bird in quitting another region, and passing into our island. The chief
motives for migration seem to be food, a milder climate, and quiet
during the period of incubation and rearing their young: but the willow
wren, and some others of our insectivorous birds, appear to have other
purposes to accomplish by their annual migrations. These little
creatures, the food of which is solely insects, could assuredly find a
sufficient supply of such diet during the summer months, in the woods
and thickets of those mild regions, where they passed the season of
winter, and every bank and unfrequented wild would furnish a secure
asylum for them and their offspring during the period of incubation. The
passage to our shores is a long and dangerous one, and some imperative
motive for it must exist; and, until facts manifest the reason, we may
perhaps, without injury to the cause of research, conjecture for what
object these perilous transits are made. We know that all young
creatures require particularly compounded nutriment during their infant
state; and nature, as far as we are acquainted with it, has made in
every instance provision for a supply of fitting aliment. In many
instances, where the removal of station could not be conveniently
accomplished, instinct has been given the parent to provide the fitting
aliment for its new-born young. Thus insects, in some cases, store their
cells with food ready for the animation of their progeny; in others,
place their eggs in such situations, as will afford it when they are
hatched. The mammalia, at least the quadrupeds belonging to this class,
which could least conveniently move their station, have supplies given
them of a milky secretion for this purpose. Birds have nothing of this
nature, and make no provision for their young; but they of all
creatures, except fishes, can seek what may be required in distant
stations with most facility. A sufficiency of food for the adult parent
may be found in every climate, yet the aliment necessary for its
offspring may not. Countries and even counties produce insects that
differ, if not in species, at least in numbers; and many young birds we
cannot succeed in rearing, or do it very partially, by reason of our
ignorance of the requisite food. Every one, who has made the attempt,
well knows the various expedients he has resorted to, of boiled meats,
bruised seeds, hard eggs, boiled rice, and twenty other substances, that
nature never presents, in order to find a diet that will nourish them;
but Mr. Montague’s failure in being able to raise the young of the cirl
bunting,[46] until he discovered that they required grasshoppers, is a
sufficient instance of the manifest necessity there is for a peculiar
food in one period of the life of birds; and renders it probable that,
to obtain a certain aliment, this willow wren, and others of the insect
and fruit-feeding birds, direct their flight to distant regions, and is
the principal cause of their migrations.
It is some stimulus like this, which urges that little creature, the
golden-crested wren (motacilla regulus), that usually only flits from
tree to tree, and never attempts upon common occasions a longer flight,
to traverse the vast distance from the Orkneys to the Shetland Isles
over stormy seas that admit no possible rest during its long passage of
above fifty miles! There it breeds its young; but this one object
accomplished, it leaves those isles, dares again this tedious flight,
and seeks a milder clime. With us it never migrates, lives much in our
fir groves during the winter, and breeds in our shrubberies in summer.
Peculiar necessities, such as these, may incite the migration of many
birds; but that certain species, which lead solitary lives, or associate
only in very small parties, should at stated periods congregate from all
parts to one spot, and there hold council on a removal, in which the
very sexes occasionally separate, is one of the most extraordinary
procedures that we meet with among animals.
If the sober, domestic attachments of the hedge-sparrow please us, we
are not less charmed with the innocent, blithesome gaiety of the linnet
(fringilla linota). But this songster is no solitary visiter of our
dwellings: it delights and lives in society, frequenting open commons
and gorsy fields, where several pairs, without the least rivalry or
contention, will build their nests and rear their offspring in the same
neighborhood, twittering and warbling all the day long. This duty over,
the families unite, and form large associations, feeding and moving in
company as one united household; and, resorting to the head of some
sunny tree, they will pass hours in the enjoyment of the warmth,
chattering with each other in a low and gentle note, and they will thus
regularly assemble during any occasional bright gleam throughout all the
winter season,—
“and still their voice is song,”
which, heard at some little distance, forms a very pleasing concert,
innocent and joyous. The linnet is the cleanliest of birds, delighting
to dabble in the water and dress its plumage in every little rill that
runs by. The extent of voice in a single bird is not remarkable, being
more pleasing than powerful; yet a large field of furze, in a mild sunny
April morning, animated with the actions and cheering music of these
harmless little creatures, united with the bright glow and odor of this
early blossom, is not visited without gratification and pleasure.
The bull-finch (loxia pyrrhula) has no claims to our regard. It is
gifted with no voice to charm us; it communicates no harmony to the
grove: all we hear from it is a low and plaintive call to its fellows in
the hedge. It has no familiarity or association with us, but lives in
retirement in some lonely thicket ten months in the year. At length, as
spring approaches, it will visit our gardens, an insidious plunderer.
Its delight is in the embryo blossoms wrapped up at this season in the
bud of a tree; and it is very dainty and curious in its choice of this
food, seldom feeding upon two kinds at the same time. It generally
commences with the germs of our larger and most early gooseberry; and
the bright red breasts of four or five cock-birds, quietly feeding on
the leafless bush, are a very pretty sight, but the consequences are
ruinous to the crop. When the cherry buds begin to come forward, they
quit the gooseberry, and make tremendous havoc with these. I have an
early wall cherry, a mayduke by reputation, that has for years been a
great favorite with the bull-finch family, and its celebrity seems to be
communicated to each successive generation. It buds profusely, but is
annually so stripped of its promise by these feathered rogues, that its
kind might almost be doubted. The orleans and green-gage plums next form
a treat, and draw their attention from what remains of the cherry.
Having banqueted here awhile, they leave our gardens entirely, resorting
to the fields and hedges, where the sloe bush in April furnishes them
with food. May brings other dainties, and the labors and business of
incubation withdraw them from our observation.
The idea that has been occasionally entertained, that this bird selects
only such buds as contain the embryo of an insect, to feed on it, and
thus free us of a latent colony of caterpillars, is certainly not
correct. It may confer this benefit accidentally, but not with
intention. The mischief effected by bull-finches is greater than
commonly imagined, and the ground beneath the bush or tree, on which
they have been feeding, is commonly strewed with the shattered buds, the
rejectments of their banquet; and we are thus deprived of a large
portion of our best fruits by this assiduous pillager, this “pick-a-
bud,” as the gardeners call it, without any redeeming virtues to
compensate our loss. A snowy, severe winter makes great havoc with this
bird. It feeds much in this season upon the fruit of the dog-rose,
“hips,” as we call them. When they are gone, it seems to pine for food,
and is starved, or perhaps frozen on its roost, as few are observed to
survive a long inclement winter. But it is not the buds of our fruit-
bearing trees only that these destructive birds seek out; yet in all
instances I think it will be observed that such buds as produce leaves
only are rejected, and those which contain the embryo of the future
blossom selected: by this procedure, though the tree is prevented from
producing fruit, yet the foliage is expanded as usual; but had the
leaves, the lungs of the plant, been indiscriminately consumed, the tree
would probably have died, or its summer growth been materially injured:
we may thus lose our fruit this year, yet the tree survives, and hope
lives, too, that we may be more fortunate the next. The Tartarian
honeysuckle (lonicera Tart.) and corchorus Japonicus, when growing in
the shrubbery, are very commonly stripped of their bloom by bull-
finches: the first incloses many separated blossoms in its calyx before
expansion, and in that particular is analogous to the buds of
icosandrious trees in the garden; and the full-petalled swelling bloom
of the latter affords a fine treat for their feasts; but we may permit
these pretty birds to banquet here, though, if we expect a supply of
summer fruit, we must unsparingly drive them away from the branches of
our frugiferous trees. The blossoms of the peach, nectarine, and almond,
I have never observed to be injured by these birds: the sparrow will
pick away the buds of trees against walls when they frequent such
places, but, with this exception, I know none but the bull-finch which
resort to that food as a regular supply.
The robin (motacilla rubecola) associated with malignants is not,
perhaps, in the place where it generally would be sought; but sad truths
might be told of it too. It might be called pugnacious, jealous,
selfish, quarrelsome, did I not respect ancient feelings, and long-
established sentiments. A favorite by commiseration, it seeks an asylum
with us; by supplication and importunity it becomes a partaker of our
bounty in a season of severity and want; and its seeming humbleness and
necessities obtain our pity: but it slights and forgets our kindnesses
the moment it can provide for itself, and is away to its woods and its
shades. Yet it has some little coaxing ways, and such fearless
confidence, that it wins our regard; and its late autumnal song, in
evening’s dusky hour, as a monologue is pleasing, and redeems much of
its character. The universality of this bird in all places, and almost
at all hours, is very remarkable; and perhaps there are few spots so
lonely, in which it would not appear, did we commence digging up the
ground. I have often been surprised in the midst of woods, where no
suspicion of its presence existed, when watching some other creature, to
see the robin inquisitively perched upon some naked spray near me; or,
when digging up a plant in some very retired place, to observe its
immediate descent upon some poor worm that I had moved. The robin loses
nearly all the characteristic color from its breast in the summer, when
it moults, and only recovers it on the approach of autumn; which in some
measure accounts for the extraordinary assertion of Pliny, that the
redbreast is only so in winter, but becomes a firetail in summer.
The object of the song of birds is not agreed upon by ornithologists,
and we will not now think of it, but merely in passing note how
singularly timed the song of the robin is. The blackbird, and the
thrush, in mild seasons, will sing occasionally throughout the winter;
but the robin, after having been absent all the summer, returns to us
late in autumn, and then commences its song, when most others of our
feathered choristers are silent. An apparent contention in harmony
ensues among them; at length the rivals approach, menace, and fight,
with a seeming vexation at each other’s prowess. The song of no one bird
is, perhaps, more observed and remembered than the autumnal and, at
times, melancholy sounding farewell of the robin.
The chaffinch (fringilla cœlebs) appears to be universally spread
throughout the English counties, and the male bird is remarkable for the
cleanliness and trimness of his plumage, which, without having any great
variety or splendor of coloring, is so composed and arranged, and the
white on his wings so brilliant, as to render him a very beautiful
little creature. The female is as remarkable for the quiet, unobtrusive
tintings of her dress; and, when she lies crouching on her nest,
elegantly formed of lichens from the bark of the apple tree, and faded
mosses, she would hardly be perceptible, but for her little bright eyes,
that peep with suspicious vigilance from her covert. With us the sexes
do not separate at any period of the year, the flocks frequenting our
barn doors and homesteads in winter being composed of both. In the
northern parts of Europe, however, the females are said to migrate to
milder regions, which induced Linnæus to bestow the name of “cœlebs”
upon this species. In Gloucestershire and some of the neighboring
counties, they are little known by the name of chaffinches; but, from
the constant repetition of one note, when alarmed or in danger, they
have acquired the name of “twinks,” and “pinks;” yet during incubation
the song of the male bird, though without any variation of tune, is very
pleasing in the general concert, as most vernal notes, if not harsh and
wearisome from monotony, are. These birds make sad havoc with some of
our spring flowers; and the polyanthus, in March, in our sheltered
borders, is very commonly stripped of all its blossoms by these little
plunderers, I suppose to obtain the immature seeds at the base of their
tubes. They will deflorate too the spikes or whorls of the little red
archangel (lamium purpureum); and we see them feeding in the waste
places where this plant is found in the spring, their little mouths
being filled with the green seeds of this dead nettle. At this period
too they are sad plunderers in our kitchen gardens, and most dexterously
draw up our young turnips and radishes, as soon as they appear upon the
surface of the soil; but after this all depredation ceases, the rest of
their days being past in sportive innocence. I have observed these
birds, in very hot seasons, to wet their eggs, by discharging moisture
from their bills upon them, or at least perform an operation that
appeared to be so.
We still continue here that very ancient custom of giving parish rewards
for the destruction of various creatures included in the denomination of
vermin. In former times it may have been found necessary to keep under
or reduce the numbers of many predaceous animals, which in a thickly
wooded country, with an inferior population, might have been productive
of injury; and we even find parliamentary statutes enacted for this
purpose: but now, however, our losses by such means have become a very
petty grievance; our gamekeepers do their part in removing pests of this
nature, and the plow and the ax leave little harbor for the few that
escape; and thus we war on the smaller races of creation, and call them
vermin. An item passed in one of our late church-wardens’ accounts was,
“for seventeen dozen of tom-tits’ heads!” In what evil hour, and for
what crime, this poor little bird (parus cæruleus) could have incurred
the anathema of a parish, it is difficult to conjecture. I know hardly
any small animal that lives a more precarious life than the little blue
tom-tit. Indeed it is marvellous how any of the insectivorous birds,
that pass their winter with us, are supplied with food during inclement
seasons, unless they have greater powers of abstinence than we are aware
of: but our small birds are generally much more active than those of a
larger bulk; the common wren is all animation, its actions and movements
bespeak hilarity and animal spirits; and that minute creature, too, the
golden-crested wren, is always in motion, flitting from the yew hedge to
the fir, or darting away to taller trees with a spring and a power we
could not expect from its size. These muscular exertions must greatly
counteract the effects of seasons, and enable these atoms of animals to
support so cheerfully and gaily the winters of our climate. But in truth
this tom-tit perishes in severe winters in great numbers. It roosts
under the eaves of our haystacks, and in little holes of the mows, where
we often find it dead, perished by cold or hunger, or conjointly by
both; yet the race survives, and this annual waste is recruited by the
prolificacy of the creature, the nest of which will frequently contain
from seven to nine young ones. Its chief subsistence is insects, which
it hunts out with unwearied perseverance. It peeps into the nail-holes
of our walls, which, though closed by the cobweb, will not secrete the
spider within; and draws out the chrysalis of the cabbage butterfly from
the chinks in the barn: but a supply of such food is precarious, and
becomes exhausted. It then resorts to our yards, and picks diminutive
morsels from some rejected bone, or scraps from the butcher’s stall: yet
this is the result of necessity, not choice; for no sooner is other food
attainable, than it retires to its woods and thickets. In summer it
certainly will regale itself with our garden pease, and shells a pod of
marrowfats with great dexterity; but this, we believe, is the extent of
its criminality. Yet for this venial indulgence do we proscribe it, rank
it with vermin, and set a price upon its head, giving four-pence for the
dozen, probably the ancient payment when the groat was a coin. However
powerful the stimulus was then, we yet find it a sufficient inducement
to our idle bat-fowling boys to bring baskets of poor toms’ heads to our
church-warden’s door.
The wiles and stratagems of every creature are deserving of attention,
because they are, for the most part, the impulse of the weak and feeble,
instinctive efforts to preserve their own existence, or more generally
to secure or defend that of their offspring. Few are able to effect
these objects by bodily power; but all creatures probably exert a
faculty of some kind, to ward off injury from their young, though not
observed by, or manifested to us. This poor little blue tom-tit, which
has neither beak, claws, nor any portion of strength to defend itself
from the weakest assailant, will nevertheless make trial by menace to
scare the intruder from its nest. It builds almost universally in the
hole of a wall, or a tree; and its size enables it to creep through so
small a crevice, that it is pretty well secured from all annoyances, but
those of bird-nesting boys; and these little plunderers the sitting bird
endeavors to scare away, by hissing and puffing in a very extraordinary
manner from the bottom of the hole, as soon as a finger is introduced,
and so perfectly unlike the usual voice of a bird, that many a young
intruder is deterred from prosecuting any farther search, lest he should
rouse the vengeance of some lurking snake or adder.
They who have seen much of birds, and attended to their actions, will in
general be certain of the creature that flits past, by the manner of its
flight; or that utters its note unseen by the peculiarity of voice; but
the tribe of titmice[47] (parus), especially in the spring of the year,
emit such a variety of sounds, that they will occasionally surprise and
disappoint us. Hearing an unusual voice, and creeping with caution to
observe the stranger from which it proceeds, we perceive only our old
acquaintance, the large tom-tit (parus major), searching for food amid
the lichens on the bough of an apple-tree. This bird, and that little
dark species the “coal,” or “colemouse” (parus ater), in particular,
will often acquire or compound a note, become delighted with it, and
repeat it incessantly while sporting about the catkins of the alder, for
an hour or so, then seem to forget or be weary of it, and we hear it no
more.
Our tall hedge-rows and copses are frequented by a very amusing little
bird, the long-tailed titmouse (parus caudatus). Our boys call it the
long-tailed tom-tit, long tom, poke-pudding, and various other names. It
seems the most restless of little creatures, and is all day long in a
state of progression from tree to tree, from hedge to hedge, jerking
through the air with its long tail like a ball of feathers, or threading
the branches of a tree, several following each other in a little stream;
the leading bird uttering a shrill cry of twĭt, twĭt, twĭt, and away
they all scuttle to be first, stop for a second, and then are away
again, observing the same order and precipitation the whole day long.
The space travelled by these diminutive creatures in the course of their
progresses from the first move till the evening roost must be
considerable; yet, by their constant alacrity and animation, they appear
fully equal to their daily task. We have no bird more remarkable for its
family association than this parus. It is never seen alone, the young
ones continuing to accompany each other from the period of their
hatching until their pairing in spring. Its food is entirely insects,
which it seeks among mosses and lichens, the very smallest being
captured by the diminutive bill of this creature. Its nest is as
singular in construction as the bird itself. Even in years long passed
away, when, a nesting boy, I strung my plunder on the benty grass, it
was my admiration; and I never see it now without secretly lauding the
industry of these tiny architects. It is shaped like a bag, and
externally fabricated of moss and different herbaceous lichens,
collected chiefly from the sloe (lichen prunastri), and the maple
(lichen farinaceus); but the inside contains such a profusion of
feathers, that it seems rather filled than lined with them, a perfect
feather-bed! I remember finding fourteen or sixteen pealike eggs within
this downy covert, and many more were reported to have been found. The
excessive labor of the parent birds in the construction and collection
of this mass of materials is exceeded by none that I know of; and the
exertions of two little creatures in providing for, and feeding, with
all the incumbrances of feathers and tails, fourteen young ones, in such
a situation, surpasses in diligence and ingenuity the efforts of any
other birds, persevering as they are, that I am acquainted with.
We might naturally suppose that by the end of winter, all those little
birds which are solely supported by insect food would find some
difficulty in providing for their wants, having consumed by their
numbers and exertions nearly all that store of provision which had been
provided in the summer and deposited in safety; but I have found the
stomachs of the tree-creeper, and this small titmouse, even in February,
quite filled with parts of coleopterous creatures, which by their
activity and perseverance they had been enabled to procure beneath the
mosses on the branches, and from the chinks in the bark of trees, where
they had retired in autumn. Such plenty being procurable after the
supply of so many months, renders it apparent that there is no actual
deficiency of food at any one period of the year. The small slugs, and
some few insects, may perhaps be consumed by the severity of winter, but
the larger portion of them are so constituted, as to derive no injury
from the inclemency of that season, but afford during many months
provender to other creatures, multitudes yet remaining to continue their
races and animate the air, when the warm days of spring shall waken them
to active life.