remarkable, as the variety of materials employed in them; the same
forms, places, and articles, being rarely, perhaps never, found united
by the different species, which we should suppose similar necessities
would direct to a uniform provision. Birds that build early in the
spring seem to require warmth and shelter for their young, and the
blackbird and the thrush line their nests with a plaster of loam,
perfectly excluding, by these cottage-like walls, the keen icy gales of
our opening year; yet should accident bereave the parents of their first
hopes, they will construct another, even when summer is far advanced,
upon the model of their first erection, and with the same precautions
against severe weather, when all necessity for such provision has
ceased, and the usual temperature of the season rather requiring
coolness and a free circulation of air. The house-sparrow will commonly
build four or five times in the year, and in a variety of situations,
under the warm eaves of our houses and our sheds, the branch of the
clustered fir, or the thick tall hedge that bounds our garden, &c.; in
all which places, and without the least consideration of site or season,
it will collect a great mass of straws and hay, and gather a profusion
of feathers from the poultry-yard to line its nest. This cradle for its
young, whether under our tiles in March or in July, when the parent bird
is panting in the common heat of the atmosphere, has the same provision
made to afford warmth to the brood; yet this is a bird that is little
affected by any of the extremes of our climate. The wood-pigeon and the
jay, though they erect their fabrics on the tall underwood in the open
air, will construct them so slightly, and with such a scanty provision
of materials, that they seem scarcely adequate to support their broods,
and even their eggs may almost be seen through the loosely connected
materials: but the goldfinch, that inimitable spinner, the Arachnè of
the grove, forms its cradle of fine mosses and lichens, collected from
the apple or the pear-tree, compact as a felt, lining it with the down
of thistles besides, till it is as warm as any texture of the kind can
be, and it becomes a model for beautiful construction. The golden-
crested wren, a minute creature, perfectly unmindful of any severity in
our winter, and which hatches its young in June, the warmer portion of
our year, yet builds its most beautiful nest with the utmost attention
to warmth; and, interweaving small branches of moss with the web of the
spider, forms a closely compacted texture nearly an inch in thickness,
lining it with such a profusion of feathers, that, sinking deep into
this downy accumulation, it seems almost lost itself when sitting, and
the young, when hatched, appear stifled with the warmth of their bedding
and the heat of their apartment; while the whitethroat, the blackcap,
and others, which will hatch their young nearly at the same period, or
in July, will require nothing of the kind. A few loose bents and goose-
grass, rudely entwined with perhaps the luxury of some scattered hairs,
are perfectly sufficient for all the wants of these; yet they are birds
that live only in genial temperatures, feel nothing of the icy gales
that are natural to our pretty indigenous artists, but flit from sun to
sun and we might suppose would require much warmth in our climate during
the season of incubation; but it is not so. The green-finch places its
nest in the hedge with little regard to concealment; its fabric is
slovenly and rude, and the materials of the coarsest kinds: while the
chaffinch, just above it in the elm, hides its nest with cautious care,
and moulds it with the utmost attention to order, neatness, and form.
One bird must have a hole in the ground; to another a crevice in a wall,
or a chink in a tree, is indispensable. The bull-finch requires fine
roots for its nest; the gray flycatcher will have cobwebs for the
outworks of its shed. All the parus tribe, except the individual above-
mentioned, select some hollow in a tree or cranny in a wall, and,
sheltered as such places must be, yet will they collect abundance of
feathers and warm materials for their infants’ beds. Endless examples
might be found of the dissimilarity of requirements in these
constructions among the several associates of our groves, our hedges,
and our houses; and yet the supposition cannot be entertained for a
moment that they are superfluous, or not essential for some purpose with
which we are unacquainted.[48] By how many of the ordinations of supreme
intelligence is our ignorance made manifest! Even the fabrication of the
nests of these little animals exceeds our comprehension—we know none of
the causes or motives of that unbodied mind that willed them thus.
One notice more of the parus tribe (the parus cæruleus), and these
little creatures may retire to their leafy shades and be forgotten. I
was lately exceedingly pleased in witnessing the maternal care and
intelligence of this bird; for the poor thing had its young ones in the
hole of a wall, and the nest had been nearly all drawn out of the
crevice by the paw of a cat, and part of its brood devoured. In
revisiting its family, the bird discovered a portion of it remaining,
though wrapped up and hidden in the tangled moss and feathers of their
bed, and it then drew the whole of the nest back into the place from
whence it had been taken, unrolled and resettled the remaining little
ones, fed them with the usual attentions, and finally succeeded in
rearing them. The parents of even this reduced family labored with great
perseverance to supply its wants, one or the other of them bringing a
grub, caterpillar, or some insect, at intervals of less than a minute
through the day, and probably in the earlier part of the morning more
frequently; but if we allow that they brought food to the hole every
minute for fourteen hours, and provided for their own wants also, it
will admit of perhaps a thousand grubs a day for the requirements of
one, and that a diminished brood; and give us some comprehension of the
infinite number requisite for the summer nutriment of our soft-billed
birds, and the great distances gone over by such as have young ones, in
their numerous trips from hedge to tree in the hours specified, when
they have full broods to support. A climate of moisture and temperature
like ours is peculiarly favorable for the production of insect food,
which would in some seasons be particularly injurious, were we not
visited by such numbers of active little friends to consume it.
The raven (corvus corax) does not build with us. A pair indeed attempted
to raise a brood in our wych elm; but they love retirement and quiet,
and were soon scared away, and made no second trial. Ravens visit us,
however, frequently, and always during the lambing season, watching for
any weak and deserted creature, which, when perceived, is instantly
deprived of its eyes; but they make no long stay in our pastures. They
abide nowhere in fact, but move from place to place, where food may
chance to be found. Should an animal die, or a limb of fresh carrion be
on the hooks in the tree, the hoarse croak of the raven is sure
immediately to be heard, calling his congeners to the banquet. We see it
daily in its progress of inspection, or high in the air on a transit to
other regions, hastening, we conjecture, to some distant prey. With the
exception of the snipe, no bird seems more universally spread over the
surface of our globe than the raven, inhabiting every zone, the hot, the
temperate, the severe—feeding upon, and removing noxious substances from
the earth, of which it obtains intimation by means of a faculty we have
little conception of. Sight it cannot be; and we know not of any fetor
escaping from an animal previous to putrescence, so subtile as to call
these scavengers of nature from the extremity of one county to that of
another; for it is manifest, from the height which they preserve in
their flight, and the haste they are making, that their departure has
been from some far distant station, having a remote and urgent object in
contemplation.
In England the raven does not seem to abound; but it is most common on
the shores of harbors, or near great rivers, where animal substances are
more frequently to be met with than in inland places. In Greenland, and
Iceland, where putrescent fishy substances abound, they appear to be
almost domesticated. Horace calls the raven “_annosa cornix_;” and in a
tame state it has attained a very long life. How long extended its
existence may be, when roaming in an unrestricted state, we have no
means of ascertaining. This liberty may be most favorable to longevity;
yet, from the numerous contingencies attending the condition of these
creatures, it is probable that few of them live out all their days, so
as to become the “bird of ages.” However, the supposed longevity they
have attained, their frequent mention and agency in holy writ, the
obscure knowledge we possess of their powers and motives, with the
gravity of their deportment, like an “all-knowing bird,” have acquired
for them, from very remote periods, the veneration of mankind. The
changes in our manners and ideas, in respect to many things, have
certainly deprived them of much of this reverence; yet the almost
supernatural information which they obtain of the decease, or
approaching dissolution, of an animal, claims still some admiration for
them. This supposed faculty of “smelling death” formerly rendered their
presence, or even their voice, ominous to all, as
“The hateful messengers of heavy things,
Of death and dolor telling;”
and the unusual sound of their harsh croak, still, when illness is in
the house, with some timid and affectionate persons, brings old fancies
to remembrance, savoring of terror and alarm. I am no friend to the
superstition of converting natural transactions, or occasional events,
into signs and indications of coming things; superstitions are wearing
out, and shortly will waste away, and be no more heard of; but I fear,
in their place, deism, infidelity, impiety, have started up, the
offspring of intuitive wisdom: the first belief arises from weakness and
ignorance; the latter disbelief is ingratitude, pride, wickedness.
Of the natural duration of animal life it is, from many circumstances,
difficult to form an accurate statement, the wild creatures being in
great measure removed from observation, and those in a condition of
domestication being seldom permitted to live as long as their bodily
strength would allow. It was formerly supposed that the length of animal
life was in proportion to its duration in utero, or the space it
remained in the parent from conception to birth, and the length of time
it required to obtain maturity. This notion might have some support in
reason and fact, occasionally, but in many cases was incorrect, and in
regard to birds had no foundation. Herbivorous animals probably live
longer than carnivorous ones, vegetable food being most easily
obtainable in all seasons in a regular and requisite supply; whereas
animals that subsist on flesh, or by the capture of prey, are
necessitated at one period to pine without food, and at another are
gorged with superfluity: and when the bodily powers of rapacious
creatures become impaired, existence is difficult to support, and
gradually ceases; but with herbivorous animals in the same condition,
supply is not equally precarious, or wholly denied. Yet it is probable
that few animals in a perfectly wild state live to a natural extinction
of life. In a state of domestication, the small number of carnivorous
creatures about us are sheltered and fed with care, seldom are in want
of proper food, and at times are permitted to await a gradual decay,
continuing as long as nature permits; and by such attentions many have
attained to a great age; but this is rather an artificial than a natural
existence. Our herbivorous animals, being kept mostly for profit, are
seldom allowed to remain beyond approaching age; and when its advances
trench upon our emoluments by diminishing the supply of utility, we
remove them. The uses of the horse, though time may reduce them, are
often protracted; and our gratitude for past services, or interest in
what remains, prompts us to support his life by prepared food of easy
digestion, or requiring little mastication, and he certainly by such
means attains to a longevity probably beyond the contingencies of
nature. I have still a favorite pony—for she has been a faithful and
able performer of all the duties required of her in my service for
upwards of two-and-twenty years—and, though now above five-and-twenty
years of age, retains all her powers perfectly, without any diminution
or symptom of decrepitude; the fineness of limb, brilliancy of eye, and
ardor of spirit, are those of the colt and though treated with no
remarkable care, she has never been disabled by the illness of a day, or
sickened by the drench of the farrier. With birds it is probably the
same as with other creatures, and the eagle, the raven, the parrot, &c.,
in a domestic state attain great longevity; and though we suppose them
naturally tenacious of life, yet, in a really wild state, they would
probably expire before the period which they attain when under our
attention and care. And this is much the case with man who probably
outlives most other creatures; for though excess may often shorten, and
disease or misfortune terminate his days, yet naturally he is a long-
lived animal. His “threescore years and ten” are often prolonged by
constitutional strength, and by the cares, the loves, the charities, of
human nature. As the decay of his powers awakens solicitude, duty and
affection increase their attentions, and the spark of life only expires
when the material is exhausted.
That rare bird the crossbill (loxia curvirostra) occasionally visits the
orchards in our neighborhood, coming in little parties to feed upon the
seeds of the apple; and, seldom as it appears, is always noticed by the
mischief it does to the fruit, by cutting it asunder with its well-
constructed mandibles, in order to obtain the kernels. A native of those
extensive pine forests in the neighborhood of the Rhine, it makes
excursions into various parts of Europe in search of change of food;
and, though several instances are recorded of its visits to our island,
I know but one mention of its having bred in England. A pair was brought
to me very early in August, and the breast of the female being nearly
bare of feathers, as is observable in sitting birds, it is very probable
that she had a nest in the neighborhood.
Gesner has called the common rook (corvus frugilegus) a corn-eating
bird. Linnæus has somewhat lightened this epithet by considering it only
as a gatherer of corn; to neither of which names do I believe it
entitled, as it appears to live solely upon grubs, various insects, and
worms. It has at times great difficulty to support its life, for in a
dry spring or summer most of these are hidden in the earth beyond its
reach, except at those uncertain periods when the grub of the chaffer is
to be found; and in a hot day we see the poor birds perambulating the
fields, and wandering by the sides of the highways, seeking for, and
feeding upon grasshoppers, or any casual nourishment that may be found.
At those times, was it not for its breakfast of dew-worms, which it
catches in the gray of the morning, as it is appointed the earliest of
risers, it would commonly be famished. In the hot summer of 1825, many
of the young brood of the season perished from want; the mornings were
without dew, and consequently few or no worms were to be obtained; and
we found them dead under the trees, having expired on their roostings.
It was particularly distressing, for no relief could be given, to hear
the constant clamor and importunity of the young for food. The old birds
seemed to suffer without complaint; but the wants of their offspring
were expressed by the unceasing cry of hunger, and pursuit of the
parents for supply, and our fields were scenes of daily restlessness and
lament. Yet, amid all this distress, it was pleasing to observe the
perseverance of the old birds in the endeavor to relieve their famishing
families, as many of them remained out searching for food quite in the
dusk, and returned to their roosts long after the usual period for
retiring. In this extremity it becomes a plunderer, to which by
inclination it is not much addicted, and resorts to our newly-set
potato-fields, digging out the cuttings. Ranks are seen sadly defective,
the result of its labors, I fear; and the request of my neighbors now
and then for a bird from my rookery, to hang up _in terrorem_ in their
fields, is confirmatory of its bad name. In autumn a ripe pear, or a
walnut, becomes an irresistible temptation, and it will occasionally
obtain a good share of these fruits. In hard frost, it is pinched again,
visits for food the banks of streams, and in conjunction with its
congener the “villain crow,” becomes a wayfaring bird, and seeks a dole
from every passing steed. Its life, however, is not always dark and
sombre: it has its periods of festivity also. When the waters retire
from meadows and low lands, where they have remained any time, a
luxurious banquet is provided for this corvus, in the multitude of worms
which it finds drowned on them. But its jubilee is the season of the
cockchaffer (melolantha vulgaris), when every little copse, every oak,
becomes animated with it and all its noisy, joyful family feeding and
scrambling for the insect food. The power or faculty, be it by the
scent, or by other means, that rooks possess of discovering their food,
is very remarkable. I have often observed them alight on a pasture of
uniform verdure, and exhibiting no sensible appearance of withering or
decay, and immediately commence stocking up the ground. Upon
investigating the object of their operations, I have found many heads of
plantains, the little autumnal dandelions, and other plants, drawn out
of the ground and scattered about, their roots having been eaten off by
a grub, leaving only a crown of leaves upon the surface. This grub
beneath, in the earth, the rooks had detected in their flight, and
descended to feed on it, first pulling up the plant which concealed it,
and then drawing the larvæ from their holes. By what intimation this
bird had discovered its hidden food we are at a loss to conjecture; but
the rook has always been supposed to scent matters with great
discrimination.
It is but simple justice to these often censured birds, to mention the
service that they at times perform for us in our pasture lands. There is
no plant that I endeavor to root out with more persistency in these
places than the turfy hair-grass (aira cæspitosa). It abounds in all the
colder parts of our grass lands, increasing greatly when undisturbed,
and, worthless itself, overpowers its more valuable neighbors. The
larger turfs we pretty well get rid of; but multitudes of small roots
are so interwoven with the pasture herbage, that we cannot separate them
without injury; and these our persevering rooks stock up for us in such
quantities, that in some seasons the fields are strewed with the
eradicated plants. The whole so torn up does not exclusively prove to be
the hair-grass, but infinitely the larger portion consists of this
injurious plant. The object of the bird in performing this service for
us is to obtain the larvæ of several species of insects, underground
feeders, that prey on the roots, as Linnæus long ago observed upon the
subject of the little nard grass (nardus stricta). This benefit is
partly a joint operation: the grub eats the root, but not often so
effectually as to destroy the plant, which easily roots itself anew; but
the rook finishes the affair by pulling it up to get at the larvæ, and
thus prevents all vegetation; nor do I believe that the bird ever
removes a specimen that has not already been eaten, or commenced upon,
by the caterpillar.
The rook entices its young from the breeding trees, as soon as they can
flutter to any other. These young, for a few evenings after their
flight, will return with their parents, and roost where they were bred;
but they soon quit their abode, and remain absent the whole of the
summer months. As soon however as the heat of summer is subdued, and the
air of autumn felt, they return and visit their forsaken habitations,
and some few of them even commence the repair of their shattered nests;
but this meeting is very differently conducted from that in the spring;
their voices have now a mellowness approaching to musical, with little
admixture of that harsh and noisy contention, so distracting at the
former season, and seems more like a grave consultation upon future
procedure; and as winter approaches they depart for some other place.
The object of this meeting is unknown; nor are we aware that any other
bird revisits the nest it has once forsaken. Domestic fowls, indeed,
make use again of their old nests; but this is never, or only
occasionally, done by birds in a wild state. The daw and rock-pigeon
will build in society with their separate kindred: and the former even
revisits in autumn the places it had nestled in. But such situations as
these birds require, the ruined castle, abbey, or church tower, ledge in
the rock, &c., are not universally found, and are apparently occupied
from necessity. The rooks appear to associate from preference to
society, as trees are common everywhere; but what motive they can have
in view in lingering thus for a few autumnal mornings and counselling
with each other around their abandoned and now useless nests, which
before the return of spring are generally beaten from the trees, is by
no means manifest to us.
The sense of smelling seems often to supply in animals the want of
faculties they are not gifted with; and it is this power which directs
them to their food with greater certainty, than the discernment of man
could do. That we have every faculty given us necessary for the
condition in which we are placed, is manifest; yet the mechanical
talents and intuition of the insect, the powers that birds and beasts
possess, and the superior acuteness of some of their senses, of which,
perhaps, we have little conception, makes it evident that all created
things were equally the objects of their Maker’s benevolence and care;
the worm that creepeth, and the beast that perisheth, deserve our
consideration, and claim from human reason mercy and compassion.
The tall tangled hedge-row, the fir grove, or the old, well-wooded
inclosure, constitutes the delight of the magpie (corvus pica), as there
alone its large and dark nest has any chance of escaping observation. We
here annually deprive it of these asylums, and it leaves us; but it does
not seem to be a bird that increases much anywhere. As it generally lays
eight or ten eggs, and is a very wary and cunning creature, avoiding all
appearance of danger, it might be supposed that it would yearly become
more numerous. Upon particular occasions we see a few of them collect;
but the general spread is diminished, and as population advances, the
few that escape will retire from the haunts and persecutions of man.
These birds will occasionally plunder the nests of some few others; and
we find in early spring the eggs of our out-laying domestic fowls
frequently dropped about, robbed of their contents. That the pie is a
party concerned in these thefts, we cannot deny, but to the superior
audacity of the crow we attribute our principal injury. However the
magpie may feed on the eggs of others, it is particularly careful to
guard its own nest from similar injuries by covering it with an
impenetrable canopy of thorns, and is our only bird that uses such a
precaution, securing it from all common depredation, though not from the
hand of the bird-nesting boy. When a hatch is effected, the number of
young demand a larger quantity of food than is easily obtained, and
whole broods of our ducklings, whenever they stray from the yard, are
conveyed to the nest. But still the “magot” is not an unuseful bird, as
it frees our pastures of incredible numbers of grubs and slugs, which
lodge themselves under the crusts formed by the dung of cattle. These
the birds with their strong beaks turn over, and catch the lurking
animals beneath, and then break them to search for more; by which means,
during the winter they will spread the entire droppings in the fields;
and by spring I have had, especially under the hedges, all this labor
saved to me by these assiduous animals.
Natural affection, the love of offspring, is particularly manifested in
birds; for in general they are timid and weak creatures, flying from
apprehended dangers, and endowed with little or no power of defending
themselves; but they will menace when injury is threatened to their
brood, and incur dangers in order to obtain food for their young, that
they will encounter in no other period of their lives.