shape; but the eggs of birds in general vary much, and are occasionally
very puzzling to identify when detached from their nests, as the
colorings and markings differ greatly in the same species, and even
nest. Those of one color, like this wheatear’s, retain it, with only
shades of variation; but when there are blotchings or spots, these are
at times very dissimilar, occasioned in great measure probably by the
age of the bird; though this cannot account for the difference of those
in an individual nest. None vary more than the eggs of the common
sparrow. Those of marine birds, especially the guillemot (colymbus
troile), are often so unlike each other, that it requires considerable
practice to arrange them. The plumage of birds has probably never
varied, but remains at this hour what it originally was: but whether
these markings on the eggs have any connexion with the shadings on the
feathers, it is difficult to determine; as we know that eggs entirely
white will produce birds with a variety of plumage. The shell of the egg
appears to be designed for the accomplishment of two purposes. One of
the offices of this calcareous coating, which consists of carbonate and
phosphate of lime, is to unite with the white of the egg, and form,
during incubation, the feathers and bone of the future young ones; but
as a large portion of this covering remains after the young are
produced, its other object is to guard from injury the parts within. As
far as I have observed, in eggs of one hue, the coloring matter resides
in the calcareous part; but where there are markings, these are rather
extraneous to it than mixed with it. The elegant blue that distinguishes
the eggs of the firetail and the hedge-sparrow, though corroded away, is
not destroyed by the muriatic acid. The blue calcareous coating of the
thrush’s egg is consumed; but the dark spots, like the markings upon the
eggs of the yellow-hammer, house-sparrow, magpie, &c., still preserve
their stations on the film, though loosened and rendered mucilaginous by
this rough process. Though this calcareous matter is partly taken up
during incubation, the markings upon these eggs remain little injured,
even to the last, and are almost as strongly defined as when the eggs
are first laid. These circumstances seem to imply, that the coloring
matter on the shells of eggs does not contribute to the various hues of
the plumage; but, it is reasonable to conclude, are designed to answer
some particular object, not obvious to us: for though the marks are so
variable, yet the shadings and spottings of one species never wander so
as to become exactly figured like those of another family, but preserve,
year after year, a certain characteristic figuring. Few animal
substances, in a recent state, contain more hepatic gas than an
eggshell, as is manifest from the very offensive smell that proceeds
from it when burned. A little of this is caused by the gluten that
cements the calcareous matter, but the overpowering fetor comes from the
inner membrane that lines the shell.
The superstitions and fancies of persons, though we may often contemn
them, are yet at times deserving of notice, being occasionally to be
traced to some former received belief or national custom, and perhaps
when charactered by emblems or ceremonies may be considered as certainly
originating from the tenets of some sect or popular observance; the
partiality manifested by the English in general for flowers and
horticultural pursuits is recently, from a sentence in Pliny (Nat. Hist.
XIV. chap. 4), supposed to have been acquired from their Roman
conquerors; and probably many other attachments and practices, though
obscured and perverted by time, have been retained from the example of
some of the various nations who have ruled in our island. Bird-nesting
boys, I suppose, are yet to be met with in many a rural village, being a
habit from immemorial antiquity, pursued with eagerness in contention
with their fellows for numbers and rarity, but that accomplished, like
so many of our pursuits in after life, the pleasure ceases when rivalry
is no more: but regarding these birds’ eggs we have a very foolish
superstition here; the boys may take them unrestrained, but their
mothers so dislike their being kept in the house, that they usually
break them; their presence may be tolerated for a few days, but by the
ensuing Sunday are frequently destroyed, under the idea that they bring
bad luck, or prevent the coming of good fortune, as if in some way
offensive to the domestic deity of the hearth: having occasionally
inquired for these plunders of our small birds at the cottages, to
supply some deficiencies in a collection, I have found so general a
prepossession against retaining them, as in most cases to fail of
success.
The kite (falco milvus) is one of our rarest birds. We see it
occasionally, in its progress to other parts, sailing along sedately on
its way; but it never visits us. Our copses present it with no enticing
harborage, and our culture scares it. In former years I was intimately
acquainted with this bird; but its numbers seem greatly on the decline,
having been destroyed, or driven away to lonely places, or to the most
extensive woodlands. In the breeding season it will at times approach
near the outskirts of villages, seeking materials for its nest; but in
general it avoids the haunts of man. It is the finest native bird that
we possess, and all its deportment partakes of a dignity peculiar to
itself, well becoming a denizen of the forest or the park; for though we
see it sometimes in company with the buzzard, it is never to be mistaken
for this clumsy bird, which will escape from the limb of some tree, with
a confused and hurried flight, indicative of fear; while the kite moves
steadily from the summit of the loftiest oak, the scathed crest of the
highest poplar, or the most elevated ash—circles round and round, sedate
and calm, and then leaves us. I can confusedly remember a very
extraordinary capture of these birds, when I was a boy. Roosting one
winter evening on some very lofty elms, a fog came on during the night,
which froze early in the morning, and fastened the feet of the poor
kites so firmly to the boughs, that some adventurous youths brought
down, I think, fifteen of them so secured! Singular as the capture was,
the assemblage of so large a number was no less so, it being in general
a solitary bird, or associating only in pairs.
The blackcap (motacilla atracapilla) is our constant visitor, but very
uncertain in its numbers, as it fully participates in all the casualties
of our migratory tribes; not by any great diminution probably in its
winter residence, but by loss in its transits of autumn or spring. We
have years when every little copse resounds with harmony; at other
periods, only a few solitary songsters are to be heard; and the blackcap
is the principal performer in the band of our domestic vocalists. In the
scale of music it is the third for mellowness, and the third perhaps too
for execution and compass. As this melody, however, continues only
during the period of incubation, we hear it but for a short time; for
this bird wastes no time in amusements, appearing to be in great haste
to accomplish the object of its visit, and to depart. Thus, immediately
upon its arrival, we observe it surveying and inspecting places fitting
for nidification, and commencing a nest; but so careful and suspicious
is it, that several are often abandoned before finished, from some
apprehension or caprice: any intrusion is jealously noticed; and during
the whole period of sitting and rearing its young, it is timid and
restless. I have observed that both birds will occasionally perform the
office of incubation.
It seems to live entirely by choice on fruits; and as soon as the brood
can remove, it visits our gardens, feeding with delight and almost
insatiable appetite on the currant and the raspberry; and so much is it
engaged when at this banquet, that it suffers itself to be looked at,
and forgets for the moment its usual timidity: but its natural shyness
never leaves it entirely; and though it remains in our gardens or
orchards as long as any of its favorite fruits continue, it avoids
observation as much as possible, and hides itself in the foliage from
all familiarity or confidence. This exceeding dislike of man is very
extraordinary. Larger or more important birds might have an instinctive
fear of violence; but this creature is too small and insignificant to
have ever experienced or to apprehend injuries from him. It may arise
from a long residence in wilds and solitary places, seldom visited by
human beings, during those eight or nine months when it is absent from
us, so that man becomes an unknown creature, and injury is suspected.
Our native small birds, that reside all the year with us, and see us
often, though they may retire at our near approach, do not exhibit such
shyness and avoidance as several of our migrating birds. The gray
flycatcher, and the swallow tribe, which seek their food, we conclude,
all the year near the dwellings of man, where most abundantly found,
manifest familiarity with us rather than dislike, are accustomed to the
sight of human beings, and do not fear them; but whatever may be the
cause that influences the precipitate retreat of certain birds, we note
the original mandate, and see that the “fear of us, and the dread of
us,” are still in operation with many of these little “fowls of the
air,” that would never receive harm from our hands. The blackcap
finishes its feast here with the jargonel pear, when it can meet with
it, then leaves us for other fruits and milder climes.
“And the fear of you, and the dread of you, shall be upon every beast of
the earth, and upon every fowl of the air, and upon all that moveth upon
the earth.” This vesture of universal dread, which was to envelop man,
though appointed from the beginning of time, has never been removed, but
most signally and remarkably attaches to him still. It was ordained to
be so; and so it is. In some few instances only does this awe of man
subside: in extreme cases of want, for individual preservation, or when
protection is required. In such cases, the fear or sensibility of pain,
love of life, or a paramount duty, becomes the stronger principle,
annihilating the weaker; and the dread of man’s supremacy is no more.
The weakest, the very insect, then assails him, and at times becomes the
victor. Does any conceivable or visible cause exist from which this awe
can proceed? Does “his sublime countenance, contemplative of the
heavens,” the image that he bears, or his deportment, afford any
ascendent influence productive of this impression? In bodily power he is
more weak and obnoxious to injury than many that shrink from a contest
with him; his natural arms and means of protection are inferior often to
those of the beings which he subdues; yet from an undefinable cause he
is omnipotent over all. Terror in man most commonly arises from a
knowledge of power, apprehension of ills from accident, or fear of the
evil inclinations of another. What the fowls of the air, or the beasts
of the field perceive, or are impressed with, we know not; but none of
these causes can exist in a brute mind without intelligence or
experience. These are the reflections of a thoughtful hour. The cause,
“though a man labor to seek out, yet shall he not find it; and though a
man think to know it, yet shall he not be able.” But the contemplation
is not wholly an unworthy occupation of time. All ages, all people, must
have perceived the admitted power and universal dread occasioned by the
presence of man, but no reason, no motive, could have been assigned for
it; but in these days, by revelation, we know the cause, have impressed
upon our minds the immutable truth of that Being which ordained, and of
that volume which has proclaimed his mandate to us. But man has the
power assigned him of calling to his aid a visible object of dread,
confided to him from the earliest periods; and he alone of all created
beings has the agency of this terror. All the inferior orders have a
fear of it, and flee from it, even when its effects could never have
been known or experienced, but which appears to be innate and
inseparable from all. Man alone has the knowledge, the means of calling
heat into action; and though warmth is the delight, and essential to the
being of most, yet, rouse it into active operation producing fire, and
terror and flight succeed enjoyment and rest: it deters the approach of
the most ferocious, and man and his charge abide unharmed when
surrounded by the terror he has raised. In addition to the many
characters given as a definition of man, we might call him a fire-
producing creature.
The end of our summer months, and the autumnal season, afford us
frequently the best periods for observing some of our occasional
visiting birds. Upon their first arrival, and for a time afterwards,
their notes announce their presence; but they are not always to be seen
with satisfaction, and scattered in retired places, or occupied in the
business of incubation, when they are particularly wary and suspicious,
they are but casually noticed: but in the times above stated, our
gardens, shrubberies, and orchards, become their resort, seeking for the
fruits usually produced in those places. And, first, the pettychaps,
with all her matured brood, is certain to be found, feeding voraciously
upon our cultivated berries, or mining a hole in the fig or jargonel
pear; and so intent are they upon this occupation, that they will permit
a reasonable examination of their form and actions, but at other periods
it is difficult to approach them. The blackcap discontentedly flits
about our inclosures and thickets all the summer through, building her
nest or tending her young; the fine clear harmony of the male bird
resounding in the morning from the brake, yet, timid and alarmed, he
ceases and hides himself if we approach: but he now introduces all his
progeny to our banquet; cautious still, we can yet observe his actions,
and easily distinguish the black or brown heads of the sexes, as they
are occupied beneath the foliage of an Antwerp raspberry. The white
throats, now, too, leave their hedges, and all their insect food, which
for months had been their only supply, and in the thick covert of the
gooseberry extract with great dexterity the pulp of the fruit, or strip
the currant of its berry. The elegant, slender form of the female, her
snowy throat and silvery stomach, render her very conspicuous as she
scuttles away to hide herself in the bush: her plain, brown-backed mate
seems rather less timid, but yet carefully avoids all symptoms of
familiarity. Other doubtful little birds likewise appear, and are gone,
several of which, however, are probably the young of ascertained
species. And here the little willow wren is often to be seen: he comes
in company with his travelling friends, not as a partaker of their
plunder, appearing never to abandon his appetite for insect food: the
species may change with the season, but still it is animal: he glides
about our rows of peas, peeps under the leaves of fruit trees for
aphides and moths, continuing this harmless pursuit until the cold
mornings of autumn drive him to milder regions. All these fruit-eating
birds seem to have a very discriminating taste, and a decided preference
for the richest sorts—the sweetest variety of the gooseberry or the
currant always being selected; and when they are consumed, less
saccharine dainties are submitted to: but the hedge blackberry of the
season our little foreign connoisseurs disdain to feed on, leaving it
for the humbler appetited natives—they are away to sunnier regions and
more grateful food.
June 14.—I was much pleased this day by detecting the stratagems of a
common wren to conceal its nest from observation. It had formed a hollow
space in the thatch, on the inside of my cow-shed, in which it had
placed its nest by the side of a rafter, and finished it with its usual
neatness; but lest the orifice of its cell should engage attention, it
had negligently hung a ragged piece of moss on the straw-work,
concealing the entrance, and apparently proceeding from the rafter; and
so perfect was the deception, that I should not have noticed it, though
tolerably observant of such things, had not the bird betrayed her
secret, and darted out. Now from what operative cause did this stratagem
proceed? Habit it was not;—it seemed like an after-thought;—danger was
perceived, and the contrivance which a contemplative being would have
provided, was resorted to. The limits of instinct we cannot define:[51]
it appeared the reflection of reason. This procedure may be judged,
perhaps, a trifling event to notice; but the ways and motives of
creatures are so little understood, that any evidence which may assist
our research should not be rejected. Call their actions as we may, they
have the effect of reason; and loving all the manners and operations of
these directed beings, I have noted this, simple as it may be.
At one period of my life, being an early waker and riser, my attention
was frequently drawn to “songs of earliest birds;” and I always observed
that these creatures appeared abroad at very different periods as the
light advanced. The rook is perhaps the first to salute the opening
morn; but this bird seems rather to rest than to sleep. Always vigilant,
the least alarm after retirement rouses instantly the whole assemblage,
not successively, but collectively. It is appointed to be a ready mover.
Its principal food is worms, which feed and crawl upon the humid surface
of the ground in the dusk, and retire before the light of day; and,
roosting higher than other birds, the first rays of the sun, as they
peep from the horizon, become visible to it. The restless, inquisitive
robin[52] now is seen too. This is the last bird that retires in the
evening, being frequently flitting about when the owl and bat are
visible, and awakes so soon in the morning, that little rest seems
required by it. Its fine large eyes are fitted to receive all, even the
weakest rays of light that appear. The worm is its food too, and few
that move upon the surface escape its notice. The cheerful melody of the
wren is the next we hear, as it bustles from its ivied roost; and we
note its gratulation to the young-eyed day, when twilight almost hides
the little minstrel from our sight. The sparrow roosts in holes, and
under the eaves of the rick or shed, where the light does not so soon
enter, and hence is rather a tardy mover; but it is always ready for
food, and seems to listen to what is going forward. We see it now
peeping from its penthouse, inquisitively surveying the land; and,
should provision be obtainable, it immediately descends upon it without
any scruple, and makes itself a welcome guest with all. It retires early
to rest. The blackbird quits its leafy roost in the ivied ash; its
“chink, chink” is heard in the hedge and, mounting on some neighboring
oak, with mellow sober voice it gratulates the coming day. “The
plainsong cuckoo gray” from some tall tree now tells its tale. The lark
is in the air, the “marten twitters from her earth-built shed,” all the
choristers are tuning in the grove; and amid such tokens of awakening
pleasure it becomes difficult to note priority of voice. These are the
matin voices of the summer season: in winter a cheerless chirp, or a
hungry twit, is all we hear; the families of voice are away, or silent;
we have little to note, and perhaps as little inclination to observe.
During no portion of the day can the general operations of nature be
more satisfactorily observed than in the early morning. Rosy June—the
very thoughts of an early summer’s morning in the country, like
enchantment, gives action to the current of our blood, and seems to
breathe through our veins a stream of health and enjoyment! All things
appear fresh and unsoiled; the little birds, animated and gratulous, are
frisking about the sprays; others, proceeding to their morning’s meal,
or occupied in the callings of their nature, give utterance by every
variety of voice to the pleasures that they feel: the world has not yet
called us, and with faculties unworn, we unite with them, partake of
this general hilarity and joy, feel disposed to be happy, and enjoy the
blessings around us: the very air itself, as yet uninhaled by any,
circulates about us replete with vitality, conveying more than its usual
portion of sustenance and health, “and man goeth forth unto his labor.”
Night-feeding creatures, feeling the freshness of light, and the coming
day, are all upon the move retiring from danger and observation; and we
can note them now unhidden in their lairs, unconcealed beneath the
foliage in the hedge: the very vegetation, bathed in dew and moisture,
full fed, partakes of this early morning joy and health, and every
creeping thing is refreshed and satisfied. As day advances, it changes
all; and of these happy beings of the early hour, part are away, and we
must seek them; others are oppressed, silent, listless; the vegetable,
no longer lucid with dew, and despoiled of all the little gems that
glittered from every serrature of its leaf, seems pensive at the loss.
When blessed with health, having peace, innocence, and content, as
inmates of the mind, perhaps the most enjoyable hours of life may be
found in an early summer’s morning.