Shakespeare’s “guest of summer, the temple-haunting martlet,” makes
“his pendent bed and procreant cradle,” year after year, on the flint
walls of my house in Icklingham, thus offering me every facility
for a full observation of its domestic habits. For long I have been
intending to make these a study, but the very proximity which seemed
to be such an advantage, has proved a hindrance; for it is one thing
to steal silently into a lonely plantation, or lie, at full length,
on the wild waste of the warrens, and another to sit in a chair, in
one’s own garden, or look out of a window in one’s own house. So,
though the martins were always most interesting, I never could keep
long near them; yet some very inadequate notings, forming a scrappy
and widely-sundered journal, I have made, and will here give in their
entirety, since they concern a bird so loved.
“_May 25, 1900._--This morning I watched a pair of martlets building
their nest against the wall of my house.
“5.55.--Both birds fly to the nest, and one, that is much the handsomer
and more purple of the two, makes several pecks at the other, in a
manner half playful, half authoritative. I take this one to be the
male, and the other, who is greyer, the female. She, in return for
her husband’s friendly pecking, cossets him, a little, with her beak,
nibbling his head. Neither of the two are working at the nest. The
throat of the male seems very much swelled, yet he deposits nothing,
and, in a little while, flies off, leaving the female, who, however,
soon follows him. The male, as I believe him to be, now comes and goes,
several times. Each time, he just touches the edge of the nest with his
bill, flying off almost immediately afterwards, nor can I discover that
he adds to the mud of it, on any one occasion.
“6.10.--Now, however, he has put--is still putting--a little piece
there. Bending down over the nest’s edge, which he just touches with
his bill, he communicates a little quivering motion to his head,
during which, as it would seem, something is pushed out of the beak. I
cannot make out the process, but now that he is gone, I see a little
wet-looking area, which may be either fresh mud that has just been
brought, or a moistened bit of the old. I think, however, it is the
first. Now, again, he comes as before, flies off and returns, and
thus continues, never bringing anything in the bill that I can see,
but, each time, giving himself a little press down in the nest, and,
simultaneously, stretching his neck outwards, and a little up, so
that the rounded, swollen-looking throat just touches its edge. After
doing this twice or thrice, he makes a dip down, out of the nest, and
flies off. I can never make out that he either brings or deposits
anything. The other bird comes, also, two or three times, to the nest,
but neither does she seem to do anything, except sit in it and just
touch its edge with her bill. One bird, coming whilst the other is thus
sitting in the little mud cradle, hangs, fluttering, outside it, for
awhile, with a little chirrupy screaming, and then darts off. There
must have been, by now, a dozen visits, yet the birds, apparently,
bring nothing, and do little, or nothing, each time. Another visit of
this sort, the bird just touching the rim with its swollen throat--not
the beak--and then dropping off--a light little Ariel. And now another:
and, this time, the partner bird hovers, chirruping, in front of the
nest, as the first one lies in it--but nothing is brought, and nothing
done that I can see. It now seems plain that, for some time during the
nest-building--or what one would think was the nest-building--the birds
visit the nest, either by turns, or together, yet do nothing, or next
to nothing, to it. Two more of these make-believes, but now, at last,
mud is plainly deposited by the visiting bird; but I cannot quite make
out if it is carried in the bill, or disgorged out of the throat.
“6.50.--Both birds to the nest. One has a piece of mud in the bill,
which it keeps working about. Yet it is half in the throat, too, it
would seem, and often as though on the point of being swallowed. At
last, however, it is dropped on the rim--that part of it so often
touched. Then the bird begins to feel and touch this mud, and I see a
gleam of something white between the mandibles, which, I think, is the
tongue feeling, perhaps shaping, it. The other bird now flies off, and
I see this one, quite plainly, pick up a pellet of mud and swallow it.
This, with the swollen and globular-looking throat, which I have kept
remarking, seems to make it likely that the mud used in building is
swallowed and disgorged. Another visit, now, but I cannot quite make
things out. I see a bit of mud held in the beak, and after, if not
before, this, the bird has made actions as though trying to bring up
something out of its throat. However, I cannot sit longer against the
wall of my own house.
“_26th._--At 6 A.M. one of the martlets comes to the nest,
and, as he settles down upon it, he utters notes that are like a
little song, and very pretty to hear. Lying, thus, in the nest, he
just touches the edge of it with the beak, but, though the throat
looks quite globular, no mud, that I can see, is deposited. He shifts,
then, so as to lie the opposite way, and, soon after, flies off,
making his pretty little parachute drop from the brink, as usual. Soon
he returns--for I watch him circling--and stays a very short time,
during which no mud is deposited. The nest, too, I notice, seems to
have advanced very little since I left it yesterday, though this was
no later than 7 A.M. Another musical meeting, now, and the
arriving bird, finding the musician on the nest, clings against it,
and there is a sort of twittering, loving expostulation, before she
leaves him in possession. This second bird is not nearly so handsome,
the back not purple like that of the other, and the white throat is
stained and dirty-looking. It is this one that swallowed the mud
yesterday, and, I think, does the greater part of the work--the hen,
I feel pretty sure. During another visit, the bird applies its bill,
very delicately, to the mud-work of the nest--always its edge or
parapet--and there is that quick, vibratory motion of the whole head,
which I have before mentioned. It appears to me that, during this, mud
must be deposited, but in such a thin, small stream, that I can see
nothing of it. Sparrows--out on them!--have taken possession of the
first-built of my martins’ nests, and the dispossessed birds--if they
are, indeed, the same ones--have commenced another, close beside it.
But I must go.”
Gilbert White, in his classic, alludes to the slow rate at which
house-martins build, and also gives a reason for it. He says: “About
half an inch seems to be a sufficient layer for a day.” To me it seems
that, at some stage of the construction, they must build even slower
than this, and the curious thing is, that, at the proper building-time,
and when, to casual observation, the birds seem actively building, they
come and come and come again, and yet do nothing, each time. Well,
“_tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis_,” but it is pleasant to
think that all this was going on in White’s days, on the walls of his
house, no doubt, as of mine now. When everything else has been swept
away, yet in nature we still have some link with past times. These
martins, the rooks, a robin, any of the familiar _homy_ birds, can
be fitted into any home, with any person about it. Yet that is not
much--or rather it is too difficult. Let any one try, and see how far
he gets with it.
“_May 17, 1901._--These birds may have intercommunal marriages--or
something a little _outré_. There are the nests of two, under the eaves
of one wall of my house, and their owners go, constantly, from one of
them to another, entering both. When I say ‘constantly,’ I mean that
I have seen it several times. There was always another bird in the
nest from which the one flew, and sometimes, if not always, in the one
to which he went. Thus there are three birds to the two nests, for I
cannot make out a fourth. Also there is entire amicableness, for the
same bird, when it enters each nest, in turn, is received with a glad
twitter by the one inside. What, then, is the meaning of this? Are
two hens mated with one male bird, and has each made a nest, at which
he has helped, in turn? Or is there a second male, not yet flown in,
but who will resent the intrusion of the other, when he does? _Nous
verrons._ It is one of these two nests that is in process of being
taken possession of by the sparrows; for the deed is not done all at
once--‘_nemo repente fuit turpissimus_.’ A martin is in this one, now,
when the hen sparrow flies up, and, as she clings to the entrance, out
he flies. She fastens upon him, and keeps her hold, for some time,
in the air. The martin, as far as I can see, makes no attempt to
retaliate, but only flies and struggles to be loose. When he is, his
powers of flight soon carry him out of the sparrow’s danger, though
the latter, at first, attempts a pursuit, which, however, she soon
gives up.
“_18th._--At 6.30 A.M. there is a pair of martins in each
of the nests, and the sparrows do not seem to have prevailed. These
two pairs of birds, then, must, I suppose, have entered one another’s
nests, and they appear to be on the friendliest terms, a friendly
twitter from the one nest being, often, answered by a friendly twitter
from the other. At least it sounds friendly, and there have been these
double entries. During the time that the sparrow was besieging the
martin’s nest, she had all the appearance of real proprietorship. A
true grievance, a just indignation, was in her every look and motion.
She felt so, no doubt, and therein lies the irony of it. Nature is full
of irony.
“_22nd._--One or other of the two martins has, more than once, entered
the nest usurped by the sparrows, so that I begin to doubt if the
latter have really succeeded. As against this, however, I see both the
sparrows, on the roof near, and the cock bird has twigs and grass in
his bill. Yet, as long as I see them, they do not come to the nest.
Nevertheless, another nest is now being begun, about a foot from the
one they have invaded, and the birds building this, must, I feel sure,
be the owners of the latter.
“_23rd._--At 7 this morning the building of the new nest is going
rapidly forward, but the hen sparrow, with a sinister look, sits near,
in the gutter running round the roof. She has a little grass in her
bill, and with this, after a while, she flies to the abandoned nest.
She clings outside it, for a little, then, all at once, instead of
entering, attacks the two martins building their new one, flying at
each, in turn, and pecking them venomously. The martins do not resist,
and soon take to flight, but once again the sparrow attacks them, with
the grass still in her bill, before entering the old nest with it, as
finally she does. Undeterred by these two attacks, the martins continue
to ply backwards and forwards, ever building their nest. The hen
sparrow soon flies out of her ill-gotten one, and away, and, shortly
afterwards, the cock comes and sits on the piping, with a small tuft of
moss and grass in his bill. For a most inordinate time he sits there,
with these materials, and then, time and time again, he flies into a
neighbouring tree, and returns with them, going off, still holding
them, at last, without once having been to the nest. Meanwhile the hen
has returned with a much more considerable supply, which she takes into
the nest, at once. Afterwards she comes with more, but again her anger
is aroused by the sight of the two poor martins, always building, and
she flies at them, laden as she is, just as before. They take flight,
as usual, but soon return, and continue industriously to build. Both
are now doing so in the prettiest manner, lying side by side, but
turned in opposite directions, so that each works at a different part
of the nest. Then one of them flies eight times (if not more) to the
nest, and away again, with a large piece of black mud protruding, all
the while, from his bill, which is forced considerably open by it. He
seems, each time, unable to bring it out, but, on the ninth return,
succeeds in doing so--if, indeed, this is the explanation. When he
flies in, this last time, it does not look such a bulk in the mouth as
before. It may be--and this, perhaps, is more probable--that it had not
before been sufficiently worked up with the salivary secretions, and
that the bird was doing this, all the time, though making its little
visits as a matter of custom. During the earlier ones he had the nest
to himself, but, on the last, his partner was there, and he almost
pushed her out of it, with a little haste-pleading twittering, seeming
to say, ‘Mine is the greater need.’ Both the sparrows have been,
several times, in and out of the old nest, during this, and sometimes
sitting in it together. The hen is building in good, workmanlike
fashion, whereas the cock contributes but little. The mud which these
martins used to build with, was brought, by them, from a little puddle
in the village street, till this became dry, after which I did not see
where they went. I have seen quite a number of them, including some
swallows, collecting it at a pond in a village near here. A very pretty
sight it was, to see them all so busy, and doing something dirty so
cleanly--for, after all, swallowing mud is dirty if looked at in a
commonplace kind of way, though not at all so, really, if we consider
the end to which it is done.
“_30th._--Two more martlets are beginning a nest just above my
bedroom window, and on the very mud-stains of their last one. Others
seem choosing a site, for two pairs of them hang upon certain spots,
twittering together, in a most talking manner, flying away, then,
and returning to talk again, as if they were--not house-, but
foundation-hunting. I notice that these birds, when they fly from the
proposed or contemplated site, will often, after making a circle round,
wheel in to the nest nearest to it, and, poised in the air, beneath
the portal, take, as it were, a little friendly peep in. Yet it is not
all friendly, for I have just seen a bird struggling for entrance,
and expelled by the proprietor of the nest--by the one proprietor, I
think, but both were at home, and my impression is that if only one had
been, the visitor might have been well received, as, indeed, I have
seen and recorded. Now, too, I have seen a fight in the air between two
martins, _à propos_ of an intended entrance on the part of one of them.
House-martins, therefore, fight amongst themselves--as do sand-martins,
very violently--and this makes their apparent total inability to defend
themselves against the attacks of sparrows, the more remarkable. No
doubt the sparrow is a stronger bird, but the martins, with their
superior powers of flight, might annoy it incessantly when in the
vicinity of the nest, to the extent, perhaps, of driving it away. That
they should all combine for this purpose is, perhaps, too much to
expect, but when one sparrow, only, attacks a pair of them, one might
think that both would retaliate. As we have seen, however, a pair of
martins, when attacked in this way upon three occasions quite failed
to do so. Probably the period of fighting and striving has long ago
been passed through, and the sparrow, having come the victor out of
it, is now recognised as an inevitability. It is better for any pair
of house-martins--and consequently for the race--to give up and build
another nest, than to waste their time in efforts which, even if at
last successful, would make them the parents of fewer offspring.
“_June 1st._--The nest above my window has been built at a great rate,
and is now almost finished. Compare this with the very slow building
of some martins last year, and with Gilbert White’s general statement.
There is no finality in natural history, and any one observation may
be contradicted by any other. This nest, the day before yesterday, was
only just beginning, and now it is almost finished. A layer of half
an inch a day, therefore, is quite inadequate to the result, and so
the supposed reason for the slow rate of advance, when the nest is
built slowly, falls to the ground.[27] Late in the year, the nests
do, sometimes, drop--by which I have made acquaintance with the grown
young, and the curious parasitic fly upon them--but this, I think,
belongs to the chapter of accidents, and is not to be avoided by any
art or foresight of the bird. Other nests have now been begun, and
these, like all the rest, as far as I can be sure of it, are on the
exact sites of so many old ones. What interests me, however, is that,
on two of these sites, nests, for some reason, were not built last
year, though they were the year before. Possibly they were begun there
last year, but destroyed without my knowledge (women and gardeners
would do away with birds, between them), in which case no further
attempt was made to build there. But this I do not think was the case.
The birds, therefore--supposing them to be the same ones--missed a
year, and then built in the same place as two years ago. There were
only the stains of the old structures left, but these were covered by
the fresh mud, as a head is by a skull-cap. These martins, therefore,
assuming them to have been the same, must either not have built, last
year, or, having had to build somewhere else, they must yet have
remembered their old place of the year before, and come back to it.
“_5th._--This evening I watched my martins from the landing window, at
only a few yards’ distance. Two had made nests on a wall that stood, at
an angle, just outside, and in either one or both of these nests, one
of the two birds was usually sitting. Thus, either two or three more,
as the case might be, were wanted to make up the two pairs that owned
the two nests. But instead of two or three, often six or eight, at a
time, would be fluttering under the nests, and a still greater number
circled round about, from which these came, at intervals, to flutter
there. That every one of these birds was interested, in some way and
to some degree, in the two nests, was quite obvious. They seemed,
often, on the point of clinging to one, with a view to entering it,
and to be stopped, only, by the bird inside giving, each time, a funny
little bubbling twitter, which seemed, by its effect, to mean, ‘No,
not you; you’re not the right one.’ But whenever a bird did enter one
of the nests, he flew straight at it, and was in, in a moment, being
received--if the other one was at home--with a shriller and louder
note, something like a scream. The harsher sound meant welcome, and
the softer one, unwillingness.
“That there is some interest taken by the martins of a
neighbourhood--or, at least, of any little colony--in the nests built
by their fellows, seems clear, and I have recorded, both the friendly
entries of one bird into two nests, each of which was occupied by
another, and the struggles of two, to enter one, where, also, the
partner bird, either of one or the other, was sitting. All these facts
together seem best explained by supposing that the female house-martin
is something of a light-o’-love, and that when she builds her nest,
more than one male holds himself entitled to claim both it and her,
as his own. If, for some reasons, we feel unable to adopt this view,
we may fall back upon that of a social or communistic feeling, as yet
imperfectly developed, and wavering, sometimes, between friendliness
and hostility. Be it as it may, the facts which I have noted appear
to me to be of interest. In regard to the last-mentioned one--the
interest, namely, manifested by several birds, in nests not their
own--White of Selborne says: ‘The young of this species do not quit
their abodes all together; but the more forward birds get abroad some
days before the rest. These, approaching the eaves of buildings, and
playing about before them, make people think that several old ones
attend one nest.’ How does this apply here? ‘Nohow,’ I reply (with
Tweedledee), for no young birds could possibly have left the nests,
at this date (June 5). I doubt, indeed, whether any eggs had been
hatched. White, living in a southern county, says elsewhere (Letter
LV.): ‘About the middle of May, if the weather be fine, the martin
begins to think in earnest of providing a mansion for its family.’
This is my experience too, and in East Anglia, at any rate, where May
is generally like a bad March, and often colder, I am sure he never
thinks about it sooner. Neither in Dorsetshire, too, when I was last
there, did any martins begin building, in a village where they build
all down the street, before about the middle of May, as White says,
and when I inquired for them, a week or ten days sooner, the cottage
people, who must know their habits in this respect, told me it was
too early for them yet. Elsewhere, ’tis true, we read that the martin
‘sets about building very soon after its return, which may be about the
middle of April,’ though I never remember them here before May. This is
not my experience, nor was it White’s, who says--and, I believe, with
great correctness--‘For some time after they appear, the _hirundines_
in general pay no attention to the business of nidification, but play
and sport about, either to recruit from the fatigue of their journey,
or,’ &c. &c. (Letter LV.) (the rest of the sentence is historically
interesting). However, let some young martins, in some places, be
as precocious as they like, this I know, that none were abroad in
Icklingham, in the year 1901, upon the 5th of June. The several birds,
therefore, that attended one nest in the way I have described, were
old, and not young, birds, and I connect their conduct with those other
cases I have mentioned, which point towards a socialistic tendency in
this species.
“_24th._--Watching from the landing window, this morning, I saw a
house-martin attacked by another one, whilst entering its nest with
some feathers. I called to our Hannah to bring my son’s fishing-rod,
and never took my eyes off the nest, whilst she was coming with it.
Meanwhile, one martin had come out, and, on my touching the nest with
the rod, a second did, also. One of a pair, therefore, had, by making
its nest, excited the anger of a third bird, and this I have seen more
than once. Is the angry bird, in such cases, a mere stranger, or is it
a rival, in some way? If the last--and the other seems unlikely--does
one hen consort with two or more cocks, or _vice versâ_? I have
noticed, however, with more than one kind of bird, that the hens seem
jealous of each other collecting materials for the nest.[28]
“_August 3rd._--It is customary for two of the young martins to sit
with their heads looking out at the door of the nest--very pretty they
look--and ever and anon one of the parent birds will fly in to them,
as she circles round, and hanging there, just for a moment, there is a
little twittering chorus--mostly I think from the chicks--and off she
flies again. It is difficult to be quite sure whether, in these short
flying visits, the chicks are really fed. Sometimes they are so short
that this seems hardly possible. At others something does seem to pass,
and the mouth of one of the chicks may be seen opened, just after the
parent flies off. Yet it hardly seems like serious feeding. But at
this very moment a bird has, thus, flown in to the young, and one of
them, I am sure, was, this time, fed. This has happened again--and yet
again--but now, this last time, the parent bird has entered the nest.
The time before, whilst the one parent was hanging there, and, I think,
giving the chick something, the other flew in to the wall, and clung
there, about six inches off, seeming to watch the scene with pleased
attention. Yet, though food does, as I now feel sure, sometimes pass in
these visits, at others, as it seems to me, only remarks do. At this
stage of the argument, one of the young birds projects its tail through
the entrance-hole, and voids its excrement. Under this nest and another
one, about two feet from it, there is a heap of excrement on the
slanting roof of the greenhouse below; an interesting thing to see, and
cleanly if rightly considered, yet unsightly I must confess--that part
of it, alone, exists for the feminine eye. Out comes another tail, now,
and the heap is increased. In this pretty way the nest is kept pure and
wholesome.
“Now I have had a fine view of the feeding, having moved into a better
position. The parent bird clung to the nest, and one of the chicks,
thrusting out its head from the aperture, opened its mouth, so that it
looked like a little round funnel. Into this the parent bird thrust
not only her bill, but the upper part of her head as well, and the
chick’s mouth closing upon it, there instantly began, on the part of
both, those motions which accompany the process of regurgitation, as
it may be witnessed with pigeons, and as I have witnessed it with
nightjars. These becoming more and more violent, the parent bird was,
at last, drawn by the chick, who kept pulling back upon her, into the
nest--that, at least, was the appearance presented. For some moments
only the posterior part of the dam’s body could be seen projecting
through the aperture, and this continued to work violently, in the
manner indicated. Then she disappeared altogether. A few minutes
afterwards, another and much more lengthy visit is paid, by one of the
old birds, to the nest, but, this time, though a young one looks out
with open mouth, no feeding takes place.
“I have now to record that a bird about to enter the next nest to this,
from which another, whose snowy throat proclaims it to be full-grown,
has just looked out, is attacked, as it clings to the mud, and driven
off, by a third bird. In the course of some few minutes this occurs
twice again, the attack, each time, being very fierce, and the struggle
more prolonged. And now, but shortly afterwards, the same two birds
(as I make no doubt) fly, together, on to the nest, and both enter it,
shouldering and pushing one another. They are in it some time, during
which I can make nothing out clearly. Then one emerges, and I can see
that the other has hold of him with the beak, detaining him slightly,
as he flies away. This other, in a moment, flies out too, and then the
head of a third--the one, no doubt, that has been in the nest, all the
time--appears at the entrance, as before. Now this nest, though so late
in the season, has the appearance of being a new one. It even seems not
yet entirely finished, though nearly so. Perhaps it has been repaired,
but, in any case, there are no young birds in it, nor do I think the
old ones are sitting again, yet--for probably there have been earlier
broods. If we assume this, and that two out of the three birds are the
mated pair, then we must suppose either that, all the while, a rival
male has continued to fight for the possession of the nest and the
female, or that two females lay claim to the nest, and have, perhaps,
helped to build it. If this latter be the case, we may, perhaps, see
in it an extension of that spirit of jealousy or rivalry which I have
often observed in female birds, whilst collecting materials for their
respective nests. Is it possible that such feelings may have led to
that habit which the females of some birds have (or are supposed to
have) of laying their eggs in one common nest? But I do not suppose so.
In this case, as before, it appears that one of the rival birds--male
or female--is preferred by the bird in the nest, for this one, now, as
the prevailing party flies in and clings on the parapet, breaks into a
perfect jubilee of twitterings, and fuller, croodling notes, that may
almost be called song--very pretty indeed, and extremely pleasing to
hear. Evidently either two males have fought for access to a female--or
two females to a male--in a nest which one, or both, or all three have
helped to make; but the difficulty in distinguishing the sexes prevents
one from saying which of these two it is. Meanwhile the parent bird
has, for long, clung to the other nest, without feeding the young.
“_5th._--A young martlet has just been fed, leaning its head far out of
the nest. The process was quick, this time. Still, it must, I think,
have been a regurgitatory one. Two chicks, looking out from their
nest, have been, for some time, uttering a little piping twitter.
Suddenly, with a few louder, more excited tweets, they stretch out
both their heads, and their two widely-opened mouths look like little
perfectly round craters, as the dam flies up and pops her head--as it
were--as far as it will go, right into one of them. Almost instantly
she is away again. Still, from what I have seen before, and from never
catching anything projecting from the parent’s beak, I think the food
must have been brought up from the crop, or at least from somewhere
inside--for I am not writing as a physiologist. The first case which I
have recorded should, I think, be conclusive, and it was very carefully
observed. There have just been two visits in such quick succession that
I think it must have been the two parents. No doubt they both feed
the young, but it is not so easy to actually see that they do. One of
them flies in again, now, plunging its bill instantly right into the
centre of the open mouth of the chick. Withdrawing it, almost at once,
nothing is seen in the chick’s mouth, though it is evident it has
swallowed something. In another visit, a few minutes afterwards, the
finger-in-a-finger-stall appearance of the parent’s and chick’s bills,
and the motions of the latter, as though sucking in something, are much
more apparent.
“Whether the dam always, or only sometimes, disgorges food that it has
swallowed, or partially swallowed, or, at least, that it has brought
inside the mouth, I cannot be sure; but I believe that the insects on
which the young are fed, are never just carried in the beak, in the
way that a thrush, robin, wagtail, &c., brings worms or flies to its
young. When one thinks of the bird’s building habits and its swollen
throat, bulged out with mud--as I think it must be--one may surmise
that it finds it equally natural to hold a mash of insects in this way.
I believe that all the swallow tribe, as well as nightjars, engulf
their food in the way that a whale does infusoria, instead of seizing
it, first, with the bill--at least that this is their more habitual
practice. Thus, I was watching some swallows, once, flying close over
the ground, when a large white butterfly (the common cabbage one, I
think) suddenly disappeared, entombed, as it were, in one of them. Now,
had a sparrow seized the butterfly the effect would have been quite
different, and so would the process have been. It _would_ have seized
it, in fact, but the swallow must have opened its gape, and, in spite
of the size of the butterfly, it went down so quickly that, to the eye,
it looked as if it had been at once enclosed. Possibly, on account
of its size, it was, perforce, held just for a moment, till another
gulp helped it down. But the process, as I say, was very different to
the more usual one, and I doubt if an ordinary passerine bird could
have swallowed a butterfly on the wing, at all. It is rare, I think,
for anything so large as this to be hawked at by swallows or martins.
Small insects are their habitual food, and of these the air is often
full. That numbers should be swallowed down which are too small to hold
in the bill, seems almost a necessity, and that the house-martin, in
particular, does this, and brings them up again for the young, in the
form of a mash or pulp, I think likely from what I have seen, and,
also, from the bird’s habit of swallowing and disgorging mud. That
they, also, sometimes bring in insects in the bill may very well be
the case, but I have not yet seen them do so, and, especially, I have
missed that little collected bundle which, from analogy, I should have
expected to see. The most interesting point, to me, however, about the
domestic life of these birds, is their social and sexual relations,
which I think are deserving of a more serious investigation than is
contained in the scanty record which I here offer.”
Another entry, which I cannot now find, referred to the sudden late
appearance of several sand-martins, who ought--had they read their
authorities--to have known better. I cannot help thinking that Gilbert
White has been treated very unfairly about that theory of his. If
certain of the swallow tribe are sometimes seen, on sunny days, in
winter, then that is an interesting circumstance, and one which has
to be accounted for. White, in drawing attention to it, has done his
duty as a field naturalist, and the explanation which he has offered
is one which seems to meet the facts of the case. If a swallow is here
at Christmas, it cannot be in Africa, and as it cannot feed here, and
is not, as a rule, seen about, it becomes highly probable that it is
hibernating. It is not the rule for swallows to do this--nor do I
understand White to say that it is--but it is the exception, here, that
should interest us, especially at this time of day, when we know that
what is the exception, now, may become the rule later on. The whole
interest, therefore, lies in the question whether swifts, swallows,
martins, &c., ever do stay with us during the winter, instead of
migrating, and, in regard to this, White offers some evidence. What he
deserves except praise for so doing I cannot, for the life of me, see,
but what he gets--from a good many quarters, at any rate--is a sort of
dull, pompous, patronising taking to task--“_Good_ boy, but mustn’t do
that.”
[Illustration: MOORHEN AND NEST]