I think it will be found, on the whole, that the European birds are a
more hardy and pugnacious race than ours, and that their song-birds
have more vivacity and power, and ours more melody and plaintiveness.
In the song of the skylark, for instance, there is little or no melody,
but wonderful strength and copiousness. It is a harsh strain near at
hand, but very taking when showered down from a height of several
hundred feet.
Daines Barrington, the naturalist of the last century, to whom White of
Selborne addressed so many of his letters, gives a table of the
comparative merit of seventeen leading song-birds of Europe, marking
them under the heads of mellowness, sprightliness, plaintiveness,
compass, and execution. In the aggregate, the songsters stand highest
in sprightliness, next in compass and execution, and lowest in the
other two qualities. A similar arrangement and comparison of our
songsters, I think, would show an opposite result,—that is, a
predominance of melody and plaintiveness. The British wren, for
instance, stands in Barrington’s table as destitute of both these
qualities; the reed sparrow also. Our wren-songs, on the contrary, are
gushing and lyrical, and more or less melodious,—that of the winter
wren being preeminently so. Our sparrows, too, all have sweet,
plaintive ditties, with but little sprightliness or compass. The
English house sparrow has no song at all, but a harsh chatter that is
unmatched among our birds. But what a hardy, prolific, pugnacious
little wretch it is! These birds will maintain themselves where our
birds will not live at all, and a pair of them will lie down in the
gutter and fight like dogs. Compared with this miniature John Bull, the
voice and manners of our common sparrow are gentle and retiring. The
English sparrow is a street gamin, our bird a timid rustic.
The English robin redbreast is tallied in this country by the bluebird,
which was called by the early settlers of New England the blue robin.
The song of the British bird is bright and animated, that of our bird
soft and plaintive.
The nightingale stands at the head in Barrington’s table, and is but
little short of perfect in all the qualities. We have no one bird that
combines such strength or vivacity with such melody. The mockingbird
doubtless surpasses it in variety and profusion of notes; but falls
short, I imagine, in sweetness and effectiveness. The nightingale will
sometimes warble twenty seconds without pausing to breathe, and when
the condition of the air is favorable, its song fills a space a mile in
diameter. There are, perhaps, songs in our woods as mellow and
brilliant, as is that of the closely allied species, the water-thrush;
but our bird’s song has but a mere fraction of the nightingale’s volume
and power.
Strength and volume of voice, then, seem to be characteristic of the
English birds, and mildness and delicacy of ours. How much the
thousands of years of contact with man, and familiarity with artificial
sounds, over there, have affected the bird voices, is a question.
Certain it is that their birds are much more domestic than ours, and
certain it is that all purely wild sounds are plaintive and elusive.
Even of the bark of the fox, the cry of the panther, the voice of the
coon, or the call and clang of wild geese and ducks, or the war-cry of
savage tribes, is this true; but not true in the same sense of
domesticated or semi-domesticated animals and fowls. How different the
voice of the common duck or goose from that of the wild species, or of
the tame dove from that of the turtle of the fields and groves! Where
could the English house sparrow have acquired that unmusical voice but
amid the sounds of hoofs and wheels, and the discords of the street?
And the ordinary notes and calls of so many of the British birds,
according to their biographers, are harsh and disagreeable; even the
nightingale has an ugly, guttural “chuck.” The missel-thrush has a
harsh scream; the jay a note like “wrack,” “wrack;” the fieldfare a
rasping chatter; the blackbird, which is our robin cut in ebony, will
sometimes crow like a cock and cackle like a hen; the flocks of
starlings make a noise like a steam saw-mill; the white-throat has a
disagreeable note; the swift a discordant scream; and the bunting a
harsh song. Among our song-birds, on the contrary, it is rare to hear a
harsh or displeasing voice. Even their notes of anger and alarm are
more or less soft.
I would not imply that our birds are the better songsters, but that
their songs, if briefer and feebler, are also more wild and
plaintive,—in fact, that they are softer-voiced. The British birds, as
I have stated, are more domestic than ours; a much larger number build
about houses and towers and outbuildings. The titmouse with us is
exclusively a wood-bird; but in Britain three or four species of them
resort more or less to buildings in winter. Their redstart also builds
under the eaves of houses; their starling in church steeples and in
holes in walls; several thrushes resort to sheds to nest; and jackdaws
breed in the crannies of the old architecture, and this in a much
milder climate than our own.
They have in that country no birds that answer to our tiny, lisping
wood-warblers,—genus _Dendroica,_—nor to our vireos, _Vireonidœ._ On
the other hand, they have a larger number of field-birds and
semi-game-birds. They have several species like our robin; thrushes
like him, and some of them larger, as the ring ouzel, the
missel-thrush, the fieldfare, the throstle, the redwing, White’s
thrush, the blackbird,—these, besides several species in size and
habits more like our wood thrush.
Several species of European birds sing at night besides the true
nightingale,—not fitfully and as if in their dreams, as do a few of our
birds, but continuously. They make a business of it. The sedge-bird
ceases at times as if from very weariness; but wake the bird up, says
White, by throwing a stick or stone into the bushes, and away it goes
again in full song. We have but one real nocturnal songster, and that
is the mockingbird. One can see how this habit might increase among the
birds of a long-settled country like England. With sounds and voices
about them, why should they be silent, too? The danger of betraying
themselves to their natural enemies would be less than in our woods.
That their birds are more quarrelsome and pugnacious than ours I think
evident. Our thrushes are especially mild-mannered, but the
missel-thrush is very bold and saucy, and has been known to fly in the
face of persons who have disturbed the sitting bird. No jay nor magpie
nor crow can stand before him. The Welsh call him master of the
coppice, and he welcomes a storm with such a vigorous and hearty song
that in some countries he is known as storm-cock. He sometimes kills
the young of other birds and eats eggs,—a very unthrushlike trait. The
whitethroat sings with crest erect, and attitudes of warning and
defiance. The hooper is a great bully; so is the greenfinch. The
wood-grouse—now extinct, I believe—has been known to attack people in
the woods. And behold the grit and hardihood of that little emigrant or
exile to our shores, the English sparrow! Our birds have their tilts
and spats also; but the only really quarrelsome members in our family
are confined to the flycatchers, as the kingbird and the great crested
flycatcher. None of our song-birds are bullies.
Many of our more vigorous species, as the butcherbird, the crossbills,
the pine grosbeak, the redpoll, the Bohemian chatterer, the shore lark,
the longspur, the snow bunting, etc., are common to both continents.
Have the Old World creatures throughout more pluck and hardihood than
those that are indigenous to this continent? Behold the common mouse,
how he has followed man to this country and established himself here
against all opposition, overrunning our houses and barns, while the
native species is rarely seen. And when has anybody seen the American
rat, while his congener from across the water has penetrated to every
part of the continent! By the next train that takes the family to some
Western frontier, arrives this pest. Both our rat and mouse or mice are
timid, harmless, delicate creatures, compared with the cunning, filthy,
and prolific specimens that have fought their way to us from the Old
World. There is little doubt, also, that the red fox has been
transplanted to this country from Europe. He is certainly on the
increase, and is fast running out the native gray species.
Indeed, I have thought that all forms of life in the Old World were
marked by greater prominence of type, or stronger characteristic and
fundamental qualities, than with us,—coarser and more hairy and virile,
and therefore more powerful and lasting. This opinion is still subject
to revision, but I find it easier to confirm it than to undermine it.