flock composed of twenty or thirty to fifty or more pairs and start
their wandering life. Those in the north migrate or drift south, and
vast numbers, as we see, spend the winter in the southern counties. And
here they have their favourite roosting-places and are accustomed to
assemble in tens and hundreds of thousands. But the original small flock
composed of a few pairs, is never broken up--never absorbed by the
multitude. Each morning when it is light enough, the birds quit the
roosting-wood, but not all together; they quit it in flocks, flock
following flock so closely as to appear like a continuous stream of
birds, and the streams flow out in different directions over the
surrounding country. Each stream of birds is composed of scores and
hundreds of units, and each unit drops out of the stream and slopes away
to this or that side, to drop down on its own chosen feeding-ground, to
which it returns morning after morning through the winter. When all the
units have dropped out and settled on their feeding areas for the day,
it may be seen that the whole country within a circuit of ten or twelve
or more miles from the roosting-place has been occupied, that each flock
has its own territory, where it splits up into some groups and spends
its short hours flying about and exploring every green field, and one
might almost say "every grass." One can only explain this perfect
distribution by assuming that each unit instinctively looks for
unoccupied ground in its winter habitat, and that consequently there is
very little overlapping. It must also be assumed that at the place of
assembly in the evening each flock has its own roosting-place--its own
trees and bushes where the members of the flock can still keep together
and to which after each aerial performance they can return. The flock
comes back to sleep on its own tree, and no doubt every couple roosts
side by side on its own twig.
On the return of Spring the birds do not migrate in a body, but slip
away, flock by flock, to reappear about the end of April in their old
breeding-place in the North Country, with, perhaps, the loss of a few
members--the one that was old and died in the season of scarcity; and
one that was taken at the roost by a brown owl, and one that had its
feet frozen to the perch; and was killed by a jackdaw when struggling to
free itself; and one that was struck down by a sparrow-hawk on his
homeward journey.
What I have so far been unable to trace is the career of the young after
August. We see that once they are able to fend for themselves they club
together in small flocks and continue together during their "brown
thrush" stage, but by and by they get the adult plumage and language and
are no longer distinguishable as young. Do they, then, join the old
birds before the wandering and migrating south begins? And do they pair
or not before the winter?
III
VILLAGE BIRDS IN WINTER
Throughout the winter of 1915-16, and more particularly during my three
months in the hospital at Hayle, from the beginning of December to
March, I was greatly impressed at the perpetual state of hunger in which
the birds exist, especially the three commonest species in our
village--rook, daw, and starling. Little wonder that the sight of a
piece of bread thrown out on the green field below my window would bring
all these three and many others with a rush from all sides, every one
eager to get a morsel! But the birds that live most in a groove, as it
were, like the rook and starling, and have but one kind of food and one
way of finding it, are always the worst off in winter. These subsist on
the grubs and other minute organisms they are able to pick out of the
grass roots, and are life workers paid by the piece who must labour hard
and incessantly to make enough to keep themselves alive; their winter
life is accordingly in startling contrast to that of the daw--one that
lives on his wits and fares better and altogether has an easier and more
amusing time.
It was the habit of the three species named to quit the wood where they
roosted as soon as it was light enough for them to feed, the time
varying according to the state of the weather from half-past eight to
ten o'clock, the mornings being usually wet and dark. The rooks that had
their rookery in the village numbered forty or fifty birds, and these
would remain at the village, getting their food in the surrounding
fields for the rest of the day. The daws would appear in a body of two
or three hundred birds, but after a little while many of them would go
on to their own villages further away, leaving about sixty to eighty
birds belonging to the village. Last of all the starlings would appear
in flocks and continuous streams of birds often fighting their way
against wind and rain, leaving about a couple of hundred or more behind,
these being the birds that had settled in the village for the season,
and worked in the grass fields in and surrounding it. Rooks and
starlings would immediately fall to work, while the daws, the flock
breaking up into small parties of three or four, would distribute
themselves about the village and perch on the chimney-pots. They would
perch and then fly, and for all the rest of the day would be incessantly
shifting about from place to place, on the look-out for something to
eat, dropping from time to time to snatch up a crust of bread or the
core of an apple thrown away by a child in the road, or into a back
garden or on to a dust-heap where potato-parings and the head of a
mackerel or other refuse had been thrown. They were very bold, but not
as courageous as the old-time British kite that often swooped to snatch
the bread from a child's hand.
From time to time one, or a pair, of a small party of these daws would
drop down on the field before my window when the rooks and starlings
were there prodding busily at the turf, but though I watched them a
thousand times I never detected them trying to find something for
themselves. They simply stood or walked about among the working birds,
watching them intently. Grub-finding was an art they had not acquired,
or were too indolent or proud to practise; but they were not too proud
to beg or steal; they simply watched the other birds in the hope of
being able to snatch up a big unearthed grub and run away with it. As a
rule after a minute or two they would get tired of waiting and rush off
with a lively shout. Back they would go to the chimney-pots and to their
flying up and down, suspending their flight over this or that yard or
garden, and by and by one would succeed in picking up something big, and
at once all the other daws in sight would give chase to take it from
him; for these village daws are not only parasites and cadgers, but
worse--they are thieves without honour among themselves.
In spite of all the time and energy wasted in their perpetual races and
chases going on all over the village, every bird exerting himself to the
utmost to rob all he can from his pals, they get enough to eat; for when
the day is over and other daws from other villages drop in to visit
them, all unite in a big crowd and wheel about, making the place ring
with their merry yelping cries, before sailing away to the wood. One
might say after witnessing and listening to this evening performance
that they have great joy in their rascally lives.
But for the poor starling there is little joy in these brief, dark, wet
winter days, even if there is little frost in this West Cornwall
climate. A frost of a few days' duration would be fatal to incalculable
numbers, especially if, as in the great frosts of the winters of 1894-5
and 1896-7, severest in the south and west of England, it should come
late in winter, I think it can be taken as a fact that a long or
overseas migration takes place before midwinter or not at all. In
January and February, when birds are driven to the limits of the land by
a great cold they do not cross the sea, either because they are too weak
to attempt such an adventure or for some other reason unknown to us. We
see that on these occasions they come to the seashore and follow it
south and west even to the western extremity of Cornwall, and then
either turn back inland or wait where they are for open weather, many
perishing in the meantime.
During those three winter months, when I watched the starlings at work
on the field before my hospital window, they appeared to be in a
perpetual state of extreme hunger and were always running over the
ground, rapidly prodding as they moved, and apparently finding their
food almost exclusively on the surface--that is to say, on the surface
of the soil but under the grass, at its surface roots. At other seasons
they go deep when they know from the appearance of every blade of grass
whether or not there is a grub feeding on its roots beneath the surface.
Without shooting and examining the stomachs of a large number of
starlings it was not possible to know just what the food consisted of;
but with my strong binocular on them I could make out that at almost
every dig of the beak something was picked up, and could actually see it
when the beak was held up with the minute morsel at its tip--a small,
thread-like, semi-transparent worm or grub in most instances. Two or
three of these atomies would hardly have made a square meal for a
ladybird, and I should think that a starling after swallowing a thousand
would fed very hungry. And on many days this scanty, watery food had to
be searched for in very painful conditions, as it rained heavily on most
days and often all day long. At such times the birds in their sodden
plumage looked like drowned starlings fished out of a pool and
galvanized into activity. Nor were they even seen to shake the wet
off--a common action in swallows and other birds that feed in the rain;
they were too hungry, too anxious to find something to eat to keep the
starling soul and body together before the long night of eighteen or
twenty hours would overtake them.
No doubt the winter of 1915-16 was exceptionally wet and cold, although
without any severe frosts; a long frost in February, when the birds were
most reduced, would probably have proved fatal to at least half their
number. But though it continued wet and cold, things began to mend for
the starlings towards the end of February, and in March the improvement
was very marked; they were not in such a perpetual hurry; their time was
longer now, and by the end of the month their working day had increased
from five or six to twelve or fourteen hours, and the light had
increased and grubs were easier to find. By April, the starlings no
longer appeared to be the same species as the poor, rusty, bedraggled
wretches we had been accustomed to see; they are now lively, happy birds
with a splendid gloss on their feathers and beaks as bright a yellow as
the blackbird's. Finally, in April they left us, not going in a body,
but flock by flock, day after day, until by the end of the month all
were gone back to their homes in the north--all but the two or three to
half a dozen pairs in each village. And these few that stay behind are
new colonists in West Cornwall.
IV
INCREASING BIRDS IN BRITAIN
About the daw, or Jackie, or Dorrie or Jackie-Dorrie, as he is variously
and familiarly called, and his village habits, there will be more to say
presently; just now my concern is with another matter--a veritable daw
problem.
For the last twenty years or longer it has seemed to me that the daw is
an increasing species in Britain; at all events I am quite sure that it
is so in the southern half of England, particularly along the coast of
Somerset, Devon, Dorset, and in Cornwall, more than in any other county.
And why is it? He is certainly not a respectable bird, like the
starling, for example--if we do not go to the cherry-grower for the
starling's character. He is and always has been on the keeper's and
farmer's black list, and scarcely a week passes but you will find him
described in some gamekeeper's or farmer's journal as "even worse than
the rook." Even the ornithologists who are interested in birds as birds
haven't a good word to say of the daw. According to them he alone is
responsible for the disappearance of his distinguished relation, the
chough. (The vulgar daw is of course devoid of any distinction at all,
unless it be his grey pate and wicked little grey eyes.)
The ornithologists were wrong about the chough, just as they had been
wrong about the goldfinch, during the late years of the nineteenth
century, and as they were wrong about the swallows and martins in later
years. Of the goldfinch, they said, and solemnly put it down in their
books, that owing to improved methods of agriculture the thistle had
been extirpated and the bird, deprived of his natural food, had forsaken
this country. But no sooner did our County Councils begin to avail
themselves of the powers given them by the Bird Act of twenty years ago
to protect the goldfinch from the bird-catcher, than it began to
increase again and is still increasing, year by year, all over the country.
Of the decrease of swallows and martins, they said it resulted from the
action of the sparrows in ousting them from their nests and
nesting-sites. But we know the true cause of the decline of these two
species, the best loved and best protected of all birds in Britain, not
even excepting robin redbreast. The French Government, in response to
representations on this matter from our Foreign Office, have caused
enquiries to be made and have found that our swallows are being
destroyed wholesale in France during the autumn migration, and have
promised to put a stop to this deplorable business. They do not appear
to have done so, since the promise was made three years ago, and I can
say from my own observation in the south and west countries that the
decline has continued and that we have never had so few swallows come to
us as in the present summer of 1916.
The daw--to return to that subject--has always been regarded as an
injurious species, and down to a quarter of a century ago every farm lad
in possession of a gun shot it in the interests of the henwife, even as
he had formerly shot the kite, a common British species and a familiar
feature in the landscape down to the early years of last century.
Doubtless it was a great thing to bring down this great bird "that soars
sublime" and nail it to the barn-door. By the middle of the last century
it had become a rarity, and the ensuing rush for specimens and eggs for
private collectors quickly brought about its virtual extinction. The
kite is but one of several species--six of them hawks--extirpated within
the last forty years. Why, then, does the daw, more injurious to the
game-preserver and henwife than any one of these lost hawks, continue to
flourish and increase in numbers? It is, I imagine, because of the
growth of a sentiment which favours its preservation. But it is not the
same as that which has served to preserve the rook and made it so
common. That is a sentiment confined to the landowning class--to those
who inherit great houses where the ancient rookery with its crowd of
big, black, contentious birds caw-cawing on the windy elms, has come to
be an essential part of the establishment, like the gardens and park and
stables and home-farm and, one might add, the church and village. This
sentiment differs, too, from the heron-sentiment, which serves to keep
that bird with us in spite of the annual wail, rising occasionally in
South Devon to a howl, of human trout-fishers. It is a traditional
feeling coming down from the far past in England--from the time of
William the Conqueror to that of William of Orange and the decay of
falconry. That a species without any sentiment to favour it and without
special protection by law may increase is to be seen in the case of the
starling. This increase has come about automatically after we had
destroyed the starling's natural enemies and then ceased to persecute it
ourselves. Of all birds it was the most preyed on by certain raptorial
species, especially by the sparrowhawk, which is now becoming so rare,
assisted by the hobby (rarer still) and the merlin. It was more exposed
than other birds to these enemies owing to its gregarious and feeding
habits in grasslands and the open country, also to its slower flight.
The greatest drain on the species, came, however, from man. The starling
was a favourite bird for shooting-matches up till about thirty years
ago, and was taken annually in large numbers by the bird-catchers for
the purpose. It is probable that this use of the bird for sport caused
people to eat it, and so common did the habit become that at the end of
summer, or before the end, shooting starlings for the pot was practised
everywhere. Old men in the country have told me that forty or fifty
years ago it was common to hear people on the farms say that of all
birds the starling was the best to eat.
When starling and sparrow shooting-matches declined, the starling went
out of favour as a table-bird, and from that time the species has been
increasing. At present the rate of increase grows from year to year, and
during the last decade the birds have colonized every portion of the
north of Scotland and the islands, where the starling had previously
been a rare visitor--a bird unknown to the people. Here in West Cornwall
where I am writing this chapter the starling was only a winter visitor
until recently. Eight years ago I could only find two pairs breeding in
the villages--about twenty-five in number--in which I looked for them;
in the summer of 1915 I found them breeding in every town and village I
visited. At present, June, 1916, there are six pairs in the village I am
staying at. It may be the case, and from conversations I have had with
farmers about the bird I am inclined to believe it is so, that a strong
feeling in favour of the starling (in the pastoral districts) is growing
up at the present time, a feeling which in the end is more powerful to
protect than any law; but such a feeling has not become general as yet,
and consequently has had nothing to do with the extraordinary increase
of the bird.
The wood-pigeon is another species which, like the starling, has
increased greatly in recent years, without special protection and with
no sentiment in its favour. . . . The sentiment is all confined to the
nature-lovers, whose words have no effect on the people generally, least
of all on the farmers. I am reminded here of the experience of a young
man, an ardent bird-lover, on his visit to a Yorkshire farm. His host,
who was also a young man, took him a walk across his fields. It was a
spring day of brilliant sunshine, and the air was full of the music of
scores of soaring skylarks. The visitor long in cities pent, was
exhilarated by the strains and kept on making exclamations of rapturous
delight, "Just listen to the larks! Did you ever hear anything like it!"
and so on.
His host, his eyes cast down, trudged on in glum silence. Finally the
young man, carried away by his enthusiasm, stopped and turning to his
companion shouted, "Listen! Listen! Do you hear the larks?"
"Oh, yes," drawled the other, looking more glum than ever, "I hear them
fast enough. And I wish they were all dead!"
So with the other charming species. The moan of doves in immemorial elms
is a pleasing sound to the poets, but it does not prevent the farmers
throughout the land from wishing them all dead; and every person who
possesses a gun is glad to help in their massacre. For the bird is a
pest and he who shoots it is doing something for England; furthermore,
shooting it is first-rate sport, not like slaughtering wretched little
sparrows or innocent young rooks just out of their windy cradles. And
when shot it is a good table-bird, with as much tasty flesh on it as a
woodcock or partridge.
How, then can we account for the increase of such a species? One cause
is undoubtedly to be found in the removal by gamekeepers of its three
chief enemies--the carrion crow, magpie, and jay--all these three being
great devourers of pigeon's eggs, which of all eggs are most conspicuous
and open to attack. Then again the winter immigration of wood-pigeons
from northern Europe appears to be on the increase, and it may be
conjectured that a considerable number of these visitors remain annually
to breed with us. There has also been an increase in the stockdove and
turtle-dove in recent years, and the former species is extending its
range in the north. The cause or causes of the increase of the
turtledove are not far to seek. Its chief feathered enemies, the egg and
fledgling robbers, are the same as the wood-pigeon's; moreover, the
turtledove is least persecuted by man of our four pigeons, and being
strictly migratory it quits the country before shooting-time begins; add
to this that the turtle-dove has been specially protected under Sir
Herbert Maxwell's Act of 1894 in a good number of English counties, from
Surrey to Yorkshire.
Of the stock-dove we can only say that, like the ring-dove, it has
increased in spite of the persecution it is subject to, since no person
out after pigeons would spare it because it is without a white collar.
With the exception of the county of Buckinghamshire it is not on the
schedule anywhere in the country. One can only suppose that this species
has been indirectly benefited by the bird legislation and all that has
been done to promote a feeling favourable to bird-preservation during
the last thirty years.
V
THE DAW SENTIMENT
I have spoken of the wood adjacent to the villages of Hayle and Lelant
where the rooks, daws, and starlings of the neighbourhood have their
winter roosting-place. This is at Trevelloe, the ancient estate of the
Praeds, who now call themselves Tyringham. Here the daws congregate each
evening in such numbers that a stranger to the district and to the local
habits of the bird might imagine that all the cliff-breeding jackdaws in
West Cornwall had come to roost at that spot. Yet the cliff-breeders,
albeit abundant enough, are but a minority of the daw population of this
district. The majority of these birds live and breed in the neighbouring
villages and hamlets--St. Ives, Carbis Bay, Towadneck, Lelant, Phillack,
Hayle, and others further away. It is a jackdaw metropolis and, as we
have seen, every village receives its own quota of birds each morning, and
there they spend the daylight hours and subsist on the waste food and on
what they can steal, just as the semi-domestic raven and the kite did in
former ages, from Roman times down to the seventeenth century.
Early in May the winter congregation breaks up, the cliff-breeders going
back to the rocks and the village birds to their chimneys, where they
presently set about relining their old nests. There are plenty of places
for all, since there are chimneys in almost every cottage where fires
are never lighted, and as ventilation is not wanted in bedrooms the
birds are allowed to bring in more materials each year, until the whole
flue is filled up. Year by year the materials brought in, sink lower and
lower until they rest on the closed iron register and change in time to
a solid brown mould. Thus, however long-lived a daw may be--and there
are probably more centenarians among the daws than among the human
inhabitants of the villages--it is a rare thing for one to be disturbed
in his tenancy.
In the cottage opposite the one I was staying in, its owner, an old
woman who had lived in it all her life, had recently died, aged
eighty-seven.
She was very feeble at the last, and one cold day when she could not
leave her bed, the extraordinary idea occurred to some one of her people
that it might be a good thing to light a fire in her room. The fireplace
was examined and was found to have no flue, or that the flue had been
filled with earth or cement. The village builder was called in, and with
the aid of a man on the roof and poles and various implements he
succeeded in extracting two or three barrow-loads of hard earth which
had no doubt once been sticks, centuries ago, as the building was very
ancient. No one had remembered that the daws had always occupied the
same chimney; the old dame herself had seen them going in and out of it
from her childhood, and her end was probably hastened by the disturbance
made in cleaning it. Now she is gone the daws here are in possession of
it once more.
All through the month of May daws were to be seen about the village,
dropping from time to time upon the chimney-pots where they had their
nests and occasionally bringing some slight materials to form a new
lining, but it was very rare to see one with a stick in his beak. The
flues were already full of old sticks and no more were wanted. It was
amusing to see a bird flying about, suddenly tumble out of the air on to
a chimneypot, then with tail tipped up and wings closed, dive into the
cavity below. One wondered how the young birds would be got out!
Talking with the rector of the neighbouring parish of Phillack one day
on this subject, he said, "Don't imagine that the daws restrict
themselves to the chimneys where fires are not lighted. At all events it
isn't so at Phillack. Perhaps we have too many daws in our village, but
every year before lighting fires in the drawing and dining-rooms we have
to call in a man with a pole to clear the flues out." He told me that a
few years ago, one cold June day, a fire was lighted in the
drawing-room, and as the smoke all poured out into the room a man was
sent up to the roof with a pole to clear the obstruction out. Presently
a mess of sticks came down and with them two fully-fledged young
jackdaws, one dead, killed with the pole, the other sound and lively.
This one they kept and it soon became quite tame; when able to fly it
would go off and associate with the wild birds, but refused to leave
the house until the following summer, when it found a mate and went away.