a blind ugly cuckoo came from the shell in the hedge-sparrow's nest,
calling for food. The little hedge-sparrows had not yet appeared, but
the unoccupied parent bird had all his work cut out to keep the newcomer
satisfied. He was constantly on the wing through the wood in search of
insects, and very often strayed to the orchard of Home Farm, where fat
green caterpillars, most luscious morsels, were to be found among the
currant bushes. And all that time the Father Cuckoo was living at ease
on the fat of the land.
"I met that hard-working hedge-sparrow this morning," he said to the
Vixen, when he took his favourite place on the branch of an elder above
her earth; "he was coming to the orchard as I left it. What a splendid
arrangement it is to be sure. I'm sure my baby will be well fed, and
that foster-father seems to enjoy the work. Let him thank his good luck
there are not two of my family in his nest. If there were, he would have
no time to feed himself or his mate."
"Do the hens ever put two eggs into one nest?" said the Vixen.
"Only by accident," he replied. "Sometimes it happens that a hen carries
an egg to a nest, and deposits it there without noticing that some other
hen has been before her. She would not carry two of her own eggs to the
same nest. Hers is too keen a sense of affection for the unborn; she
knows as well as I do that there is quite enough work for any pair of
small birds in the raising of a single cuckoo."
The little hedge-sparrows were born only to die. Their ungainly
foster-brother was clamorous for all the food that reached the nest, and
he could not stretch himself without danger to the little ones. Do not
let it be said that he deliberately murdered them; but before they were
three days old all lay dead on the ground below the hedge. The parent
birds did not seem to feel their loss very keenly. Probably this was
their second brood, and the earlier one had been reared successfully;
for the nest, built of wool and horsehair and soft mosses, is always one
of the first to appear in the Heron Wood, and, being badly hidden, is
preyed upon by all unscrupulous egg-eating birds, or egg-collecting
boys.
This one was hardly two feet from the ground, and might have escaped
notice, had not the cuckoo-mother been looking for such an one. But even
the Vixen who was not tender-hearted could not help feeling sorry for
the hard-working couple, kept constantly busy to feed the thief who had
thrown their proper offspring out of the nest with such complete
unconcern. Possibly their hard work served to help them to forget their
troubles.
Father Cuckoo to admit any responsibility though the Vixen, having a
mother's feelings for the time being, remonstrated with him.
"You can't blame a young cuckoo, not a fortnight old for being hungry,
and wanting all the food," he said. "And you can't blame me or his
mother, for we were both brought into the world in the same fashion, and
know no other. There are cousins of ours in America who make nests and
bring up their young in the usual fashion; but for unknown generations
they have had this custom, and we, on the other hand, have had ours.
"Nobody can explain these things. Why should I have such dull, ugly
feathers, for example, when some of my African cousins have a plumage
that shines as though each feather had been dipped in gold? Twice a year
I moult, never without a hope that the new suit will be a brilliant one.
But I remain dull and shabby; my partners are like me, and have no taste
for domesticity.
"On the other hand, we can enjoy the knowledge that we are among the
best loved birds in the world, so far as mankind is concerned; that
thousands associate the summer with our song, and find the woodland
empty when we are summoned south again. All these things are matters of
natural law, and you must take us as we are, while we take the world as
we find it."
"What you say may satisfy you," said the Vixen severely; "but it cannot
be expected to satisfy the hedge-sparrow."
"Perhaps there is no need to think about them," rejoined the Cuckoo.
"You must know that if those birds were left undisturbed, they would
raise from twelve to eighteen young every season, for the hens lay three
times. In a few years there would be hedge-sparrows in clouds, far more
than the land can support. So Nature teaches them to set their nests in
open places, where Robin, the horseman's lad, and all his school
companions, may take the eggs by the dozen, and the magpie or the rook
may help themselves."
"Well," she said, "you won't deny that the mother cuckoo is quite
heartless?"
"I do deny it," replied the father. "She will be somewhere near the
nest, and will make it her business to see that the youngster is doing
well. So soon as he is able to fly she will take charge of him and bring
him up in the way he should go. She keeps an eye on all her family."
"But how came he to kill the little birds?" persisted the Vixen. "We
only kill for food at this time of year."
"Just want of room," replied the parent bird. "I can assure you there is
no vice in him. When a young cuckoo wakes to life in a small nest, his
first instinct is to make room for himself. I'm rather surprised to
think that my son did not throw the eggs out right away. That is what I
did when I was born in this wood. I wriggled and wriggled until I had
them one after the other on the flat of my back, and then hoisted them
over the side. There can't be any blame for me in the matter, because
the instinct came to me as naturally as my hunger. A cuckoo's egg only
takes a fortnight in the hatching, so the cuckoo baby is generally in
time to throw other eggs out of the nest. When two cuckoos have got into
the same nest by mistake, the two baby birds fight, and the weaker one
goes out with the other eggs or the small birds. If two cuckoo eggs get
placed in one nest, the cuckoo that is born first is the lucky one. Even
a blackbird's nest can't hold two cuckoos. Perhaps it is our quarrelsome
nature when young that made some mother cuckoos lay eggs in alien
nests."
The Vixen wondered whether these incidents had anything to do with the
mobbing of the cuckoo by the small birds when he went abroad. They
seemed more reasonable as an explanation than the sparrow-hawk theory.
The baby cuckoo was soon fledged, and left nest and wood at the same
time, leaving his father in sole possession. As the summer wore away,
the call changed considerably and ceased to have the fresh ring about
it. There was no loss of health to the bird associated with the failing
voice. On the contrary, he was in splendid condition, and ate heartily
of all the good things the wood provided--moths, caterpillars, beetles
and even butterflies. The indigestible parts of these dainties he
ejected in pellets, just as though he had been an owl. With the end of
July his notes had quite gone; other cuckoos were coming into the
district in great numbers, and were allowed to enter the wood
unchallenged.
"They are from the north of England and from Scotland," he explained.
"They leave early so as to be down here in good time, for we shall all
go south together. Some have come all the way from the mountains of
Sutherlandshire."
"But the young ones can't face the journey yet," said the Vixen. "Many
of them are not yet six weeks old. My cubs take longer to learn to help
themselves."
[Illustration: A TWO DAYS OLD CUCKOO
Ejecting a young Titlark and Eggs from its nest.
[Photo by T. A. Metcalfe]]
"That's all right," explained the Cuckoo; "the birds, you see, are all
old ones; in fact, all the mother birds are three years old at least.
The season's children wait in England some weeks longer than we do, and
travel together. Their mothers have told them all about the road, and we
all have an instinct that keeps us from taking a wrong direction."
"Why don't they accompany you?" inquired the Vixen.
"It is hard to say why we have our call in August unless it is to get
home before moulting time," replied the Cuckoo, "but as far as the
youngsters are concerned, I should say that they could not stand the
heat of our winter home in August. We get there before September, and
they are seldom with us before October, and then the country is more fit
for young birds that have known no warmth worth mentioning. Coming south
gradually in September, they can enjoy what awaits them at the journey's
end."
"Have you a special day for your departure?" she asked. "I shall be off
to the osiers in September and I'd like to see you go."
"When we have received our marching orders," replied the bird, "or as
you might say, knowing no better, when the instinct for departure is
upon us, we await the first fine night with a wind blowing towards the
south. Have you ever noticed how the winds help birds at the season of
the great migrations? They do, whether you have noticed it or not."
For some days in the beginning of August the fields and woods showed a
large number of cuckoos now quite mute, and then the Vixen prepared to
leave the neighbourhood. Cub hunting had started.
"We are ready to fly now," said the Cuckoo. "The signal has come to us;
the wind is backing towards the north."
"Aren't you sorry to leave?" she asked him.
"Yes and no," he replied. "If you had perennial spring and summer I
would stay gladly enough. But one of my family was taken half-fledged
from a nest here once and lived with clipped wings in an old garden
across the river. He has spoken to all of us about the English winter,
and it is something we never wish to meet. We are going to a land of
such sunshine as you have never seen."
Half-way through September there was no cuckoo of any age to be heard or
seen. And the place seemed to lack something, over and above the crops
that had gone from the fields and the green mantle that was fading from
the hedgerow and the wood.
THE SEAL
Towards the latter end of May, the grown-up lady seals sought a corner
of the shore where the slope was gentle and the sun was warm; the
younger seals betook themselves, together with the old males, to another
part of the coast, out of sight and hearing. Before the first of the
long June days had come to bring new jewels to the treasury of the sea,
the meaning of the separation was made plain--there were many little
baby seals playing by their mothers' side. Some rested upon a little
nest of white wool that had nothing to do with their skin, which was
dark and of a different texture. No mother had more than one child.
Had you passed among the mother seals in the very early June days, while
they sprawled at ease, suckling their little ones, you might have
noticed one male seal who was rather bigger and more intelligent than
most of his neighbours. You would not have been able to go among or even
near them unless you had taken the form of a red shank, or an
oyster-catcher, or of one of the other sea birds that are the particular
friends of seals; but you may take it, that this baby was the best of
the pack, if only because the story is concerned with his career.
From the tongue of rock that overlooked the smiling waters, the baby
seal, clinging to his mother's side, heard the summer song of the sea,
mingled pleasantly with the wondering bleating cries of many little
babies like himself.
"Take me to the water," he whispered to his mother.
"Cling round my neck, then," she replied, lowering her head, and he did
as she bade him, as well as his feeble limbs would permit.
"Hold on tightly," she cried, and cast herself off the rock into the
deep water, that plashed and curled and danced round them, as though for
very love of seals.
"Soon you will learn to dive," said Mother Seal, "you will be able to
sleep on the water or under it, to catch fine fat fish when you do not
want my milk any more. You are born to a beautiful life; so be happy."
Day after day, mother and son lay side by side for hours on a ledge of
rock that Mother Seal's body had worn smooth; they spent only the
hottest hours in the water. Soon the little one learned to face the sea,
holding on to one of his mother's flippers; then he went in quite boldly
alone and learned to dive, and saw the fish that lived in the depths,
and pursued them clumsily and in fun, for he was not yet weaned.
Only when he was two months old, and had grown quite rapidly, did his
mother tell him that he must now learn to feed himself, and by this time
it was an easy task, as the plaice and flounders soon found to their
cost. They could not hide themselves in the sand sufficiently quickly to
escape from his pursuit.
Having finished her maternal duties, Mother Seal changed her coat. The
spots that had marked it became very light, and the skin itself assumed
a yellow tint that seemed quite like silver at times.
"Is it time to change?" asked the male seals, who had now returned with
the young sons and daughters to the maternal haunts. "If it is, we have
no time to lose," and they, too, put on the light summer dress which
was, with all who wore it, a symbol of joy and happiness, a tribute to
the halcyon days when domestic cares were laid aside, when there was
hardly any night, when food was plentiful, and the sun seldom ceased to
shine upon warm and tranquil waters.
The seals, scattered now into little groups in every bay and round every
islet, enjoyed their idle days to the full. Sometimes they would travel
upshore quite a long way, and laze upon the dry sand, the younger and
less experienced among them being most addicted to such journeys. Every
crag that looked out over the deep water had its noisy tenants, and
throughout August there would be a series of dances given by various
seal hosts and hostesses, at which the most agile among the visitors
would glide through the water in dolphin fashion. They were inclined to
be rather jealous of the dolphins.
During this pleasant season the Little Seal, now in the enjoyment of his
liberty, made friends with a very old Herring-gull. The bird lighted
upon his rock one afternoon and saluted him in friendliest fashion.
"I fish for my living just as you do," he remarked, "but you have some
advantages over me. However, there is room for all of us, so we might as
well be friends. You will find some of my family with your people all
through the summer. We sometimes warn them of the approach of man."
"What is man?" queried the Young Seal, "and why do you warn us?"
"Man," explained the Herring-gull, "is the sworn foe of all things in
the heavens above, on the earth beneath, and in the waters under the
earth. He shoots birds in the air, pursues beasts on the land, and
catches fish from the sea. If he saw you now he would certainly kill
you, not because you have done him any harm, but because you are alive.
He would probably shoot you, and say you were a nice little fellow, for
he does not bear malice."
"But that would be murder, would it not?" asked the Seal, opening his
eyes to the fullest extent.
"Oh, dear no," replied the Herring-gull, "it would be sport," and flew
away, leaving the puzzled youngster to think the matter out for himself.
With September, another change of colour came to the seals. Their coat
became rather darker than before, and the black spots, that began on the
head and spread in ever growing patches over the body, reappeared. The
flippers darkened to a heavy brown, and with all these changes came an
altered mood, and the males began to fight for possession of the
females.
The Young Seal took no part in these contests, though his coat showed
the influence of the season; he was little more than a baby, and, on the
advice of the Herring-gull, he kept away from the scene of the fighting.
He had made small progress in growth since weaning time came, the fish
diet that made him strong had done little to help him to develop. This
mattered not at all; strength rather than length was needed to face the
rough days that lay before the seal world when September was at an end,
and the long fight between adult male seals was over. There was very
little love in the camp during that season. Polygamy prevailed, and the
conqueror took as many wives as he could keep away from his weaker
brethren; but when the last fight had been fought and the early cold
snaps reminded them of the hard season ahead, friendly relations were
resumed throughout the community.
At the bidding of the storm-wind the sea parted with its beautiful
tints, the water became very cold and lashed itself into terrible fury,
and foamed like a bayed wolf. Many a rough buffet it gave to the Young
Seal, and not a few bruises, but the low temperature did no harm to him.
He had enough pure oil in his body to withstand Arctic cold, and on
these northern Scottish shores the temperature never approached Arctic
severity. His friend the Herring-gull had gone; he saw no birds now
within speaking distance, though a few gulls passed down wind every few
hours of the day, trying in vain to steer along the road they wished to
follow.
As the winter advanced, the seals split into small groups on some family
basis of their own, and passed most of their time on the rocks, climbing
up from the water by the aid of the strong nails in their foreflippers
and the muscles of the tail. They always faced the water from which they
had risen, and their attitude at this season was a very listless one, as
if the triumph of wind and rain were not altogether to their liking.
When the Little Seal joined his family party, consisting of the mother,
two male seals, and several children of two and three years old--eight
in all--he soon found that the bottom of the water was the most
comfortable part of the world within his reach. Down upon the smooth
sandy bottom there fell no shadow of the trouble cast upon the upper
waters and the land, and so he learned to remain for long drowsy
periods, half-sleeping, half-waking, roused to instant activity by the
sense of the presence of a fish. He could see under the water as clearly
as he could upon the land, and his whiskers were developing the
sensitiveness that belongs to seals in even a larger measure than to
cats.
These nerves served to rouse him when he was almost asleep, and
indicated the presence of food. When after even a long hunt he had
caught his fish, he did not need to seek land; he could eat it at his
ease under the waves; and if he came up afterwards, it was generally to
tread water with his flippers, and look round to take his bearings.
Finally, when he was quite tired of the sea, he would return to the home
rock, climb up in the manner described, and then, resting his head upon
the body of the seal nearest to him, go to sleep. Every seal attached
himself to his neighbour in this fashion for reasons of safety. When
they were lying in such close touch, the first sign of alarm was
communicated automatically to one and all. Perhaps in that quiet corner
there was little need for such extravagant precautions, but the history
of seals throughout the world is one long drawn-out tragedy, and the
need for care had become as strong an instinct as any that entered into
their simple lives. In old days, and among kind superstitious folks, the
seals had been mermen and mermaids; and when they sat on rocks in the
sunshine, passing their webbed toes through their coat to keep it bright
and lustrous, simple seafaring men had thought they saw mermaidens
combing their golden locks. The sunlight had supplied the gold, and
perhaps the little waves had lent the song; and so the story grew, and
passed into legend, and gladdened many a child-like simple heart, even
though it dwelt in a time-worn body. But now, in the place of gold, men
had introduced the age of lead; mermaids and mermen shocked an age that
held materialism to be the highest form of faith, and knew that a leaden
bullet properly aimed could kill the most beautiful creature that ever
played about a summer sea. So the old seals, grown wary, exercised what
care they could to save their helpless, harmless families from the enemy
man.
Spring came back at last, and if it made little or no difference to the
aspect of the rock-strewn shore, there were pleasant changes beyond. The
waters subsided and lost their angry colour, the days lengthened, the
light grew stronger, and sea birds came back to the cliffs to lay their
eggs, and scream and quarrel in the old familiar fashion. And with the
advent of May the adult female seals withdrew from the others, and the
adult males retired with the younger generation to another part of the
coast where, as good luck would have it, our friend found the old
Herring-gull busily pursuing his fishing.
"I'd like to travel," said the Young Seal, whose blood tingled with the
spirit of the season. "I'm tired of stopping always in one place. Where
does the sea end? You ought to know, seeing that you can fly all over
it."
"The sea has no end and no beginning," explained the Herring-gull. "It
is like the sky, boundless. Wherever I go, I find the sea. But if you
wish to travel, follow the coast down until you come to a place where
the water turns in towards the land. Follow carefully, until it narrows,
and you reach a part where men have spread great nets. They are put
there to catch a wonderful fish with scales as bright as a herring's,
and a pink body that all seals love to feed upon. But be careful to stay
well beyond the nets, and do not let greed tempt you to travel too far.
Then I shall see you back in the late summer, and you will thank me."
This advice seemed very good to the Young Seal, who felt no family ties
and had a love of adventure. He set out, resting from time to time upon
the shore, and keeping the best possible look out for strangers. As he
moved down the coast, he met a seal two years older than himself, bound
on the same errand, and this one promised to show him the road. Having
company, each seal was bolder than before, and as the sea was teeming
with fish just then, they moved quite slowly to the home of the great
pink delicacy. One fine afternoon they lay at their ease high upon the
shore, and came near to be cut off, for a pleasure boat hove in sight,
and they had to rush towards it in search of safety. This was a
thrilling experience, and might have ended very differently if any of
the four men on the boat had carried a gun. As it was, the two seals ran
down the beach in fearful haste, raising sand and shingle very freely,
as they progressed in awkward jerks, first on their chest, then on their
stomach. To the men in the boat the movements appeared so strange that
they could hardly row for laughter, indeed the reduction of their
efforts may have accounted for the seals' escape, but to the two
frightened animals the case was quite different--they found nothing to
laugh at. When they reached water at last, they were very sore, stiff
and bruised; sharp stones and rocks had hurt them very considerably.
They remained under the water for a very long time, and only ventured to
show their heads above it a long way down the coast. At the same time
the incident was not without considerable value. It taught them that an
enemy might appear at any moment, and that they must not venture inland
either when the tide was receding or when the shape of the coast corner
tended to obstruct the view.
At length they reached the river's estuary, and moving along it with
extreme caution, found a point where the banks narrowed a little below
the netting. There they remained for some weeks, and the Younger Seal
found that the salmon seeking the fresh water were worthy of everything
the Herring-gull had said in their praise. He remembered the advice that
had been given to him; his little experience along the coast had done
something to fix it in his mind, and it is doubtful whether the fisher
folk who looked after the nets realised the close presence of the seals.
Doubtless the men, to whom some of the salmon fell in the latter days,
knew that the fish had run the gauntlet, for now and again a salmon
escaping with his life from seal and nets carried to the upper waters
the mark of the seal's teeth. If not gripped behind the neck, many a
salmon could tear himself away with little serious hurt.