IN FARM AND GARDEN.
One of the greatest charms about bird-life of the farm and garden is
its great variety. Any person who cares to go the right way to work
can acquire a very fair ornithological education in such places, a
large percentage of our best-known birds being found in them at one
time of the year or another. It was our good fortune for a great many
years to ornithologize upon several hundreds of acres of farm land of
the most diversified character; whilst an additional advantage was the
fact that we had to contend with no high-farming, the greater portion
of it being worked on the good old slovenly plan--weedy corners, long
stubbles, uncut hedges, and general untidiness--so attractive to birds.
Almost every possible description of cover could be found. We had high
ground, sheltered valleys, wooded bottoms, plenty of timber in field
and hedgerow, trout streams and sunk fences, patches of bog, and great
thickets of briar and bramble in unused corners; large stackyards,
plenty of old sheds and buildings, some of them covered with ivy, and
an abundance of evergreens round about the homesteads, which were in
some cases surrounded by orchards and old-fashioned gardens. We have
only to add that large woods adjoined here and there, together with
smaller plantations and shrubberies in some of which rookeries were
established, and also that gamekeepers were absent and much of the
surrounding property was unpreserved as regards game, to complete the
brief description of an ideal haunt for wild birds. Unfortunately we
lived long enough near this avine paradise to see much of it destroyed,
turned over to the builder, and bird-life banished. Those who remember
the quaint old village of Heeley (now, alas! a suburb of Sheffield) in
the days before the railway, when the mail-coach passed through twice
a day and caused the only commotion, when the old flour-mill driven by
water, with its tree-surrounded dam, stood where the railway-station
does now, may perhaps recall the matchless sylvan beauty of Meersbrook,
the Banks, and the old hall at Norton Lees. Much of it now has been
transformed into a wilderness of bricks and mortar. There are many
other similar spots about the northern shires in which the annual cycle
of bird-life is much the same--at least we have found it so--and in the
present chapter we propose to outline some of its most salient features.
Perhaps the most familiar birds of the open fields, especially in
spring, are the Rooks. They may be found on every kind of field in
turn. They visit the grass-lands, especially when manure is being
spread; they are constant companions of the ploughman's team, and
search furrow after furrow as the bright share turns over the brown
earth; whilst all the newly-sown patches are sought for any seed
that may chance to be within reach. In seed-time Rooks are certainly
troublesome, and usually one or two of the marauders have to be shot
and hung up from stakes on the scene of their misdeeds as a warning to
the rest before the pilfering ceases. And yet happy is the farmer that
has a rookery within easy distance of his land. The birds will increase
its value and fertility by ridding pasture and arable land of countless
insect pests, and for nine or ten months out of the twelve wage a
never-ending war upon the real enemies of his crops. Many farmers we
have known will admit that the Rook is of service; others have been
converted into staunch friends of the bird after we have satisfied
them by ocular demonstration of the number of wire-worms a healthy
hearty Rook will devour in the course of a morning. Very beautiful
these birds look in their purple-black plumage, almost as polished as
bright steel, in the sunlight as they walk about the ploughed fields
and pastures. And then their home in the cluster of elm-trees yonder
is a place fraught with interest if full of noise. Towards the close
of February, or, if the weather be still inclement, not until the
beginning of March, and at least a fortnight or three weeks later
than in Devonshire, the Rooks begin to tidy up their big nests in the
slender branches at the tree-tops. Others, less fortunate, commence to
build entirely new nests. But this building is by no means universal
for a week or more; the mania for collecting sticks and turf has not
yet spread through the entire colony, and numbers of birds may be
seen looking on with indifference at the efforts of more industrious
neighbours. What a noisy animated scene the old rookery is for the
next month, until the eggs are laid in the big massive nests; then
there is comparative quietness until the young are hatched, when the
noisy clamour begins again with greater volume until nestlings and
parents get on to the adjoining fields. They return in many cases to
the nest-trees to roost, and then each evening the din is deafening as
troop after troop of tired birds come straggling in from all directions
and caw themselves hoarse before dropping off to sleep in the tall
trees.
[Illustration: The Rook.]
Another familiar bird of the farm is the Starling--a species that does
not reveal its beauty unless examined minutely. There are few birds in
this country more gorgeously arrayed with metallic sheen than a fine
old cock Starling in the full flush and vigour of spring plumage. His
lemon-yellow bill at this season also increases the effect. As harmless
as it is useful, it keeps close company with the Rooks, although it
shows little inclination to follow those birds on to the arable land;
it loves the grass fields and manure heaps, being somewhat of an
unclean feeder. Then it always selects a covered site of some kind for
nesting purposes, being most adaptive in this respect. We used to place
boxes for its accommodation in the trees; and we have known a disused
pigeon-cot fastened to a high wall packed to its utmost capacity with
nests. Few birds are more attached to their breeding-place. For many
years a pair of Starlings bred in a hole in a tall elm-tree in one of
the fields. From this nest we actually obtained forty eggs in a season,
and sometimes for a couple of years in succession the birds did not
succeed in raising a brood. Every summer the Starlings of the entire
district gathered into one or two large flocks, and these came evening
by evening to roost in a cluster of white-thorns until the late autumn,
when they changed their quarters to the evergreens close by. Another
thing that endears the Starling to us is its perennial song. Few other
song-birds make so much fuss over their music as the Starling. Action
of some kind seems always essential to vocal effort; and the way he
erects almost every feather, or sways about or stands in some grotesque
attitude, during his periods of song is most entertaining. The House
Sparrow is another familiar bird of the farm and garden. Unfortunately
he is far too common for most farmers, especially in the vicinity
of large towns and villages; and the way these pilfering birds will
thresh out a field of wheat or oats is literally surprising. Friends
of the Sparrow, usually utterly ignorant of its habits and the serious
mischief it can do, cannot understand the farmers' indignation, and
are always protesting against its wanton slaughter. But then there is
reason in all things, and in grain-growing districts the bird should
be kept down. The boy with his clappers amongst the corn may, if he
conscientiously sticks to his work (and this rarely happens), keep
the vast flocks of Sparrows on the move, but the birds will gorge
themselves with grain meantime; whilst shooting round the fields
is little more effective, for the feathered thieves soon desert the
hedge-sides and settle in the centre of the crops, where it is next to
impossible to dislodge them, or to alarm them by repeated discharges
of the gun. The Sparrow nuisance is philosophically endured by many
farmers, and regarded, like the weather, as beyond their control. In
some cases we have known farmers absolutely cease growing corn at
all because the birds take such a large proportion of the crop! Here
the usefulness of the Sparrow-hawk becomes only too apparent, but
the keepers shoot that bird down--every one they can reach--and the
Sparrows have things all their own way.
[Illustration: The Brambling.]
There are many other birds of the Finch tribe frequenting farm and
garden. The Chaffinch, one of the handsomest of all, is also one of
the commonest, and his sprightly song is one of the most cheering
harbingers of spring the fields can boast. The resumption of song
by the Chaffinch offers an interesting contrast between the habits
of individuals of the same species in northern and southern shires
respectively. In Yorkshire the music of this bird is seldom or never
heard before the first week in March; in Devonshire it is familiar
enough in the early days of February, and may sometimes be detected
towards the close of January--a remarkable instance of the effect
of climate upon avine song. Another thing we have remarked in this
species, and that is its much handsomer nests in Yorkshire than in
Devonshire. We never found much garniture of paper, lichen, and
cocoons on nests in the latter county; in fact, the faculty of mimicry
does not seem so pronounced in these southern individuals. During
winter the northern shires are invaded by vast flocks of Chaffinches,
presumably from continental areas. Upon their first appearance in
November these flocks are almost entirely composed of males; the
females arrive later, and before the winter is over the sexes are more
or less intermixed. The Brambling, of course, we have as a winter
visitor only. We have repeatedly remarked the regularity with which
this bird returns to certain winter quarters. For years and years
we have known flocks to arrive in November--practically about the
same time as the migratory Chaffinches--and take up their quarters
in certain woods and shrubberies, where they used nightly to roost
throughout the winter, spending the day on the surrounding open fields.
Redwings also frequented the same places in similar large companies,
the natural inference being that all these birds were from the same
continental localities, and followed the same route inland from the
coast, although the latter birds were always the first to appear
towards the end of October. The Bullfinch we have always with us, but
in small and apparently decreasing numbers. For this the rascally
bird-catcher is largely to blame. To the naturalist there are few
more irritating persons than a bird-catcher. We would sooner tolerate
a shooter, for he at least kills the bird and has done with it, and
the discharge of his gun at intervals makes the birds alert and wary.
But the bird-catcher by his sly insinuating methods will carry off a
dozen birds where a gunner might not get more than one. He is at his
nefarious business early and late in a certain spot so long as he knows
a single bird worth catching remains in it. His nets close upon all
birds alike--birds he prizes and birds he cares nothing about, cocks
and hens and young indiscriminately; all are caged and carried off,
to a worse fate by far, in most instances, than sudden dissolution
from a shot-gun. It is true the bird-catcher must ply his wretched
business with due regard to an all too brief close time; but this in
not a few cases he ignores, and thus still further constitutes himself
the scourge of the fields and hedgerows. We invariably remarked that
Bullfinches retired to the cover of shrubberies and gardens to breed.
During the remainder of the year they kept to the hedgerows, especially
such as contained plenty of weeds beside them, almost invariably in
pairs, one bird trooping in undulating flight after the other, and both
made very conspicuous by the white rump. The Hawfinch was much rarer.
This shy bird loves the small plantations, but in fruit time comes into
the gardens near its usual haunts. We should class it as perhaps the
most local of the Finches (with the possible exception of the Siskin)
in the northern shires of England, whilst north of these it seems
almost everywhere to be a winter visitor only. During winter flocks of
Crossbills are occasionally met with, but they are no common feature
of the bird-life of farm and garden in Yorkshire or Derbyshire. The
Tree Sparrow is another very local and uncommon species, and especially
during the breeding season. We have records of odd nests made in holes
in trees on some of the farms, but we find it more frequent in wilder
localities. In winter it sometimes visits the farmyards, and we have
noticed it mingled with flocks of Lesser Redpoles on the stubbles and
clover fields in late autumn. The Linnet, with its close allies the
Twite and the Lesser Redpole, are familiar winter visitors to the
fields, wandering about in flocks, each usually composed of a single
species. As we have already seen, the Twite is a common bird in summer
upon the moors; in autumn it leaves them in companies for the fields.
In its habits the Linnet is very similar. All the winter through large
flocks--sometimes numbering many hundreds of birds--resort to certain
weed-grown pastures and stubbles, where they spend most of the day upon
the ground in never-ending quest of tiny seeds. If alarmed, they rise
somewhat in straggling order, but quickly bunch together and resort
to some tree-top, from which they again descend in scattered numbers.
Their twittering chorus whilst in the trees is very remarkable, and the
observer will note that this becomes much more musical and prolonged as
the spring approaches. The birds then quit the fields and retire to the
higher ground gorse coverts and roughs near the moors where they breed.
The Lesser Redpole, to our mind, is the most charming of the three.
It is, of course, most numerous on our Yorkshire and Derbyshire farms
during winter, when it congregates upon them in flocks that frequent
much the same localities as the Linnets and Twites. But it is not
exclusively confined to these spots, as we shall see in a later chapter
(conf. p. 189). Many odd pairs of Redpoles linger behind on these
northern farms to breed, making their exquisite little cup-shaped nest
in the hedges towards the end of May. This pretty nest, combined with
the short pleasing song of the male bird, and the utter trustfulness
of both sexes, summer and winter alike, endear the Redpole to us in a
way that few other species do. It is decidedly a bird of the northern
shires, becoming rarer and more local through the midlands, and only
breeding here and there farther south. Both Goldfinch and Greenfinch
also require passing notice. The former bird is another that has
been almost exterminated by the rascally bird-catcher; still, it is
observed in sufficient numbers to render it familiar in many a garden
and hedgerow. Perhaps they are most frequently remarked during winter,
when, in pairs, they love to haunt the weed-grown wastes and the sides
of the fields where thistles and docks are abundant. The Greenfinch
is much more common, but here again we remark a change of habitat
with the season, the birds quitting the open fields for shrubberies
and gardens as the breeding season approaches. Notwithstanding this,
however, a good many nests are made in the hedges in the fields, in
the white-thorn by preference. We have also found many nests of this
Finch placed at high elevations in elm-trees, especially about the
farm lands. Occasionally a Siskin may be remarked in company with
Redpoles on the stubbles and wild weed-grown pastures, but as a rule
this engaging little species confines itself to the trees along the
river-side during its winter sojourn in Yorkshire, and there we shall
meet with it in the following chapter. Some of these Finches, those
that breed within the limits of farm and garden, betake themselves to
the fields of mowing grass in June, the House Sparrow especially; and
then when the hay is cut or the wheat and oats are sufficiently forward
they pass on to the corn-fields to renew their depredations.
From the Finches to the Buntings is not a very great stride in avine
classification, and the latter birds are common enough upon the farm.
That is to say, a single species only, during summer, namely, the
Yellow Bunting. The Cirl Bunting is absent from the northern shires,
and the Common Bunting is far more local than his name suggests,
occurring most frequently in the maritime localities. In winter we have
the Snow Buntings in localized flocks upon the fields, very capricious
in their appearance, and sometimes not being seen for several years in
succession. We can recall a very large flock of these Buntings that
frequented some pasture fields at Endcliffe, quite close to grimy
Sheffield, but unfortunately they were sadly reduced in numbers by
local gunners during the winter of their stay. The Reed Bunting also
visits the farm during this season, and we have from time to time
detected them amongst the ricks with Sparrows and other hard-billed
birds in severe weather. The Yellow Bunting, however, is the one
familiar Bunting of the farm in most parts of Yorkshire and Derbyshire.
It is one of our showiest native birds, and, as is usually the case,
what it gains in colour it loses in melody. There are few bird-songs of
the field and hedgerows more monotonous than that of the "Yoldring",
as the Yorkshire lads call him, and yet the oft-repeated refrain has
a genuine ring of spring about it. This song usually commences about
the beginning of March in the north of England, but in the southern
counties it is not unfrequent in February, another instance of climatic
influence. We all of us know the yellow-crowned musician, sitting on
the top of the hedge or in some wayside tree, trilling his simple lay;
we most of us know his rustic nest on the bank of the hedgerow, and his
mate's four or five curiously-scrawled eggs--a peculiarity which has
gained for him the local name of "Writing Lark" in not a few country
places. There are also many birds of the Thrush tribe to be met with
in farm and garden--indeed every British species might be included,
if we except the Ring-ouzel; but even that one is occasionally seen
on the meadows and about the fruit-gardens on its way to and from the
moors where it breeds. Song Thrush and Missel-thrush and Blackbird
frequent almost every hedge and field at one time of the year or
another, nesting commonly in these places, the Stormcock showing the
only partiality for the trees. Then in autumn--in October--comes
the Redwing from Scandinavian fell and forest, followed in November
(sometimes as early as mid October) by the Fieldfare from the same
far northern lands, both species frequenting farm and garden alike,
the former delighting in the wet meadows and grass-lands, the latter
showing a stronger preference for the hawthorns, holly-bushes, and
other berry-bearing trees. By the end of September the Missel-thrush
has gathered into flocks of considerable size. But this gregariousness
is continued for scarcely three months, and for the remainder of the
winter the birds live in pairs or small parties, or attach themselves
to companies of Fieldfares. We find a marked difference in the duration
of the melody of the Song Thrush between birds inhabiting the northern
and southern shires. In Devonshire, for example, this Thrush warbles
throughout the year, except during the moult; in Yorkshire it may be
heard to sing in September (chiefly young birds), and occasionally
in October, but during the three succeeding months it remains mute,
resuming its song the following February. It is interesting to remark
that the Blackbird in both northern and southern shires does not
regain its song after the moult until the following February, and even
then, in both latitudes, it is by no means a regular or a constant
singer before March. Indeed the Song Thrush is to a very great extent
migratory in the northern shires, its place being partially taken by
the Redwing. In South Yorkshire, as I remarked twenty years ago, the
birds are almost all gone early in November. They return, sometimes in
companies, by the end of January or the beginning of February. There
is also a very marked decrease in the number of Blackbirds in the late
autumn, the birds reappearing early in February. Possibly some of the
Song Thrushes migrate into the south-western counties, and to this fact
is due the exceptional abundance of this species in Devonshire during
winter.
[Illustration: The Whinchat.]
Leaving the hedgerows and the trees for a time we shall find the
hay-meadows contain several interesting birds. One of the most easily
recognized of these is the Whinchat, a bird that is somewhat rare and
local in the south-western counties, but widely and commonly dispersed
over the northern shires of England; in Scotland it again becomes
somewhat local. We usually detect it clinging to some tall dock plant,
meadow-sweet, or stem of cow-parsley, where it sits and utters a
sharp double note, resembling the syllables _u-tac_, at intervals,
jerking its tail meanwhile. Its mate may be seen sitting in a similar
manner on another stem not far away, and when disturbed they flit from
stalk to stalk about the field. These birds are only seen in England
during summer: they arrive in the southern counties about the middle
of April, but do not reach the south Yorkshire hay-meadows before
the end of the month or even the first week in May. Their pretty nest
is snugly hidden amongst the long meadow grass, a simple structure
of dry grass, lined with a few horse-hairs, and the half-dozen eggs
are turquoise-blue, with just the faintest indication of a zone of
pale-brown spots round the end. Incidentally we may remark that the
Whinchat is also a frequenter of the gorse coverts and the moorlands.
In the late summer, when the brood and parents are about the fields,
they resort to the corn, and even feed upon it; but the farmer need not
be alarmed at their visits to the grain, for they destroy a countless
number of injurious insects during their stay in the fields as an ample
recompense. A Whinchat we once dissected, shot on the 29th of April,
was crammed with small beetles, ants, larvæ of the drake-fly, and
several centipedes. In July and August the Whinchat is moulting, and
by the third week in September it has departed with its young to the
south, although it prolongs its stay into October in Devonshire. These
smiling meadows and grain-fields are also the summer home of the Tree
Pipit, from April onwards to September. This species also rears its
young in a slight nest amongst the grass, the cock bird spending most
of his time before the eggs are hatched in a series of song flights
from some favourite tree. We knew a Tree Pipit to return for many years
in succession to a sapling oak growing in a hedgerow, and to use one
special branch from which to soar and sing throughout the early summer.
These birds also frequent the corn-fields, and eat the soft milky
grain, but their usual food consists of insects, worms, and grubs.
Another well-known summer visitor to the meadows and corn-lands is
the Landrail, known almost as generally as the Corncrake. Few persons
there are that do not know the rasping, monotonous double cry of
this bird, and yet few people ever see a Corncrake all their lives,
and still fewer, perhaps, could describe or identify it. Its note is
almost as familiar as that of the Cuckoo, and equally characteristic
of spring and early summer. There is something romantic about this
rasping cry, that sounds almost all night long from the meadow grass.
The bird itself is rarely seen, it runs through the dense herbage
with astonishing rapidity, and should it by chance disclose itself
to our scrutiny, it is seldom imprudent enough to repeat the action.
And yet the Corncrake is not quite such a skulking bird as some would
make him. When all is quiet he not unfrequently wanders out of the
hay-meadow through the hedge into the barer pasture beyond, sometimes
running a score of yards into the open field; but at the least alarm
he is off back again and soon concealed amongst the weeds and long
grass in the bottom of the hedge. Rarely indeed is he flushed even
by the aid of dogs; we have known him perch on the top of a thick
low hedge when put up by a collie. He flies slowly and in a somewhat
laboured way, with his long legs dangling down, and all his efforts
seem directed into reaching cover of some kind. The hay harvest in
July is a cause of much disturbance to the Corncrake. As the mowers or
the more modern mowing-machine lay swathe after swathe of tall grass
its haunts become more and more restricted; the brooding Crake at last
slips quietly off her nest alarmed at the approaching scythes or rattle
of the machine, until at last her home with its numerous eggs is left
bare and desolate. We have known her to remove her eggs in the course
of a night and place them amongst still standing grass, but the end
eventually was just the same. Probably this destruction of nests during
hay harvest is responsible for the diminishing numbers of this species
in not a few districts. But if the cutting of the grass brings ruin to
some birds it also brings an abundance of food to others. These are the
Thrushes and Starlings that may then be seen on the shorn fields busily
in quest of snails and worms. The Corncrake calls no longer; perhaps
the old birds retire to the clover, the standing corn, or even to the
turnip and potato fields, and about these places they skulk for the
remainder of their stay, and then return broodless to the south. No
wonder their return in spring seems to be in fewer and fewer numbers.
The Sky-lark is more fortunate. It breeds in much the same localities
as the Corncrake, but nests earlier, so that the young are generally
able to fly before the mowers enter the fields. Speaking of Sky-larks
we may mention that large flocks of this bird appear upon certain
suitable fields in the late autumn, remaining throughout the winter.
These birds are from the Continent, and come to our isles in that vast
tide of migration that sets westwards across Europe from the far East
in October and November. The birds always prefer high ground, and we
have remarked this choice in the southern counties as well, and seldom
wander far from a district during their stay, except under the pressure
of continued snow-storms. They invariably return to the usual haunts
when the ground is clear again.
[Illustration: The Yellow Wagtail.]
At least two species of Wagtails are common birds upon the fields and
pastures of the northern shires. The Pied Wagtail is perhaps the most
familiar, although both this bird and the Yellow Wagtail are more or
less migratory. Perhaps these birds are most interesting when they
congregate in large numbers upon the ploughed fields in March, and
run to and fro with dainty steps about the heels of the ploughman and
his team. We knew an old farmer who had a special liking for these
pretty birds. He knew they lived entirely on insects, worms, and
such-like creatures, without professing any knowledge of ornithology.
Indeed, we well remember when the old boy heard that we had just
published our first book on bird-life, _Rural Bird-life: being Essays
on Ornithology_, how he paused one day at his work in the fields and
solemnly put the question: "Charley, what is this 'Ornithowlogy'; is
it a new religion?" We confess to feeling fairly nonplussed at such
a remark, and did our best to tell him, with as serious a look as we
could command, the proper meaning of the awful word. Poor old White, at
a ripe age, has been gathered to his fathers. He was one of the most
tolerant and philosophic farmers that we ever met, and we dwell thus
affectionately upon his memory; for we were always welcome, boy and
man, to wander about his land at all times and seasons without let or
hindrance, and study the birds upon it to our heart's content. But to
return to the Wagtails. The Yellow Wagtail is the most closely attached
to the fields and pastures of the two; it may often be seen running
amongst the cattle, and is a numerous visitor to the fallows in March.
Both in spring and autumn Wagtails gather into flocks and migrate
thus together. The Pied Wagtail is very fond of nesting in a hole in
the wall of some outbuilding, and will tenant one spot with great
regularity season after season. The Yellow Wagtail is perhaps the least
aquatic in its habits, as the Gray Wagtail is the most. Both Magpies
and Jays are also very frequently observed upon the fields searching
for worms and grubs; whilst the fleet-winged Swallows and Martins
during their summer sojourn fly over many times every acre of the farm,
and, as most readers know, are extremely fond of rearing their broods
in or on the buildings attached thereto. We never met a farmer who
would allow these birds to be molested. Happy birds! They at least are
secure in the farmers' friendship, and not even the gamekeeper can say
a word against them. The Cuckoo is much less fortunate in this respect;
the farmer, we honestly believe, has a genuine love for the bird, and
delights to hear its loud and happy voice across his fields, for it
tells him that winter is passed, and that better times are approaching
both for man and beast. The gamekeeper knocks it over with an oath, and
fills its tuneful yellow bill with blood, because it not only looks
like a Hawk, but he is "sartin sure" that it turns into one for the
winter!
The turnip fields in autumn are always a favourite resort of birds.
They are not only the last of the cover left upon the farm, but they
abound with food for various species especially. They are the one
spot where the migrant Pipits, Thrushes, and even Warblers can always
be certain of a meal, to say nothing of an odd Woodcock now and then
and the last lingering coveys of Partridges. Even in winter the birds
are fond of such a retreat. On many farms the turnips are left in the
ground--especially the white variety--until they are wanted for the
cattle; the ground is soft and moist, and abounds with food the small
birds desire, whilst the broad leaves are a shelter.
Then in late autumn the Jack Snipe once more appears upon the few
square yards of bog beside the pond where the cattle drink, or in the
sunk fences which usually become rills during the wetter portions of
the year. This little bird, we know, breeds upon the Scandinavian
fells, and yet it will return winter after winter to the very centre of
England to some square yard of bog on a South Yorkshire farm, coming
and going so quietly that no man may say exactly when it arrives
or departs, and living here for months in this warm corner in the
fields, in solitary state, a recluse waxing fat in its solitude. Then
winter comes round once more. All the summer birds of farm and garden
are far beyond the seas; new birds are here from other and sterner
lands. The snow-storms come, and the birds congregate in rich variety
about the ricks and farmsteads; flocks of Lapwings cross over the
fields bewildered and forlorn; the Moorhen leaves the frozen pond and
fraternizes with the poultry; the Larks disappear from the snow-drifted
high lands; the Fieldfares congregate in the hawthorns, the Redwings
starve. At night the scene becomes even more interesting as half-frozen
birds seek roosting-places in the ricks and amongst the ivy; yet amidst
frost and snow the Robin and the Wren, and perhaps the Hedge Accentor,
carol forth an evening song. The snow melts; the once green pastures
are brown and withered; scarcely a fleck of green relieves field or
hedgerow, the birds scatter on to the open ground again, and so the
northern winter runs its course. How different in the warmer southern
county, where all is green, and the visit of winter so light that it is
scarcely felt by bird or beast!
Garden bird-life is too familiar to require much detailed notice here.
The garden hedge we know is always sure to contain one of the first
Hedge Accentors' nests of the year; whilst the Wren is as certain to
select the ivy on the wall in which to construct her ball-like abode.
The Robin as surely returns each spring to rear its young in some hole
in the wall itself. Amongst the fruit trees the Titmice and Flycatchers
have their favourite nooks and crannies, and the Redstart has returned
as long as we can remember to the hole in the old pear-tree. One bird,
however, that frequents the gardens of the northern shires is specially
interesting to South Yorkshire naturalists. This is the Garden Warbler;
and its exceptional interest centres in the fact that the bird was
first described from an example obtained near Sheffield--possibly in
the immediate neighbourhood of Broom Hall--and sent by Francis Jessop
to Willughby, the co-worker with Ray nearly a century and a half ago,
the latter naturalist describing it in his _Ornithologia_. It is the
"Pettichaps" of Latham, a name, according to Professor Newton, that
had not become obsolete in 1873 in the vicinity of Sheffield, although
we never heard of it being applied to this species during a residence
there of some twenty years. It is a late migrant, seldom reaching its
Yorkshire haunts before the beginning of May, and, as its name implies,
is very partial to large gardens. Its habits somewhat closely resemble
those of the Blackcap; and of all the Warbler band its song is only
inferior to that of this species. Its nest is frequently made in a
currant or gooseberry bush, a flimsy little structure enough, made of
dry grass stalks and roots and lined with horse-hair. The eggs are very
similar to those of the Blackcap, and four or five in number. During
fruit time this Warbler is often to be met with in the garden feeding
upon currants and other berries. It is most secretive in its habits,
usually betraying its whereabouts by its sharp call-note of _tec_ or
_tac_. Its food consists of insects, larvæ, and most kinds of soft
fruit and berries. It leaves Yorkshire in September. There are many
other birds that visit the gardens in the northern shires for fruit
or vegetable food. In cherry time the Blackbird and the Starling are
troublesome enough; the Ring-ouzel visits the gardens near the moors
for a similar purpose. Then the Hawfinch and the Jay have a great
weakness for green peas; whilst the small Finches play havoc amongst
the newly-sown beds. Kestrel and Sparrow-hawk, however, often visit
such localities too, the former for mice, the latter for birds.
Before finally leaving the farmstead we ought to give a passing word
to the Barn Owl. This bird is not so abundant now in many places as
was formerly the case, but it must still be regarded as common in
most parts of the northern shires. There are not a few farmers, we
are glad to say, who fully recognize the merits of this useful bird,
worth more than half a dozen cats in any farmstead, and requiring no
keep whatever. These birds are specially fond of the tall-roofed barns
where nothing intervenes between the rafters and the slates or tiles,
where little daylight ever enters, and where ready means of getting
out and in are presented. There are farms where the Owl is quite an
institution, where no one ever thinks of molesting it, and where its
peculiar noises and nightly wanderings create not the least curiosity.
In fact, the bird is regarded as part and parcel of the barns, a useful
adjunct to the cats and village rat-catcher, and a good many times more
effective in ridding buildings and land of some of their most annoying
pests. We need scarcely state that the Swift is a well-known summer
visitor to farm and farmstead. We shall have occasion to allude to this
bird again in a future chapter (conf. p. 271).