or copses, and rarely far through open, unenclosed land. A stranger,
and without permission, would often find it difficult to walk half a
mile along the bank of such a stream as this. Consequently, if it is
desired to preserve it, the riparian owners can do so to the utmost,
and the water-fowl considered injurious to fish can as easily be kept
down. It is different in the north, for instance, where the streams
have a background of moors, mountains, tarns, and lakes. In these their
fastnesses birds find some security. From the coast they are also
recruited; while on our southern coasts it is a source of lament that
wild-fowl are not nearly so plentiful as formerly. Of course in winter
it often happens that a flock of wild-fowl alight in passing; but how
long do they stay? The real question is, how many breed? Where trout
are carefully preserved, very few indeed; so that it is evident trout
are making as much difference as the pheasants. Trout preservation has
become much more extended since the fish has been studied and found to
be easily bred. Advertisements are even put forward recommending people
to keep trout instead of poultry, since they can be managed with
certainty. It seems reasonable, therefore, to suppose that the
influence of trout on wild creatures will continue to extend for some
time yet. Already where trout preservation has been carefully carried
out it has produced a visible impression upon their ranks. In ten
years, if it were abandoned, most of these creatures would be plentiful
again on the waters from which they have been driven; I should myself
be very glad to see many of them back again.
But if preservation has excluded many creatures, it has also saved
many. Badgers, in all probability, would be extinct--really extinct,
like the wolf--were it not for the seclusion of covers. Without the
protection which hunting affords them, foxes would certainly have
disappeared. The stag and fallow-deer are other examples; so, too, the
wild white cattle maintained in a few parks. In a measure the rook owes
its existence to protection; for although naturalists have pointed out
its usefulness, the rook is no favourite with agriculturists.
Woodcocks, again, are protected, and are said to have increased, though
it is open to question if their increased numbers may not be due to
other causes. Cultivation banishes wild geese and snipe, but adds to
the numbers of small birds, I fancy, and very probably to the number of
mice. When the country was three-fourths champaign--open, unenclosed,
and uncultivated--it cannot be supposed that so many grain-eating birds
found sustenance as now. The subject is capable of much development
Enough, however, has been said to show that Nature at present is under
artificial restraints; but her excluded creatures are for the most part
ready to return if ever those restraints are removed.
THE HOVERING OF THE KESTREL
There has lately been some discussion about the hovering of kestrels:
the point being whether the bird can or cannot support itself in the
air while stationary, without the assistance of one or more currents of
air. The kestrel is the commonest hawk in the southern parts of
England, so that many opportunities occur to observe his habits; and
there ought not to be any doubt in the matter. It is even alleged that
it will go far to decide the question of the possibility of flight or
of the construction of an aerial machine. Without entering into this
portion of the discussion, let us examine the kestrel's habits.
This hawk has a light easy flight, usually maintaining an altitude a
little lower than the tallest elms, but higher than most trees. He will
keep this particular altitude for hours together, and sweep over miles
of country, with only occasional variations--excluding, of course,
descents for the purpose of taking mice. It is usually at this height
that a kestrel hovers, though he is capable of doing it a much greater
elevation. As he comes gliding through the atmosphere, suddenly he
shoots up a little (say, roughly, two or three feet), and then stops
short. His tail, which is broader than it looks, is bent slightly
downwards; his wings beat the air, at the first glance, just as if he
was progressing. Sometimes he seems to oscillate to one side, sometimes
to the other; but these side movements do not amount to any appreciable
change of position. If there be little or no wind (note this) he
remains beating the air, to the eye at least perfectly stationary,
perhaps as much as half a minute or more. He then seems to slip forward
about half a yard, as if a pent-up force was released, but immediately
recovers himself and hovers again. This alternate hovering and slipping
forward may be repeated two or three times: it seems to depend on the
bird's judgment as to the chance of prey. If he does not think a mouse
is to be had, at the first slip he allows himself to proceed. If the
spot be likely, or (what is still more tempting) if it is near a place
where he has taken prey previously, he will slip and bring up several
times. Now and then he will even fetch a half-circle when his balance
or impetus (or both) is quite exhausted, and to return to the same spot
and recommence. But this is not often, as a rule, after two or three
slips he proceeds on his voyage. He will repeat the same round day
after day, if undisturbed, and, if the place be at all infested with
mice, he will come to it three or four times a day. There is,
therefore, every chance of watching him, if you have once found his
route. Should he spy a mouse, down he comes, quick but steady, and very
nearly straight upon it. But kestrels do not always descend upon prey
actually in view. Unless I am much mistaken, they now and then descend
in a likely spot and watch like a cat for a minute or two for mice or
beetles. For rest they always seek a tree.
Now, having briefly sketched his general manner, let us return and
examine the details. In the first place, he usually rises slightly,
with outstretched wings, as if about to soar at the moment of
commencing hovering. The planes of the wings are then inclined, and
meet the air. At the instant of stopping, the tail is depressed. It
appears reasonable to conjecture that the slight soaring is to assist
the tail in checking his onward course, and to gain a balance.
Immediately the wings beat rapidly, somewhat as they do in ordinary
flight but with a more forward motion, and somewhat as birds do when
about to perch on an awkward ledge, as a swallow at an incomplete nest
under an eave. The wings look more, in front, as if attached to his
neck. In an exaggerated way ducks beat the air like this, with no
intention of rising at all, merely to stretch their wings. The duck
raises himself as he stands on the ground, stretches himself to his
full height, and flaps his wings horizontally. The kestrel's wings
strike downwards and a very little forwards, for his natural tendency
is to slip forwards, and the object of slightly reversing his vanes is
to prevent this and yet at the same time to support him. His shape is
such that if he were rigid with outstretched wings he would glide
ahead, just as a ship in a calm slowly forges ahead because of her
lines, which are drawn for forward motion. The kestrel's object is to
prevent his slip forwards, and the tail alone will not do it. It is
necessary for him to "stroke" the air in order to keep up at all;
because the moment he pauses gravitation exercises a force much greater
than when he glides.
While hovering there are several forces balanced: first, the original
impetus onwards; secondly, that of the depressed tail dragging and
stopping that onward course; thirdly, that of the wing beating
downwards; and fourthly, that of the wing a very little reversed
beating forwards, like backing water with a scull. When used in the
ordinary way the shape of the wing causes it to exert a downward and a
backward pressure. His slip is when he loses balance: it is most
obviously a loss of balance; he quite oscillates sometimes when it
occurs; and now and then I have seen a kestrel unable to catch himself,
and obliged to proceed some distance before he could hover again.
Occasionally, in the slip he loses a foot or so of elevation, but not
always. While actually hovering, his altitude does not vary an inch.
All and each of these movements and the considerations to which they
give rise show conclusively that the act of hovering is nothing more or
less than an act of balancing; and when he has his balance he will rest
a moment with outstretched wings kept still. He uses his wings with
just sufficient force neither to rise nor fall, and prevents progress
by a slightly different stroke.
The next point is, Where does he hover? He hovers any and everywhere,
without the slightest choice. He hovers over meadows, cornfields; over
the tops of the highest downs, sometimes at the very edge of a
precipice or above a chalk quarry; over gardens, waste ground; over the
highway; over summer and other ricks and thatched sheds, from which he
sometimes takes his prey; over stables, where mice abound. He has no
preference for one side of a hedge or grove, and cares not the least on
which the wind blows. His hovering is entirely determined by his
judgment as to the chance of prey. I have seen a kestrel hover over
every variety of dry ground that is to be found.
Next, as to the wind. If any one has read what has preceded upon his
manner of preserving his balance, it must be at once apparent that,
supposing a kestrel were hovering in a calm and a wind arose, he would
at once face it, else his balance could not be kept. Even on the ground
almost all birds face the wind by choice; but the hovering kestrel has
no choice. He must hover facing the wind, or it would upset him: just
as you may often see a rook flung half aback by a sudden gust. Hence
has arisen the supposition that a kestrel cannot hover without a wind.
The truth is, he can hover in a perfect calm, and no doubt could do so
in a room if it were large enough. He requires no current of any kind,
neither a horizontal breeze nor an ascending current. A kestrel can and
does hover in the dead calm of summer days, when there is not the
faintest breath of wind. He will and does hover in the still, soft
atmosphere of early autumn, when the gossamer falls in showers, coming
straight down as if it were raining silk. If you puff up a ball of
thistledown it will languish on your breath and sink again to the
sward. The reapers are sweltering in the wheat, the keeper suffocates
in the wood, the carter walks in the shadow cast by his load of corn,
the country-side stares all parched and cracked and gasps for a rainy
breeze. The kestrel hovers just the same. Could he not do so, a long
calm would half starve him, as that is his manner of preying. Having
often spent hours in trees for the purpose of a better watch upon
animals and birds, I can vouch for it that ascending currents are not
frequent--rare, in fact, except in a gale. In a light air or calm there
is no ascending current, or it is imperceptible and of no use to the
kestrel. Such currents, when they do exist, are very local; but the
kestrel's hover is not local: he can hover anywhere. He can do it in
the face of a stiff gale, and in a perfect calm. The only weather he
dislikes is heavy thunder, rain, or hail, during which he generally
perches on a tree; but he can hover in all ordinary rain. He effects it
by sheer power and dexterity of wing. Therefore if the fact has any
bearing upon the problem of flight, the question of currents may be
left out altogether. His facing the wind is, as has been pointed out,
only a proof that he is keeping his balance.
The kestrel is not the only bird that hovers. The sparrowhawk can. So
can all the finches, more or less, when taking seeds from a plant which
will not bear their weight or which they cannot otherwise get at; also
when taking insects on the wing. Sparrows do the same. Larks hover in
their mating season uttering a short song, not the same as when they
soar. Numerous insects can hover: the great dragon-fly will stop dead
short in his rapid flight, and stay suspended till it suits him to
advance. None of these require any current or wind. I do not think that
hovering requires so much strength of wing or such an exercise of force
as when birds rise almost straight up. Snipes do it, and woodcocks; so
also pheasants, rocketing with tremendous effort; so also a sparrow in
a confined court, rising almost straight to the slates. Evidently this
needs great power. Hovering is very interesting; but not nearly so
mysterious as at least one other power possessed by birds.
BIRDS CLIMBING THE AIR
Two hawks come over the trees, and, approaching each other, rise higher
into the air. They wheel about for a little without any apparent
design, still rising, when one ceases to beat the air with his wings,
stretches them to their full length, and seems to lean aside. His
impetus carries him forward and upward, at the same time in a circle,
something like a skater on one foot. Revolving round a centre, he rises
in a spiral, perhaps a hundred yards across; screwing upwards, and at
each turn ascending half the diameter of the spiral. When he begins
this it appears perfectly natural, and nothing more than would
necessarily result if the wings were held outstretched and one edge of
the plane slightly elevated. The impulse of previous flight, the beat
of strong pinions, and the swing and rush of the bird evidently suffice
for two or three, possibly for four or five, winding movements, after
which the retarding effects of friction and gravitation ought,
according to theory, to gradually bring the bird to a stop. But up goes
the hawk, round and round like a woodpecker climbing a tree; only the
hawk has nothing tangible into which to stick his claws and to rest his
tail against. Those winding circles must surely cease; his own weight
alone must stop him, and those wide wings outstretched must check his
course. Instead of which the hawk rises as easily as at first, and
without the slightest effort--no beat of wing or flutter, without even
a slip or jerk, easily round and round. His companion does the same;
often, perhaps always, revolving the opposite way, so as to face the
first. It is a fascinating motion to watch.
The graceful sweeping curl holds the eye: it is a line of beauty, and
draws the glance up into the heights of the air. The darker upper part
of one is usually visible at the same time as the lighter under part of
the other, and as the dark wheels again the sunlight gleams on the
breast and under wing. Sometimes they take regular curves, ascending in
an equal degree with each; each curve representing an equal height
gained perpendicularly. Sometimes they sweep round in wide circles,
scarcely ascending at all. Again, suddenly one will shoot up almost
perpendicularly, immediately followed by the other. Then they will
resume the regular ascent. Up, like the woodpecker round a tree, till
now the level of the rainy scud which hurries over in wet weather has
long been past; up till to the eye it looks as if they must soon attain
to the flecks of white cloud in the sunny sky to-day. They are in
reality far from that elevation; but their true height is none the less
wonderful. Resting on the sward, I have watched them go up like this
through a lovely morning atmosphere till they seemed about to actually
enter the blue, till they were smaller in appearance than larks at
their highest ascent, till the head had to be thrown right back to see
them. This last circumstance shows how perpendicularly they ascend,
winding round a line drawn straight up. At their very highest they are
hardly visible, except when the under wing and breast passes and gleams
in the light.
All this is accomplished with outstretched wings held at full length,
without flap, or beat, or any apparent renewal of the original impetus.
If you take a flat stone and throw it so that it will spin, it will go
some way straight, then rise, turn aside, describe a half-circle, and
fall. If the impetus kept in it, it would soar like the hawk, but this
does not happen. A boomerang acts much in the same manner, only more
perfectly: yet, however forcibly thrown, the impetus soon dies out of a
boomerang. A skater gets up his utmost speed, suddenly stands on one
foot, and describes several circles; but in two minutes comes to a
standstill, unless he "screws," or works his skate, and so renews the
impulse. Even at his best he only goes round, and does not raise his
weight an inch from the ice. The velocity of a bullet rapidly
decreases, and a ball shot from an express rifle, and driven by a heavy
charge, soon begins to droop. When these facts are duly considered, it
will soon be apparent what a remarkable feat soaring really is. The
hawk does not always ascend in a spiral, but every now and then
revolves in a circle--a flat circle--and suddenly shoots up with
renewed rapidity. Whether this be merely sportive wantonness or whether
it is a necessity, is impossible to determine; but to me it does not
appear as if the hawk did it from necessity. It has more the appearance
of variation: just as you or I might walk fast at one moment and slowly
at another, now this side of the street and now the other. A shifting
of the plane of the wings would, however, in all probability, give some
impetus: the question is, would it be sufficient? I have seen hawks go
up in sunny and lovely weather--in fact, they seem to prefer still,
calm weather; but, considering the height to which they attain, no one
can positively assert that they do or do not utilise a current. If they
do, they may be said to sail (a hawk's wings are technically his sails)
round half the circle with the wind fair and behind, and then meet it
the other half of the turn, using the impetus they have gained to
surmount the breeze as they breast it. Granting this mechanical
assistance, it still remains a wonderful feat, since the nicest
adjustment must be necessary to get the impetus sufficient to carry the
birds over the resistance. They do not drift, or very little.
My own impression is that a hawk can soar in a perfectly still
atmosphere. If there is a wind he uses it; but it is quite as much an
impediment as an aid. If there is no wind he goes up with the greater
ease and to the greater height, and will of choice soar in a calm. The
spectacle of a weight--for of course the hawk has an appreciable
weight--apparently lifting itself in the face of gravitation and
overcoming friction, is a very striking one. When an autumn leaf parts
on a still day from the twig, it often rotates and travels some
distance from the tree, falling reluctantly and with pauses and delays
in the air. It is conceivable that if the leaf were animated and could
guide its rotation, it might retard its fall for a considerable period
of time, or even rise higher than the tree.
COUNTRY LITERATURE
I
THE AWAKENING
Four hundred years after the first printed book was sent out by Caxton
the country has begun to read. An extraordinary reflection that twelve
generations should pass away presenting the impenetrable front of
indifference to the printing-press! The invention which travelled so
swiftly from shore to shore till the remote cities of Mexico, then but
lately discovered, welcomed it, for four centuries failed to enter the
English counties. This incredible delay must not be supposed to be due
to any exceptional circumstances or to inquisitorial action. The cause
is found in the agricultural character itself. There has never been any
difficulty in obtaining books in the country other than could be
surmounted with patience. It is the peculiarity of knowledge that those
who really thirst for it always get it. Books certainly came down in
some way or other to Stratford-on-Avon, and the great mind that was
growing there somehow found a means of reading them. Long, long before,
when the printed page had not been dreamed of, the Grecian student,
listening at the school, made his notes on oyster-shells and
blade-bones. But here the will was wanting. There was no prejudice, for
no people admired learning more than the village people, or gave it
more willing precedence. It was simple indifference, which was mistaken
for a lack of intelligence, but it was most certainly nothing of the
kind. How great, then, must be the change when at last, after four
hundred years, the country begins to read!
To read everything and anything! The cottagers in faraway hamlets,
miles from a railway station, read every scrap of printed paper that
drifts across their way, like leaves in autumn. The torn newspapers in
which the grocer at the market town wraps up their weekly purchases,
stained with tallow or treacle, are not burned heedlessly. Some
paragraph, some fragment of curious information, is gathered from the
pieces. The ploughman at his luncheon reads the scrap of newspaper in
which his bread-and-cheese was packed for him. Men read the bits of
paper in which they carry their screws of tobacco. The stone-pickers in
spring in the meadows, often women, look at the bits of paper scattered
here and there before putting them in their baskets. A line here and a
line yonder, one to-day, one to-morrow, in time make material equal to
a book. All information in our day filters through the newspapers.
There is no subject you can name of which you may not get together a
good body of knowledge, often superior, because more recent, than that
contained in the best volumes, by watching the papers and cutting out
the paragraphs that relate to it. No villager does that, but this
ceaseless searching for scraps comes to something like the same thing
in a more general manner.
London newspapers come now to the village and hamlet in all sorts of
ways. Some by post, others by milk-cart, by carrier, by travellers; for
country folk travel now, and invariably bring back papers bought at the
railway bookstalls. After these have been read by the farmers and upper
sort of people who purchased them, the fragments get out through
innumerable channels to the cottages. The regular labourers employed on
the farm often receive them as presents, and take nothing more gladly.
If any one wishes to make a cottager a little present to show friendly
remembrance, the best thing to send is a bundle of newspapers,
especially, of course, if they are illustrated, which will be welcomed,
and not a corner of the contents slurred over. Nothing is so contrary
to fact as the common opinion that the agricultural labourer and his
family are stupid and unintelligent. In truth, there are none who so
appreciate information and they are quite capable of understanding
anything that may be sent them in print.
London papers of various descriptions come to the villages now in
greatly increased numbers, probably fifteen or twenty for one that
formerly arrived, and all these, or some portion of each, are nearly
sure to be ultimately perused by some cottager. At the inns and
beer-houses there is now usually a daily paper, unless the distance is
farther than general to a station, and then there are weeklies with
summaries of everything. So that the London press is accessible at the
meanest beer-house, and well bethumbed and besmeared the blackened
sheets are, with holes where clumsy fingers have gone through. The
shepherd in his hut in the lambing season, when the east wind blows and
he needs shelter, is sure to have a scrap of newspaper with him to pore
over in the hollow of the windy downs. In summer he reads in the shade
of the firs while his sheep graze on the slope beneath. The little
country stations are often not stations at all in the urban idea of
such a convenience, being quite distant from any town, and merely
gathering together the traffic from cross-roads. But the porters and
men who work there at times get a good many newspapers, and these,
after looking at them themselves, they take or send up to their
relatives in the village five or six miles away. Everybody likes to
tell another the news; and now that there is such a village demand for
papers, to pass on a paper is like passing the news, and gives a
pleasure to donor and recipient.