shade-sharer, with whom I sympathised only too keenly in her restless
mood, rose and, lifting the light green curtain, passed out into the
sunshine and was gone. Nor did I notice when the little wren ceased
singing overhead. At length recalled to myself I began to wonder at the
unusual silence in the garden, until, casting my eyes on the lawn, I
discovered the reason; for there, moving about in their various ways,
most of the birds were collected in a loose miscellaneous flock, a kind
of happy family. There were the starlings, returned from the fields, and
looking like little speckled rooks; some sparrows, and a couple of
robins hopping about in their wild startled manner; in strange contrast
to these last appeared that little feathered clodhopper, the chaffinch,
plodding over the turf as if he had hobnailed boots on his feet; last,
but not least, came statuesque blackbirds and thrushes, moving, when
they moved, like automata. They all appear to be finding something to
eat; but I Watch the thrushes principally, for these are more at home on
the moist earth than the others, and have keener senses, and seek for
nobler game. I see one suddenly thrust his beak into the turf and draw
from it a huge earthworm, a wriggling serpent, so long that although he
holds his head high, a third of the pink cylindrical body still rests in
its run. What will he do with it? We know how wandering Waterton treated
the boa which he courageously grasped by the tail as it retreated into
the bushes. Naturally, it turned on him, and, lifting high its head,
came swiftly towards his face with wide-open jaws; and at this supreme
moment, without releasing his hold on its tail, with his free hand he
snatched off his large felt hat and thrust it down the monster's throat,
and so saved himself.
Just as I am intently watching to see how my hatless little Waterton
will deal with _his_ serpent, a startling bark, following by a canine
shriek, then a yell, resound through the silent garden; and over the
lawn rush those three demoniacal fox-terriers, Snap, Puzzy, and Babs,
all determined to catch something. Away fly the birds, and though now
high overhead, the baffled brutes continue wildly careering about the
grounds, vexing the air with their frantic barkings. No more birds
to-day! But now the peace-breakers have discovered me, and come tearing
across the lawn, and on to the half-way chair, then to the hammock,
scrambling over each other to inflict their unwelcome caresses on my
hands and face.
Ah well, let them have their way and do their worst, since the birds are
gone, and I shall go soon. It is a consolation to think that they are
not my pets; that I shall not grieve, like their mistress, when their
brief barking period is over; that I care just so much and no more for
them than for any other living creature, not excepting the
_fer-de-lance_, "quoiled in the path like rope in a ship," or the
broad-winged vulture "scaling the heavens by invisible stairs." None are
out of place where Nature placed them, nor unbeautiful; none are
unlovable, since their various qualities--the rage of the one and the
gentleness of the other--are but harmonious lights and shades in the
ever-changing living picture that is so perfect.
BIRDS IN A CORNISH VILLAGE
I
TAKING STOCK OF THE BIRDS
Having begun, or first written, this book in one village, which was near
London, I am now finishing, or re-writing, it in another in "the westest
part of all the land," over three hundred miles from the first. Here I
had to go over this ancient work of twenty-three years ago, which was
also my first English bird book, to prepare it for a new edition; and
after all necessary corrections, omissions and additions of fresh matter
made in the foregoing parts, it seemed best to throw out the whole of
the concluding portion, which dealt mainly with the question of
bird-preservation as it presented itself at that time and is now out of
date, thanks to the legislation of recent years and to the growth in
this country of the feeling or desire for birds during the last two or
three decades. In place of this discarded matter I propose to give here
the results of recent observations on the bird life of a Cornish
village.
My residence in the Cornish Village (or villages) was during May and
June, 1915, and again from October of the same year to June, 1916. These
were months of ill-health, so that I was prevented from pursuing my
customary outdoor rambling life; but, like that poor creature the
barnyard fowl that can't use its wings, instinctively, or from old
habit, I used my eyes in keeping a watch on the feathered (and flying)
people about me.
The village, Lelant, is on the Hayle estuary, and to see the Atlantic
one has but to walk past the grey old church at the end of the street,
where the ground rises, to find oneself in a wilderness of towans, as
the sand-hills are there called, clothed in their rough, grey-green
marram grass and spreading on either hand round the bay of St. Ives. A
beautiful sight, for the sea on a sunny day is of that marvellous blue
colour seen only in Cornwall; far out on a rock on the right hand stands
the shining white Godrevy lighthouse, and on the left, on the opposite
side of the bay, the little ancient fishing-town of St. Ives.
The river or estuary, in sight of the doors and windows of the village,
was haunted every day by numbers of gulls and curlews. These last
numbered about one hundred and fifty birds, and were always there except
at full tide, when they would fly away to the fields and moors. Of all
my bird neighbours I think that these gave me most pleasure, especially
at night, when lying awake I would listen by the hour to the perpetual
curlew conversation going on in the dark--an endless series of clear
modulated notes and trills, with a beautiful expression of wildness and
freedom, a reminder of lonely seashores and mountains and moorlands in
the north country. What wonder that Stevenson, sick in his tropical
island--sick for his cold grey home so many thousands of miles away,
wished once more to hear the whaup crying over the graves of his
forefathers, and to hear no more at all!
Of bird music by day there was little; you would hear more of it in one
morning in that small rustic village in Berkshire where the first part
of this book was written than in a whole summer in one of these West
Cornwall villages, so few comparatively are the songsters. Nor was this
scarcity in the village only; it was everywhere, as I found when able to
get out for a few hours during my two spring seasons in the place. Close
by were the extensive woods of Trevalloe, where I was struck by the
extraordinary silence and where I listened in vain for a single note
from blackcap, garden-warbler, willow-wren, wood-wren, or redstart. The
thrushes, chaffinch, chiff-chaff, and greenfinch were occasionally
heard; outside the wood the buntings, chats, and the skylark were few
and far between.
This scarcity of small birds is, I think, due in the first place to the
extraordinary abundance of the jackdaw, the diligent seeker after small
birds' nests, and to the autumn and winter pastime of bush-beating to
which men and boys are given in these parts, and which the Cornish
authorities refuse to suppress.
After a time, when, owing to increasing debility, I was confined more
and more to the village, I began to concentrate my attention on a few
common species that were always present, particularly on the three
commonest--rook, daw, and starling; the first two residents, the
starling, a winter visitor from September to April.
In October, I started feeding the birds at the house where I was staying
as a guest, throwing the scraps on a lawn at the back which sloped down
towards the estuary. First came all the small birds in the immediate
neighbourhood--robin, dunnock, wagtail, chaffinch, throstle, blackbird,
and blue and ox-eye tits. Then followed troops of starlings, and soon
all the rooks and daws in the village began to see what was going on and
come too, and this attracted the gulls from the estuary--I wished that
it had drawn the curlews; and all these big ones were so greedy and
bold, so noisy and formidable-looking that the small birds were quite
driven out; all except the starlings that came in hungry crowds and were
determined to get their share.
At the beginning of December I had to move to a nursing-home at the
Convent of the Sisters of the Cross at the adjacent village of Hayle,
just across the estuary. The Convent buildings and grounds and gardens
are fortunately outside the ugly village, and my room had an
exceptionally big window occupying almost the whole wall on one side,
with an outlook to the south over the green fields and moors towards
Helston. An ideal sick-room for a man who can't be happy without the
company of birds, and here, even when lying on my bed before I was able
to sit or stand by the window, a large portion of the sky, rainy or
blue, was visible, and rooks and daws and gulls and troops of starlings,
and the curlews from the river, were seen coming and going all day long.
But it was much better when I was able to go to the window, since now,
by feeding them, I could draw the birds to me. I fed them on a green
field beneath my window, where the Convent milch-cows were accustomed to
graze for some hours each day. All through the winter there was grass
for them, and I was glad to have them there, as the cow is my favourite
beast, and it was also pleasant to see the wintering starlings
consorting with them, clustering about their noses, just as they do in
the pasture lands in summer time. But I found it best to feed the birds
when the cows were not there, on account of the behaviour of one of
them, a young animal who had not yet been sobered by having a calf of
her own. She was a frivolous young thing and when tired of feeding, she
would start teasing the old cows, pushing them with her horns, then
flinging up her hind legs to challenge them to a romp. The sight of a
crowd of birds under my window would bring her at a gallop to the spot
to find out what all the fuss was about, and the birds would be driven
off.
One morning I was at my window when the field was empty of bird and
beast life with the exception of a solitary old rook, a big bird who was
a constant attendant and so much bigger than most of the rooks that I
had come to know it well. By and by the young cow walked into the field
by herself and, after gazing all round as if surprised at finding the
place so lifeless, she caught sight of and fixed her eyes on the old
rook working at the turf some fifty or sixty yards away. Presently she
began walking towards it, and when within about twenty yards put her
head down and charged it. The rook paid no attention until she was
almost on it, then rose up, emitting its angriest, most raucous screams
while hovering just over her head, and having thus relieved its
indignant feelings it flew heavily away to the far end of the field, and
settling down began prodding away at the soil. The cow, standing still,
gazed after it, and one could almost imagine her saying: "So you won't
get out of the field! Well! I'll soon make you. I'm going to have it
all to myself this morning." And at once she began rapidly walking
towards the bird. But half-way to it was the post set up in the middle
of the field for the cows to rub their hides, and on coming abreast of
it the sight of it and its proximity suggested the delight of a rub, and
turning off at right angles she walked straight to the post and began
rubbing herself against it. The rook went on with its business, and
after that there was no more quarrelling.
Another morning this same old rook came with his mate to the field:
separating, they came down a distance of a hundred yards or more apart
and began searching for grubs. By and by the old cock discovered
something particularly good and after vigorously prodding the turf for a
few moments he sprang up and flew excitedly to his mate, who instantly
knew what this action meant and began fluttering her wings and crying
for the dainty morsel which he proceeded to deliver into her wide-open
mouth. Having fed her, he flew back to the same spot and began working
again.
This is a common action of the rooks, and I saw this same bird feed his
mate on other occasions during the winter months, when I have no doubt
that he, poor wretch, could hardly find food enough to keep himself
alive during the dark season of everlasting wind and rain when the dim
daylight lasted for about six hours. But I never saw a daw or starling
feed his mate, or feed another daw or starling, although I watched
closely every day and often for an hour at a stretch, and though I am
convinced that the starling, like the rook and crow and daw, and in fact
all the Corvidae, pairs for life. To this point I will return presently;
let me first relate another incident about our frivolous and
irresponsible young cow.
One morning when the cows were in the field, some herring-gulls drifted
by and a few of them remained circling about above the field. I threw
out a piece of bread, and a troop of starlings rushed to it, and one of
the gulls dropped down and took possession of it, but had scarcely began
tearing at it when two more gulls dropped down and the first bird,
lifting his wings began screaming "Hands off!" at the others, and the
others, also raising their wings, screamed their wailing screams in
reply. The young cow, attracted by the noise, gazed at them for a few
moments, then all at once putting her head down furiously charged them.
The three gulls rose up simultaneously and floated over her and then
away, leaving her standing on the spot, shaking her head in anger and
disgust at their escape. A rhinoceros charging a ball of thistledown or
a soap-bubble, and causing it to float away with the wind it created,
would not have been a more ludicrous spectacle.
II
DO STARLINGS PAIR FOR LIFE?
From my boyhood, when I first began to observe birds, I started with the
imbibed notion that those which paired for life were the rare
exceptions--the dove that rhymed with love, the eagle, and perhaps half
a dozen more. Who, for instance, would imagine that the sexes could be
faithful in parasitical species like the cuckoo of Europe and the
cow-birds of America? Yet even as a boy I made the discovery that an
Argentine cow-bird that lays its eggs in the nests of other species,
does actually pair for life; and so effectually mated is it, that on no
day and no season of the year will you see a male without his female: if
he flies she flies with him and feeds and drinks with him, and when he
perches she perches at his side, and he never utters a sound but a
responsive sound immediately falls from her devoted beak.
Again, it may seem unlikely that there can be pairing for life in
species, like the chaffinch of northern Europe and, with us, of
Scotland, in which the sexes separate and migrate separately. Also of
non-gregarious species like the nightingale in which the males arrive in
this country several days before the females. Yet I am confident that if
we could catch and mark a considerable number of pairs it would be found
that the same male and female found one another and re-mated every year.
It comes to this, that birds may pair for life, yet not be all the time
or all the year together, as in the case of hawks, crows, owls, herons,
and many others. In numberless species which undoubtedly pair for life
the sexes keep apart during several hours each day, and there is some
evidence that those that separate for a part of the year remain faithful.
An incident, related by Miss Ethel Williams, of Winchester, in her
natural history notes contributed to a journal in that city, bears on
this point. She had among the bird pensioners in the garden of her house
adjoining the Cathedral green, a female thrush that grew tame enough to
fly into the house and feed on the dining-room table. Her thrush paired
and bred for several seasons in the garden, and the young, too, were
tame and would follow their mother into the house to be fed. The male
was wild and too shy ever to venture in. She noticed the first year that
it had a wing-feather which stuck out, owing probably to a malformation
of the socket. Each year after the breeding season the male vanished,
the female remaining alone through the winter months, but in spring the
male came back--the same bird with the unmistakable projecting
wing-feather. Yet it was certain that this bird had gone quite away,
otherwise he would have returned to the garden, where there was food in
abundance during the spells of frosty weather. As he did not appear it
is probable that he migrated each autumn to some warmer climate beyond
the sea.
I have noticed that wagtails, thrushes, blackbirds, and some other
species when the young are out of the nest, divide the brood between
male and female and go different ways and spend the daylight hours at a
distance apart, each attending to the one or two young birds in its charge.
One winter, a few years ago, I was staying for a few days at a cottage
facing Silchester Common, and on going out after breakfast to feed the
birds I particularly noticed a male grey wagtail among those that came
to me, on account of its beauty and tameness. Every morning I fed it,
and on my speaking to my landlady about it she said, "Oh, we know that
bird well; this is the fourth winter it has spent with us, but it always
came before with its mate. The poor little thing had only one leg, but
managed to hop about and feed very well; this year the poor thing didn't
turn up with its mate, so we suppose it had met its death somewhere
during the summer."
I have often watched the gatherings of pied wagtails (always with a
certain number of the grey species among them) in places where they
spend the winter in our southern counties, at some spot where they are
accustomed to congregate each evening to hold a sort of frolic before
going to roost, and it has always appeared to me that the birds, both
pied and grey, were in pairs. So too, in watching the starlings day
after day in the field in front of my window. Well able with my
binocular to observe them closely, I saw much to convince me that the
starling, too, lives all the year with his mate.
Each morning the birds that had made our village their daily
feeding-ground, would, on arrival from the roosting-place in one body,
break up into numerous small parties of half a dozen to twenty or more
birds. All day long these little flocks were hurrying about from field
to field, spending but a short time at one spot, so hungry were they and
anxious to find a more productive one, and in every field they would
meet and mix with other small groups, and presently all would fly, and
breaking up into small parties again go off in different directions.
Thus one had a constant succession of little flocks in the field from
morning till night, and I found from counting the birds in each small
group that in three cases in four they were in even numbers. Again, I
have often seen a group of three, five, seven or nine birds on the
field, and after a while a solitary starling from a neighbouring field
or from some treetop near by has flown down to join the group and make
the numbers even.
The birds when feeding, I have said, are always in a desperate hurry,
and little wonder, since after a night, usually wet and cold, of from
sixteen to eighteen hours and only about six to feed in, they must be in
a half-starved state and frantic to find something to swallow. No sooner
do they alight than they begin running about, prodding with their beaks,
and all the time advancing, the birds keeping pretty well abreast. Now,
from time to time you will notice that a bird finds something to delay
him and is left behind by the others. On they go--prod, prod, then a
little run, then prod, prod again and run again--while he, excited over
his find, and vigorously digging at the roots of the grass, lets them go
on without him until he is yards behind. Whenever this happens you will
see one of the advancing birds pause in its prodding to look back from
time to time as if anxious about the one left behind; and by and by this
same bird, its anxiety increasing, will suddenly spring into the air and
fly back to place itself at the side of the other, to wait quietly until
it has finished its task; and no sooner does the busy one put up its
head to signal that he is ready than up they spring and fly together on
to the flock. No one witnessing this action can doubt for a moment that
these two are mates, and that wherever they paired and bred
originally--in Lincoln or York or Thurso or perhaps in one of the
western islands--they paired for life and will stick together, summer
and winter and in all their wanderings, as long as they live.
Until one observes starlings in this close way, even to their minutest
actions--I had indeed little else to do during my three winter months in
this nursing-home--it is only natural to believe that among gregarious
species the starling is one of those least likely to pair for life,
seeing that in it the gregarious instinct is intensified and more highly
developed than in most others. One would suppose that the flock, which
is like an organism--that is to say, the attachment to the flock--would,
out of the breeding season, take the place of the close relation or
companionship between bird and bird seen in species known to pair for
life. Only the pairing passion, one would suppose, could serve to
dissolve the company of birds and this only for a brief season of about
a couple of months' duration. There is but one brood raised in the
season, and the whole business of reproduction is well over before the
end of June. Later breeders are those that have lost their first eggs or
broods. And no sooner are the young brought off and instructed in the
starling's sole vocation (except his fruit-eating) of extracting the
grubs it subsists on from the roots of the grass--a business which
detains them for a week or two--than the married life is apparently over
and the communal life resumed. The whole life of the bird is then
changed; the sole tie appears to be that of the flock; home and young
are forgotten: the birds range hither and thither about the land, and by
and by migrate to distant places, some passing oversea, while others
from the northern counties and from Scotland and the islands come down
to the south of England, where they winter in millions and myriads.
There they form the winter habit of congregating in immense numbers in
the evening at their favourite roosting-places, and hundreds and
thousands of small flocks, which during the daylight hours exist
distributed over an area of hundreds of square miles all make to one
point and combine into one flock. At such times they actually appear to
rejoice in their own incalculable numbers and gather earlier than they
need at the roosting-place, so that the whole vast gathering may spend
an hour or so in their beloved aerial exercises.
To anyone who witnesses these gatherings and sees the birds rising from
time to time from the wood, and appearing like a big black cloud in the
sky, growing lighter and darker alternately as the birds scatter wide or
mass themselves in a closer formation, until after wheeling about for
some minutes they pour back into the trees; and who listens to the noise
they make, as of a high wind in the wood, composed, as it is, of an
infinity of individual voices, it must seem incredible that all these
birds can keep in pairs. For how could any couple hold together in such
circumstances, or when separated ever meet again in such a multitude,
or, should they ever meet by chance, how recognize one another when all
are exactly alike in size, shape, colour and voice?
They can, and certainly do, keep together, and when forced apart as,
when pursued by a hawk, they scatter in all directions, they can quickly
find one another again. They can do it because of their perfect
discipline, or instinct, or the perfection of the system they follow
during their autumn and winter wanderings and migrations.