particularly obscure, as well as those which stimulate some others to
congregate, as we comprehend no individual benefit to arise from such
habits. Wild fowl, the rook, and some other birds, derive security,
perhaps, from feeding in society, as a sentinel appears to be placed by
them at such times to give notice of danger; but our congregating small
birds take no such precaution: security or mutual protection does not
seem to be obtained by it, as the largeness of the flocks invites
danger, and warmth in the winter season it does not afford. For the
purposes of migration, such associations are in many respects
serviceable and consistent; but in our resident species, considered in
its various results, it becomes rather a subject of conjecture, than of
explanation. Timid creatures associate commonly upon the apprehension of
danger, and, without yielding any mutual support, become only the more
obnoxious to evil; and this snipe, though its habits are the very
reverse of connexion with its species, yet affords no clue to direct us
to the causes of its unusual habits. These associations of some, and
retirement of others, are not the capricious actions of an hour in a few
individuals, but so regularly and annually observed in the several
species, that they are manifestly appointed provisions of nature, though
the object is unknown. This half-snipe, as our sportsmen call it, has
rather generally been considered by our young shooters as the male of
the larger species, or common snipe (scolopax gallinago); yet it is
difficult to assign any reason for the prevalence of such an idea, with
those who have had many opportunities of observing the dissimilarity in
the mode of life, the manners, and plumage of the birds. I know not any
bird that lays so large an egg, in proportion to its size, as the snipe.
A few pairs of the peewit (tringa vanellus) visit annually some of our
larger plowed fields to breed; but they are so frequently disturbed by
those necessary processes of husbandry, hoeing and weeding, that they
seldom succeed in the object of their visit. On our adjoining heath they
escape better, and bring off many of their young: but the larger portion
of them keep their station on the banks and dikes of the great drains
and sewers in the marsh lands; and the traveller, who happens, in the
spring of the year, to pass along any of the roads bordering upon these
haunts, where many pairs are settled, will long remember the wearying
and incessant clamor of these birds, which, rising as he approaches,
wheel about him in an awkward, tumbling flight, accompanied by the
unremitting, querulous cry of “peewit, peewit,” continued by the
perseverance of successive pairs, as long as he remains near their
habitation; which generally being a flat, aguish, uninteresting country,
where little is heard but the whispering of the wind in the reeds and
sedges, the teasing monotony of this bird gives a very peculiarly dreary
and melancholy character to parts of our lowland roads. In some counties
these cold, wet districts go by the name of “peewit or pewety lands.” At
this period of the year, the bird is bold and fearless, and menaces the
intruder with all its vociferous powers, when he approaches its haunts;
but the broods being fledged, the families unite, form large flocks, and
retire to open meadows, uninclosed commons and downs, feeding on slugs
and worms, and become wild and vigilant creatures. It is well known that
the glareous liquor or white of the egg of this bird, upon being boiled,
becomes gelatinous and translucent, not a thick opake substance like
that of the hen; a circumstance that is likewise observable in the eggs
of the rook, and of many of our small birds. The latter are not
sufferers by it; but the eggs of the poor rook, though bearing little
resemblance to those of this plover, are in some places not uncommonly
taken and sold conjointly with them in the London market; and probably
the habitual eater of them only can distinguish a sensible difference.
Prognostications and signs, a great amusement, and the ground-work of
belief to our forefathers, have, in general, pretty much declined with
us; the repeated falsity of most of them having destroyed their
reputation. We know so little, if any thing, of the actuating causes of
seasons and their change, or the combinations effecting results, that no
safe conclusion can be formed of any present events influencing the
future. Whatever our almanacs may do, few persons of credit will venture
now to predict, from what we call natural causes, a hot summer, or a
severe winter; yet that very ancient idea, amongst country people, that
“years of store of haws and heps do commonly portend cold winters,”
still lingers with us. However warmly we assent to the fundamental
truth, the merciful consideration of Providence, in providing food for
the necessities of the little fowls of the air, which, perhaps, piously
gave rise to the observation, almost every year proves, that any
conclusions drawn from these “stores of haws and heps” are perfectly
fallacious. The birds that feed chiefly upon the fruit of the white
thorn, and the wild rose, are the fieldfare (turdus pilaris), and the
redwing (turdus iliacus); and that they do so, every sportsman has had
the most manifest conviction: yet it has been said recently, that these
creatures do not eat these fruits; and said too by an eminent and
amiable man, with whom I have frequently had the honor of conversing,
and always with profit.[55] Were he living, his love of science would
encourage my observations, though not in unison with his opinion: my
breath shall not agitate his ashes, nor will his spirit, I am certain,
frown in anger at my lines. It must be premised, that these birds,
generally speaking, give the preference to insect food and worms; and
when flights of them have taken their station near the banks of large
rivers, margined by lowlands, we shall find, that the bulk of them will
remain there, and feed in those places; and, in the uplands, we shall
observe small restless parties only. But in the midland and some other
counties, the flocks that are resident have not always these meadows to
resort to, and they then feed on the haws as long as they remain. In
this county, the extensive lowlands of the river Severn in open weather
are visited by prodigious flocks of these birds; but as soon as snow
falls, or hard weather comes on, they leave these marshy lands, because
their insect food is covered or become scarce, visit the uplands, to
feed on the produce of the hedges, and we see them all day long passing
over our heads in large flights on some distant progress, in the same
manner as our larks, at the commencement of a snowy season, repair to
the turnip fields of Somerset and Wiltshire. They remain absent during
the continuance of those causes which incited their migration; but, as
the frost breaks up, and even before the thaw has actually commenced, we
see a large portion of these passengers returning to their worm and
insect food in the meadows, attended probably by many that did not take
flight with them—though a great number remain in the upland pastures,
feeding promiscuously as they can. In my younger days, a keen, unwearied
sportsman, it was always observable, that in hard weather these birds
increased prodigiously in number in the counties far distant from the
meadow lands, though we knew not the reason; and we usually against this
time provided tempting bushes of haws, preserved in a barn, to place in
frequented hedges, near our secret standings. When the fieldfare first
arrives, its flesh is dark, thin, and scurfy; but, having fed a little
time in the hedges, its rump and side veins are covered with fat. This
is, in part, attributable to suppression of perspiration by the cold,
and partly to a nutritive farinaceous food; its flesh at the time
becoming bluish and clean. The upland birds are in this state, from
perhaps the end of November till the end of January, according as the
hedge fruit has held out; and at this period they are comparatively
tame: afterward, though the flights may be large, they become wild; and
the flesh, assuming its darkness, manifests that their food has not been
farinaceous. The distant foreign migrations, which have been stated to
take place from the meadows of the Severn, I believe to be only these
inland trips; and that the supposed migrators returned to those stations
fat and in good condition, owing to their having fed during their
absence on the nutricious berry of the white thorn. I have several times
seen the fruit on our hedges refused by these birds, and this too in no
very temperate season; but in all these cases, the summer had been
ungenial—the berries had not ripened well, they were nipped by the
frosts of October, and hung on the sprays dark in color, small, and
juiceless in substance. The summer of 1825 produced the finest and
largest haws I ever remember. They were in general of a bright red hue,
and filled with farinaceous pulp; and in consequence, though the season
was uncommonly mild and open, long before Christmas, little wandering
parties of these birds consumed the whole of them.
Perfectly gregarious as the fieldfare is, yet we observe every year, in
some tall hedge-row, or little, quiet pasture, two or three of them that
have withdrawn from the main flocks, and there associate with the
blackbird and the thrush. They do not appear to be wounded birds, which
from necessity have sought concealment and quiet, but to have retired
from inclination; and I have reason to apprehend that these retreats are
occasionally made for the purpose of forming nests, though they are
afterwards abandoned without incubation; as I have now before me the egg
of a bird, which I believe to be that of a fieldfare, taken from a nest
somewhat like that formed by the song-thrush, in 1824. Its color is
uniform—a rather pale blue; it is larger than that of the thrush, obtuse
at both ends, and unlike any egg produced by our known British birds.
These retiring birds linger with us late in the season, after all the
main flights are departed, as if reluctant to leave us; but towards the
middle or end of April these stragglers unite, form a small company, and
take their flight.
Rural sounds, the voices, the language of the wild creatures, as heard
by the naturalist, belong to, and are in concord with the country only.
Our sight, our smell, may perhaps be deceived for an interval by
conservatories, horticultural arts, and bowers of sweets; but our
hearing can in no way be beguiled by any semblance of what is heard in
the grove or the field. The hum, the murmur, the medley of the mead, is
peculiarly its own, admits of no imitation, and the voices of our birds
convey particular intimation, and distinctly notify the various periods
of the year, with an accuracy as certain as they are detailed in our
calendars. The season of spring is always announced as approaching by
the notes of the rookery, by the jangle or wooing accents of the dark
frequenters of its trees; and that time having passed away, these
contentions and cadences are no longer heard. The cuckoo then comes, and
informs us that spring has arrived; that he has journeyed to us, borne
by gentle gales in sunny days; that fragrant flowers are in the copse
and the mead, and all things telling of gratulation and of joy: the
children mark this well-known sound, spring out, and cuckoo! cuckoo! as
they gambol down the lane: the very plow-boy bids him welcome in the
early morn. It is hardly spring without the cuckoo’s song; and having
told his tale, he has voice for no more—is silent or away. Then comes
the dark, swift-winged marten, glancing through the air, that seems
afraid to visit our uncertain clime: he comes, though late, and hurries
through his business here, eager again to depart, all day long in
agitation and precipitate flight. The bland zephyrs of the spring have
no charms with them; but basking and careering in the sultry gleams of
June and July, they associate in throngs, and, screaming, dash round the
steeple or the ruined tower, to serenade their nesting mates; and glare
and heat are in their train. When the fervor of summer ceases, this bird
of the sun will depart. The evening robin from the summit of some
leafless bough, or projecting point, tells us that autumn is come, and
brings matured fruits, chilly airs, and sober hours, and he, the lonely
minstrel now that sings, is understood by all. These four birds thus
indicate a separate season, have no interference with the intelligence
of the other, nor could they be transposed without the loss of all the
meaning they convey, which no contrivance of art could, supply; and, by
long association, they have become identified with the period, and in
peculiar accordance with the time.
We note birds in general more from their voices than their plumage; for
the carols of spring may be heard involuntarily, but to observe the form
and decoration of these creatures, requires an attention not always
given. Yet we have some native birds beautifully and conspicuously
feathered; the goldfinch, the chaffinch, the wagtails, are all eminently
adorned, and the fine gradations of sober browns in several others are
very pleasing. Those sweet sounds, called the song of birds, proceed
only from the male; and, with a few exceptions, only during the season
of incubation. Hence the comparative quietness of our summer months,
when this care is over, except from accidental causes, where a second
nest is formed; few of our birds bringing up more than one brood in the
season. The redbreast, blackbird, and thrush, in mild winters will
continually be heard, and form exceptions to the general procedure of
our British birds; and we have one little bird, the woodlark (alunda
arborea), that in the early parts of the autumnal months delights us
with its harmony, and its carols may be heard in the air commonly during
the calm sunny mornings of this season. They have a softness and
quietness perfectly in unison with the sober, almost melancholy,
stillness of the hour. The sky-lark[56] also sings now, and its song is
very sweet, full of harmony, cheerful as the blue sky and gladdening
beam in which it circles and sports, and known and admired by all; but
the voice of the woodlark is local, not so generally heard, from its
softness must almost be listened for, to be distinguished, and has not
any pretensions to the hilarity of the former. This little bird sings
likewise in the spring; but, at that season, the contending songsters of
the grove, and the variety of sound proceeding from every thing that has
utterance, confuse and almost render inaudible the placid voice of the
woodlark. It delights to fix its residence near little groves and
copses, or quiet pastures, and is a very unobtrusive bird, not uniting
in companies, but associating in its own little family parties only,
feeding in the woodlands on seeds and insects. Upon the approach of man
it crouches close to the ground, then suddenly darts away, as if for a
distant flight, but settles again almost immediately. This lark will
often continue its song, circle in the air, a scarcely visible speck, by
the hour together; and the vast distance from which its voice reaches us
in a calm day is almost incredible. In the scale of comparison, it
stands immediately below the nightingale in melody and plaintiveness;
but compass of voice is given to the linnet, a bird of very inferior
powers. The strength of the larynx and of the muscles of the throat in
birds is infinitely greater than in the human race. The loudest shout of
the peasant is but a feeble cry, compared with that of the golden-eyed
duck, the wild goose, or even this lark. The sweet song of this poor
little bird, with a fate like that of the nightingale, renders it an
object of capture and confinement, which few of them comparatively
survive. I have known our country bird-catchers take them by a very
simple but effectual method. Watching them to the ground, the wings of a
hawk, or of the brown owl, stretched out, are drawn against the current
of air by a string as a paper kite, and made to flutter and librate like
a kestrel over the place where the woodlark has lodged; which so
intimidates the bird that it remains crouching and motionless as a stone
on the ground; a hand-net is brought over it, and it is caught.
From various little scraps of intelligence scattered through the sacred
and ancient writings, it appears certain, as it was reasonable to
conclude, that the notes now used by birds, and the voices of animals,
are the same as uttered by their earliest progenitors. The language of
man, without any reference to the confusion accomplished at Babel, has
been broken into innumerable dialects, created or compounded as his
wants occurred, or his ideas prompted; or obtained by intercourse with
others, as mental enlargement or novelty necessitated new words to
express new sentiments. Could we find a people from Japan or the Pole,
whose progress in mind has been stationary, without increase of idea,
from national prejudice or impossibility of communication with others,
we probably should find little or no alteration in the original language
of that people; so, by analogy of reasoning, the animal having no idea
to prompt, no new want to express, no converse with others, (for a note
caught and uttered merely is like a boy mocking the cuckoo,) so no new
language is acquired. With civilized man, every thing is progressive;
with animals, where there is no mind, all is stationary. Even the voice
of one species of birds, except in particular cases, seems not to be
attended to by another species. That peculiar call of the female cuckoo,
which assembles so many contending lovers, and all the various amatorial
and caressing language of others, excites no influence generally, that I
am aware of; with all but the individual species, it is a dialect
unknown. I know but one note, which animals make use of, that seems of
universal comprehension, and this is the signal of danger. The instant
that it is uttered, we hear the whole flock, though composed of various
species, repeat a separate moan, and away they all scuttle into the
bushes for safety. The reiterated “twink, twink” of the chaffinch, is
known by every little bird as information of some prowling cat or
weasel. Some give the maternal hush to their young, and mount to inquire
into the jeopardy announced. The wren, that tells of perils from the
hedge, soon collects about her all the various inquisitive species
within hearing, to survey and ascertain the object, and add their
separate fears. The swallow, that shrieking darts in devious flight
through the air when a hawk appears, not only calls up all the
hirundines of the village, but is instantly understood by every finch
and sparrow, and its warning attended to. As Nature, in all her
ordinations, had a fixed design and foreknowledge, it may be that each
species had a separate voice assigned it, that each might continue as
created, distinct and unmixed: and the very few deviations and
admixtures that have taken place, considering the lapse of time,
association, and opportunity, united with the prohibition of continuing
accidental deviations, are very remarkable, and indicate a cause and
original motive. That some of the notes of birds are as language
designed to convey a meaning, is obvious from the very different sounds
uttered by these creatures at particular periods: the spring voices
become changed as summer advances, and the requirements of the early
season have ceased; the summer excitements, monitions, informations, are
not needed in autumn, and the notes conveying such intelligences are no
longer heard. The periodical calls of animals, croaking of frogs, &c.,
afford the same reasons for concluding that the sound of their voices by
elevation, depression, or modulation, conveys intelligence equivalent to
an uttered sentence. The voices of birds seem applicable in most
instances to the immediate necessities of their condition; such as the
sexual call, the invitation to unite when dispersed, the moan of danger,
the shriek of alarm, the notice of food. But there are other notes, the
designs and motives of which are not so obvious. One sex only is gifted
with the power of singing, for the purpose, as Buffon supposed, of
cheering his mate during the period of incubation; but this idea,
gallant as it is, has such slight foundation in probability, that it
needs no confutation: and after all, perhaps, we must conclude, that
listened to, admired, and pleasing, as the voices of many birds are,
either for their intrinsic melody, or from association, we are uncertain
what they express, or the object of their song. The singing of most
birds seems entirely a spontaneous effusion produced by no exertion, or
occasioning no lassitude in muscle, or relaxation of the parts of
action. In certain seasons and weather, the nightingale sings all day,
and most part of the night; and we never observe that the powers of song
are weaker, or that the notes become harsh and untunable, after all
these hours of practice. The song-thrush, in a mild moist April, will
commence his tune early in the morning, pipe unceasingly through the
day, yet, at the close of eve, when he retires to rest, there is no
obvious decay of his musical powers, or any sensible effort required to
continue his harmony to the last. Birds of one species sing in general
very like each other, with different degrees of execution. Some counties
may produce finer songsters, but without great variation in the notes.
In the thrush, however, it is remarkable, that there seem to be no
regular notes, each individual piping a voluntary of his own. Their
voices may always be distinguished amid the choristers of the copse, yet
some one performer will more particularly engage attention by a peculiar
modulation or tune; and should several stations of these birds be
visited in the same morning, few or none probably will be found to
preserve the same round of notes; whatever is uttered seeming the
effusion of the moment. At times a strain will break out perfectly
unlike any preceding utterance, and we may wait a long time without
noticing any repetition of it. During one spring an individual song-
thrush, frequenting a favorite copse, after a certain round of tune,
trilled out most regularly some notes that conveyed so clearly the
words, lady-bird! lady-bird! that every one remarked the resemblance. He
survived the winter, and in the ensuing season the lady-bird! lady-bird!
was still the burden of our evening song; it then ceased, and we never
heard this pretty modulation more. Though merely an occasional strain,
yet I have noticed it elsewhere—it thus appearing to be a favorite
utterance. Harsh, strained, and tense, as the notes of this bird are,
yet they are pleasing from their variety. The voice of the blackbird is
infinitely more mellow, but has much less variety, compass, or
execution; and he too commences his carols with the morning light,
persevering from hour to hour without effort, or any sensible faltering
of voice. The cuckoo wearies us throughout some long May morning with
the unceasing monotony of its song; and, though there are others as
vociferous, yet it is the only bird I know that seems to suffer from the
use of the organs of voice. Little exertion as the few notes it makes
use of seem to require, yet, by the middle or end of June, it loses its
utterance, becomes hoarse, and ceases from any further essay of it. The
croaking of the nightingale in June, or the end of May, is not
apparently occasioned by the loss of voice, but a change of note, a
change of object; his song ceases when his mate has hatched her brood;
vigilance, anxiety, caution, now succeed to harmony, and his croak is
the hush, the warning of danger or suspicion to the infant charge and
the mother bird.
But here I must close my notes of birds, lest their actions and their
ways, so various and so pleasing, should lure me on to protract
“My tedious tale through many a page;”