst scattered green stems of the
new growth and upon green turf; and yet we can remember how we had to
look long and closely before we saw them, as they were actually pointed
out to us by a keeper acquaintance. In one instance--and that where the
nest was the most exposed of all--we could not see the nest, and did
not, until the big brown duck went lumbering off. Of course when the
nests were discovered they seemed conspicuous in the highest degree,
and we could do nothing but wonder how ever it was possible to overlook
them.
[Illustration: The Short-eared Owl.]
One more bird deserves notice ere we bring our survey of avine life
upon the heaths to a conclusion, and that is the Short-eared Owl.
This bird is quite cosmopolitan in its choice of a haunt. It is as
much a fen or a marsh, a gorse covert or a moor bird as it is a heath
one, apparently as much at home in one locality as another. We shall
have more to say about this species, especially its migrations, when
we come to deal with bird-life on the coast. But as this Owl breeds
upon the heaths, amongst other places, we may as well take this
opportunity of a peep at its domestic arrangements, and one or two
other characteristics, distinct from its migrational movements. Owls
are popularly supposed to be exclusive birds of darkness--crepuscular
and nocturnal; but the Short-eared Owl is a regular day-flier, and
may often be seen beating about in its own peculiar unsteady erratic
way during bright sunshine without any visible sign of inconvenience.
Neither does it seem ever dazed by the brilliant gleam of lighthouses,
but takes advantage of the glare to catch birds more susceptible to
the artificial light. During the autumn months especially we may meet
with this species in the most unlikely spots, amongst the sand dunes,
in turnip-fields, in wet meadows and saltings. The birds that breed
on the heaths, however--especially in the English shires--seem to be
sedentary. Although this Owl unquestionably feeds upon birds, say
up to the size of a Missel-thrush, as its diurnal habits apparently
suggest, there can be no doubt of its great usefulness to man in
killing off voles, mice, reptiles, beetles, and such-like destructive
pests. We need only point to the extraordinary numbers of this Owl
that congregated in Scotland some few years ago during the plague of
voles, and the way in which they preyed upon them, for an object-lesson
of this bird's usefulness to man. In the matter of its nesting the
Short-eared Owl presents us with another anomaly. Fully in keeping
with its love for open country and its partiality for daylight, it
nests upon the bare ground, and in this respect differs from all the
other British species. We say "nests", but in reality there is little
or no provision made for the eggs, beyond a mere hollow in which a few
scraps of withered herbage are strewn. The half-dozen creamy-white
eggs are, therefore, conspicuous enough in many places, though better
concealed in others when they are laid under bracken or amongst heath.
The sitting bird, however, crouches close over them, and shields them
from observation by her own protective-coloured plumage. These eggs are
usually laid in May in the northern shires, several weeks earlier in
more southern localities.
With a passing glimpse at some of the more interesting phases of
bird-life in the northern marshes we will bring the present chapter
to a close. The Bittern, formerly a dweller in them, has long been
banished from the bogs and mires not only of the northern shires,
but everywhere else in our islands, and exists now as a tradition
only--that is to say, as a breeding species. The Marsh Harrier--a
name sufficiently suggestive of the haunts it formerly affected--has
similarly disappeared from the two northern shires (Yorkshire and
Lancashire), where it formerly bred. One of the most widely-dispersed
birds in these marshy situations is the Water Rail--a species that is,
perhaps, more overlooked, owing to its secretive habits, than any other
found in our islands. It is astonishing what a small bit of marsh
or bog will content a Water Rail, provided there is a sufficiency of
cover. Like our old friend the Moorhen, it may also often be met with
wandering from its usual boggy retreats into such unlikely places as
gardens and farmyards. Although it is flushed with difficulty, it is
by no means uncommonly seen on open spots or even in the branches of
trees. In not a few heaths it is an almost unknown and unsuspected
dweller in the marshy drains and round the rushes that fringe the
shallow pools where peat or turf has been cut; indeed, we have met
with it almost within hail of some of our busiest towns. Its rather
bulky nest, made of a varied collection of dead and decaying herbage
and aquatic plants, is always placed upon the ground in some quiet
nook in its haunts, and its half-dozen or so eggs are buff in ground
colour, spotted with reddish-brown and gray. Though far more local than
the preceding, the Spotted Crake must also be included in our review
of northern bird-life. Unlike the Water Rail, however, it is a summer
migrant to the British Islands. Some individuals, however, appear to
winter with us in the southern counties. The migrants appear in April
in the south, several weeks later in the north. The habits of the
two species are similar in many respects. The Lapwing, the Redshank,
and the Common Snipe may also be met with in these situations, the
Redshank in summer only, when it retires to them to breed, seeking
the coasts in autumn; the others at all seasons. Amongst the Passerine
birds of the marshes we may instance the Sedge Warbler--one of the
most widely distributed of British species--the varied chattering
music of which is a very characteristic marsh sound during the summer.
At a few localities in Yorkshire and Lancashire the Reed Warbler may
be met with, a migratory species like the last, but not penetrating
to Scotland. Then the Reed Bunting is a familiar bird on many a
marshy waste, so too is the Sky-lark and the Meadow Pipit; whilst in
winter-time these places are often made lively by large congregations
of Lapwings, Starlings, Rooks and Redwings, and scattered Jack Snipes
from far northern haunts.
[Illustration: The Black-headed Gull.]
We may conclude our brief notice of marsh bird-life by a glimpse at
the Black-headed Gull. This charming bird visits many a swampy piece
of ground far from the sea during spring and summer to rear its
young. In Lincolnshire there is an extensive gullery near Brigg--at
Twigmoor--from which we have had many eggs during our long residence
in South Yorkshire. There is another in South Yorkshire near Thorne;
a third at Cockerham Moss in Lancashire. As we proceed northwards the
colonies of this Gull increase in number, and in Scotland they are
still more frequent. Many of these gulleries are situated on islands in
pools in the marshes and on the heaths. Not a few of them are almost
surrounded by trees of various kinds, and at the North Lincolnshire
settlement nests are not unfrequently made in the branches. We have
already described the colonies of the Black-headed Gull in previous
works, so that but few details are needed here. In Lincolnshire the
birds wander far and wide from their station near Brigg, and parties
of them may be met with on the fields many miles from home. The Gulls
are as regular in their habits as Rooks, with which we have often seen
them fraternizing, flying out to feed on the wet meadows, and following
the plough until evening, returning home in straggling streams just
like their sable companions. As we get near Brigg the birds become
more abundant in the fields; we remember, on one occasion, to have
seen a ploughed field black and white with Rooks and Gulls, many of
which when disturbed flew up from the furrows into the nearest trees;
and very curious the white Gulls looked--birds that we associate with
the water so closely--as they sat in the branches side by side with
cawing Rooks. Early in the year, and before the birds leave the coast,
the sooty-brown hood characteristic of the breeding season and of both
sexes begins to be assumed. In Devonshire this takes place nearly a
month earlier than in the north. In March they congregate at the old
familiar stations which have been in use from time immemorial, and
nest-building commences almost at once. The nests are ready for eggs
by the first or second week in April. These are generally made upon
the spongy ground of the marshy islands or on the marshes themselves,
and in many cases are little more than hollows lined with a little dry
grass. Other nests are bulkier, and these, we have often remarked,
are nearest to the water, or even in the shallow pools. The three
eggs are subject to much variation, but the ordinary type is brown or
olive-green in ground colour, spotted and blotched with darker brown
and gray. In many localities the eggs of the first laying are gathered
by the tenant or proprietor of the gullery, as they are sold in vast
numbers for food. Many, we know, are passed off as Plovers' eggs,
but the fraud we should say would never be successful with anyone
acquainted with the latter delicacy. The scene at the nests when the
place is invaded by man is a very charming one, the Gulls rising in
clouds into the air and wheeling about in bewildering confusion,
uttering their noisy cries of remonstrance. Even more animated does the
scene become when the young are hatched, for then the old birds show
much greater solicitude. An inland gullery always seems to strike us as
a trifle incongruous, for we are always apt to associate a Gull with
the sea; yet here, miles away from the salt water, often surrounded by
rural scenes, are Gulls in thousands as happy and contented as though
they had never been near a coast in their lives. When the young are
able to fly, however, the instinct of the sea apparently returns to
them, and back they go to the salt water to wander far and wide, and
lead a life of errantry until love brings them inland again in the
following spring.