THE ASH COPSE--THE NIGHTINGALE--CLOUD OF STARLINGS--HEDGEHOGS--HERON'S
HEAD--MOORHENS--AMONG THE REEDS.
A gap in the hedge by Hazel Corner leads through a fringe of hawthorn
bushes into the ash copse. There is a gate at a little distance; but
somehow it is always more pleasant to follow the bye-way of the gap,
where two steps, one down into the ditch, or rather on to the heap of
sand thrown out from a rabbit bury, and one up on the mound, carry you
from the meadow--out of cultivation--into the pathless wood. The green
sprays momentarily pushed aside close immediately behind, shutting out
the vision, and with it the thought of civilisation. These boughs are
the gates of another world. Under trees and leaves--it is so, too,
sometimes even in an avenue--where the direct rays of the sun do not
penetrate, there is ever a subdued light; it is not shadow, but a light
toned with green.
In spring the ground here is hidden by a verdant growth, out of which
presently the anemone lifts its chaste flower. Then the wild hyacinths
hang their blue bells so thickly that, glancing between the poles, it is
hazy with colour; and in the evening, if the level beams of the red sun
can reach them, here and there a streak of imperial purple plays upon
the azure. Woodbine coils round the tall straight poles, and wild hops,
whose bloom emit a pleasant smell if crushed in the fingers. On the
upper and clearer branches of the hawthorn the nightingale sings--more
sweetly, I think, in the freshness of the spring morning than at night.
Resting quietly on an ash-stole, with the scent of flowers, and the
odour of green buds and leaves, a ray of sunlight yonder lighting up the
lichen and the moss on the oak trunk, a gentle air stirring in the
branches above, giving glimpses of fleecy clouds sailing in the ether,
there comes into the mind a feeling of intense joy in the simple fact of
living.
The nightingale shows no timidity while all is still, but sings on the
bough in full sight, hardly three yards away, so that you can see the
throat swell as the notes are poured forth--now in intricate trills, now
a low sweet call, then a liquid `jug-jug-jug!' To me it sounds richer
in the morning--sunlight, flowers, and the rustle of green leaves seem
the natural accompaniment; and the distant chorus of other birds affords
a contrast and relief--an orchestra filling up the pauses and supporting
the solo singer.
Passing deeper into the wood, it is well to be a little careful while
stepping across the narrow watercourse that winds between the stoles.
Rushes grow thickly by the side, and the slender stream seems to ooze
rather than run, trickling slowly down to the brook in the meadow. But
the earth is treacherous on its banks--formed of decayed branches,
leaves, and vegetable matter, hidden under a thin covering of aquatic
grasses. Listen! there is a faint rustling and a slight movement of the
grass: it is a snake gliding away to its hole, with yellow-marked head
lifted above the ground over which his dull green length is trailing.
Stepping well over the moist earth, and reaching the firmer ground,
there the thistles grow great and tall, many up to the shoulder; it is a
little more open here, the stoles having been cut only two years ago,
and they draw the thistles up.
Sometimes the young ash, shooting up after being cut, takes fantastic
shapes instead of rising straight. The branch loses its roundness and
flattens out to a width of three or four inches, curling round at the
top like the conventional scroll ornament. These natural scrolls are
occasionally hung up in farmhouses as curiosities. The woodmen
jocularly say that the branch grew in the night, and so could not see
its way. In some places (where the poles are full-grown) the upper
branches rub against each other, causing a weird creaking in a gale.
The trees as the wind rises find their voices, and the wood is full of
strange tongues. From each green thing touched by its fingers the
breeze draws a different note: the bennets on the hillside go `sish,
sish;' the oak in the copse roars and groans; in the firs there is a
deep sighing; the aspen rustles. In winter the bare branches sing a
shrill `sir-r-r.'
The elm, with its rough leaf, does not grow in the copse: it is a tree
that prefers to stand clear on two sides at least. Oak and beech are
here; on their lower branches a few brown leaves will linger all through
the winter. Where a huge bough has been sawn from a crooked ill-grown
oak a yellow bloated fungus has spread itself, and under it if you lift
it with a stick, the woodlice are crowded in the rotting stump. The
beech boughs seem to glide about, round and smooth, snake-like in their
easy curves. The bark of the aspen, and of the large willow poles,
looks as if cut with the point of a knife, the cut having widened and
healed with a rough scar. On the trunk of the silver birch sometimes
the outer bark peels and rolls up of itself. Seen from a distance, the
leaves of this tree twinkle as the breeze bends the graceful hanging
spray.
The pheasants, that wander away from the preserves and covers up under
the hills far down in the meadows as the acorns ripen, roost at night
here in the copse; and should a storm arise, after every flash of
lightning gleaming over the downs the cocks among them crow. So, too,
in the daytime, after every distant mutter of thunder the pheasant cocks
crow in the preserves, and some declare they can see the flash, even
though invisible to human eyes, at noonday.
Clustering cones hang from the firs, fringing the copse on one side--
first green, and then a pale buff, and falling at last hard and brown to
strew the earth beneath. In the thick foliage of this belt of firs the
starlings love to roost. If you should be passing along any road--east,
north, west, or south--a mile or two distant, as the sun is sinking and
evening approaching, suddenly there will come a rushing sound in the air
overhead: it is a flock of starlings flying in their determined manner
straight for the distant copse. From every direction these flocks
converge upon it: some large, some composed only of a dozen birds, but
all with the same intent. If the country chances to be open, the hedges
low, and the spectator on a rise so as to see over some distance, he may
observe several such flights at the same time. Rooks, in returning to
roost fly in long streams, starlings in numerous separate divisions.
This is especially noticeable in summer, when the divisions are composed
of fewer birds: in winter the starlings congregate in larger bodies.
It would appear that after the young birds are able to fly they flock
together in parties by themselves, the old birds clubbing together also,
but all meeting at night. The parties of young birds are easily
distinguished by their lighter colour. This may not be an invariable
rule (for the birds to range themselves according to age), but it is the
case frequently. Viewed from a spot three or four fields away, the
copse in the evening seems to be overhung by a long dark cloud like a
bar of mist, while the sky is clear and no dew has yet risen. The
resemblance to a cloud is so perfect that anyone--not thinking of such
things--may for the time be deceived, and wonder why a cloud should
descend and rest over that particular spot. Suddenly, the two ends of
the extended black bar contract and the middle swoops down in the shape
of an inverted cone, much resembling a waterspout, and in a few seconds
the cloud pours itself into the trees. Another minute, and a black
streak shoots upwards, spreads like smoke, parts in two, and wheels
round back into the firs again.
On approaching it this apparent cloud is found to consist of thousands
of starlings, the noise of whose calling to each other is
indescribable--the country folk call it a `charm,' meaning a noise made
up of innumerable lesser sounds, each interfering with the other. The
vastness of these flocks is hardly credible until seen; in winter the
bare trees on which they alight become suddenly quite black. Once or
twice in the summer starlings may be observed hawking to and fro high in
the air, as if imitating the swallows in an awkward manner. Probably
some favourite insect is then on the wing, and they resort to this
unwonted method to capture it.
Beyond the fir trees the copse runs up into a corner, where hawthorn
bushes, briar, and bramble succeed to the ash-stoles, and are in turn
bordered by some width of furze and brake fern. When this fern is young
and fresh the sunshine glistens on its glossy green fronds, but on
coming nearer the sheen disappears. On a very hot sultry day towards
the end of summer there is occasionally a peculiar snapping sound to be
heard in the furze, as if some part of the plant, perhaps the seed, were
bursting. The shocks of wheat, too, will crackle in the morning sun.
This corner, well sheltered by furze and brake, is one of `sly
Reynard's' favourite haunts. The stems of the furze, when they grow
straight, are occasionally cut for walking-sticks. Wood-pigeons visit
the copse frequently--in the spring there are several nests--and towards
evening their hollow notes are repeated at intervals. Though without
the slightest pretensions to a song, there is something soothing in
their call, pleasantly suggestive of woodland glades and deep shady
dells.
Just before the shooting season opens there is a remarkable absence of
song from hedge and tree: even the chirp of the house-sparrow is seldom
heard on the roof, where only recently it was loud and continuous. Most
of the sparrows have, in fact, left the houses in flocks and resorted to
the cornfields after the grain. In this silent season the robin, the
wood-pigeon, and the greenfinch, seem the only birds whose notes are at
all common: the pigeons call in the evening as they come to the copse,
the greenfinches in a hushed kind of way talk to each other in the
hedge, and the robin plaintively utters a few notes on the tree. It is
not absolute silence indeed; but the difference is very noticeable.
Through the ash-poles on one side of the copse distant glimpses may be
obtained of gleaming water, where a creek of the shallow lake runs in
towards it.
Bordering the furze a thick hawthorn hedge--a double mound--extends, so
wide as to be itself almost another copse. In the `rowetty' grass on
the bank or in the hollow places, under fallen leaves and trailing ivy,
the hedgehog hides during the day, so completely concealed that while
the sun shines it is extremely difficult to find one without a dog.
A spaniel racing down the mound will pounce on the spot and scratch the
hedgehog out in a moment; then, missing the dog, you presently hear a
whining kind of bark--half rage, half pain--and know immediately what he
is doing. He is trying to unroll the hedgehog, who, so soon as he felt
the approach of the enemy, curled himself into a ball, with the sharp
spines sticking out everywhere. The spaniel, snapping at the animal,
runs these quills deep into his jowl; he draws back, snaps again, shakes
his head, and then tries a third time, with bloodspots round his mouth.
Every repulse embitters him--his semi-whine expresses intense annoyance,
and if left alone there he would stay till covered with blood.
But the older dogs sometimes learn the trick: they then roll the
hedgehog over with a paw, touching it gently, so as not to run the
spines in, till the depression comes uppermost where the hedgehog has
tucked his head inwards. This is the only vulnerable place, and with
one desperate bite the dog thrusts his teeth in there, seizes the nose,
and then has the hedgehog in his power. The young of the hedgehog are
amusing little things, and try to roll themselves up in precisely the
same manner; but they cannot close the aperture where they tuck their
heads in so completely. Though invisible during the sunshine, hiding so
carefully as to be rarely found, when the dew begins to gather thickly
on the grass and the shades deepen they issue forth, and if you remain
quite still show no fear at all. While waiting in a dry ditch I have
often had a hedgehog come rustling slightly along the bottom till he
reached my boot; then he would go up the `shore' of the ditch out among
the grass hunting for beetles and the creeping things which he likes
most.
In some places they are numerous; one or two other meadows on the farm
beside the home-field are favourite haunts of theirs, and five or six
may be found out feeding within a short distance. When all is still
they move rapidly through the grass--quite a run; much quicker than they
appear capable of moving. The plough lads, if they find one, carry it
to a pond, knowing that nothing but water will make it unroll
voluntarily--no knocks or kicks; but the moment it touches the water it
uncoils. Now and then a labourer will cook a hedgehog and eat it; some
of them will eat a full-grown rook at any time they chance to shoot it,
notwithstanding the bitter flavour of the bird, only taking out a part
of the back. Those who have had some association with the gipsies or
semi-gipsies seem most addicted to this kind of food.
In the opposite direction to the ash copse, and about half a mile north
of Wick farmhouse, there rises above the oak and ash trees what looks
like the topmast and yard of a ship lying at anchor or in dock, the hull
hidden by the branches. It is the top of an immensely tall and gaunt
fir tree, whose thin and perhaps dying boughs project almost at right
angles. This landmark, visible over the level meadows for a
considerable distance, stands in that little enclosed meadow which has
once before been mentioned as one of the favourite resorts of birds and
wild animals.
From the ash copse the travelling parties come down the highway hedge to
the orchard: then, crossing the orchard and road, they enter another
thick hedge, which continues in the same general direction; and finally,
following it, arrive at this small green mead walled in by trees and
mounds so broad as to resemble elongated copses. The mead itself may
perhaps be two acres in extent, but it does not appear so much: the part
visible on first glancing over the gateway can hardly exceed an acre.
The rest is formed of nooks--deep indentations, so to say--not more than
six or eight yards wide at the entrance, and running up to a point. Of
these there are four or five--recesses in the massive walls of green.
These corners are caused by the mound following the curiously winding
course of a brook which flows just without on the left side; and without
on the right side, runs a second brook, whose direction is much
straighter and current slower. These two meet at the top of the mead,
and then, forming a junction, make a deep, swift stream, flowing beside
a series of water-meadows--broad, level, and open, like a plain--which
are irrigated from it. The mounds in the angle where the brooks join
enclose a large space planted with osiers, and inside the hedges all
round the mead there is a wide, deep ditch, always full of slowly moving
water: so that the field is really surrounded by a double moat; and in
one corner, in addition, there is a pond hidden by maple thickets from
within, and intended for the use of cattle in the adjoining field. The
nearest house is several meadows distant, and no footpath passes near,
so that the spot is peculiarly quiet. These mounds, hedges, osier-bed,
and brooks, occupy an area nearly or quite equal to the space where
cattle can feed.
Upon the fir tree a heron perches frequently in the daytime, because
from that great elevation he can command an extensive view and feels
secure against attack. Whenever he visits the water-meadows, sailing
thither from the shallow lake (one of whose creeks approaches the ash
copse), he almost always rests here before descending to the field to
take a good look round. The heron is a most suspicious bird: when he
alights in the water-meadows here he stalks about in the very middle of
the great field, far out of reach of the gun. If ever he ventures to
the brook, it is not till after a careful survey from the fir tree, his
tower of observation; and, when in the brook, his long neck is every now
and then extended, that he may gaze above the banks.
By the gateway, reached by crossing a rude bridge for the waggons, wild
hops festoon the thickets. Behind the maple bushes in the corner the
water of the pond, overhung with willow, is dark--almost black in the
depth of shadow. Out of it a narrow and swift current runs into that
slow straight brook which bounds the right side of the meadow. Here in
the long grass and rushes growing luxuriantly between the underwood lurk
the moorhens, building their nests on bunches of rushes against the bank
and almost level with the water. Though but barely hatched, and chips
of shell clinging to their backs, the tiny fledglings swim at once if
alarmed. When a little older they creep about on the miniature terraces
formed along the banks by the constant running to and fro of water-rats,
or stand on a broken branch bent down by its own weight into the water,
yet still attached to the stem, puffing up their dark feathers like a
black ball.
If all be quiet, the moorhens come out now and then into the meadow; and
then, as they stand upright out of the water, the peculiar way in which
their tails, white marked, are turned upwards is visible. The bill is
of a fine colour--almost the `orange-tawny' of the blackbird, set in
thick red coral at its base. Under the shallow water at the mouth of
the pond the marks of their feet on the mud may be traced: they run
swiftly, and depend upon that speed and the skilful tricks they practise
in diving--turning back and dodging under water like a hare in the
fields--to escape from pursuit, rather than on their wings. Through the
thick green flags they creep, and into the holes the water-rats have
made, or behind and under the natural cavities in the stoles upon the
bank. They beat the water with their wings when they rise, showering
the spray on either side, for a short distance, and then, ascending on
an inclined plane, fly heavily, but with some strength.
At night is their time of journeying, when they come down from the lake
or return to it, uttering a weird cry in the darkened atmosphere. By
day, as they swim to and fro in the flags and through the duckweed,
shaded from the hot sun under willow and aspen, they call to each other,
not unpleasantly, a note something like `croog,' with a twirl of the
`r.' In summer they do not move far from the place they have chosen to
breed in: in the frosts of winter they work their way up the brooks, or
fly at night, but usually come back to the old spot. The dabchick, a
slender bird, haunts the pond here too, diving even more quickly than
the moorhen.
Nut-tree bushes grow along the bank of the brook on this side--the nuts
are a smaller sort than usual; and beside the wet ditch within the mound
and on the `shore,' wherever the scythe has not reached, the
meadow-sweet rears its pale flowers. At evening, if it be sultry, and
on some days, especially before a thunderstorm, the whole mead is full
of the fragrance of this plant, which lines the inside ditch almost
everywhere. So heavy and powerful is its odour that the still
motionless air between the thick hedges becomes oppressive, and it is a
relief to issue forth into the open fields away from the perfume and the
brooding heat. But by day it is pleasant to linger in the shadow and
inhale its sweetness--if you are not nervous of snakes, for there is one
here and there in the grass gliding away at the jar of the earth under
your footstep. Warmth and moisture favour their increase, as on a
larger scale in tropic lands; and parts of the mead are often under
water when a freshet comes down the brooks so choked with flags that
they cannot carry it away quickly.
The osier-bed in the angle where the brooks join is on slightly higher
ground, for although the withy likes water at its roots it should not
stand in it. Springing across the ditch, and entering among the tall
slender wands, which, though they look so thick part aside easily, you
may find on the mound behind the butt of an oak sawn just above the
ground; and there, in the shade of the reeds, and with a cool breeze now
and again coming along the course of the stream, it is delicious in the
heat of summer to repose and listen to the murmur of the water.
The moorhens come down the current slowly, searching about among the
flags; the reed warblers are busy in the hedge; at the mouth of his hole
sits a water-rat rubbing his face between his paws; across the stream
comes his mate, swimming slowly with one end of a long green sedge in
her mouth, and the rest towed behind on the surface. They are the
beavers of our streams--amusing, intelligent little creatures, utterly
different in habits from the rat of the drain. Move but a hand, and
instantly they fall rather than dive into the water, making a sound like
`thock' as they strike it; and then they run along the bottom, or seem
to do so, as swiftly as on dry land. But in a few minutes out they come
again, being at the same time extremely timid and as quickly reassured;
so that if you remain perfectly still they will approach within a yard.
Where the two brooks meet a hollow willow tree hangs over the brown
pool--brown with suspended sand and dead leaves slowly rotating under
the surface--where the swirl of the meeting currents, one swift and
shallow the other deeper and stronger, has scooped out a basin. A
waving line upon the surface marks where the two streams shoulder each
other and strive for mastery, and its curve, yielding now to this side
now to that, responds to their varying volume and weight. While the
under-currents sweep ever slowly round, whirling leaf and dead black
soddened twigs over the hollow, the upper streams are forced together
unwillingly by the narrowing shores, and throw themselves with a
bubbling rush onwards. Through the brown water, from under the stooping
willow whose age bows it feebly, there shine now and again silvery
streaks deep down as the roach play to and fro. There, too, come the
perch; they are waiting for the insects falling off the willows and the
bushes, and for the food brought down by the streams.
`Hush!' it is the rustle of the reeds, their heads are swaying--a
reddish brown now, later on in the year a delicate feathery white. Seen
from beneath, their slender tips, as they gracefully sweep to and fro,
seem to trace designs upon the blue dome of the sky. A whispering in
the reeds and tall grasses: a faint murmuring of the waters: yonder,
across the broad water-meadow, a yellow haze hiding the elms.
In the nooks and corners on the left side of the mead the hemlock rears
its sickly-looking stem; the mound is broad and high, and thickly
covered with grasses, for the most part dead and dry. These form a warm
cover for the fox: there is usually one hiding somewhere here, the mead
being so quiet. Where the ground is often flooded watercress has spread
out into the grass, growing so profusely that now the water is low it
might be mown by the scythe. And everywhere in their season, the
beautiful forget-me-nots nestle on the shores among the flags, where the
water, running slower at the edge, lingers to kiss their feet.
Once, some five-and-twenty years ago, a sportsman startled a great bird
out of the spot where the streams join, and shot it, thinking it was a
heron. But seeing that it was no common heron, he had it examined, and
it was found to be a bittern, and as such was carefully preserved. It
was the last visit of bitterns to the place; even then they were so rare
as not to be recognised: now the progress of agriculture has entirely
banished them.