NOTES ON BIRDS--NIGHTINGALES--CHAFFINCHES--MIGRATION--PACKING--
INTERMARRIAGE--PEEWITS--CROWS--CUCKOOS--GOLDEN-CRESTED WREN.
The nightingale is one of the birds whose habit of returning every year
to the same spot can hardly be overlooked by anyone. Hawthorn and hazel
are supposed to attract them: I doubt it strongly. If there is a
hawthorn bush near their favourite nesting-place they will frequent it
by choice, but of itself it will not bring nightingales. They seem to
fix upon localities in the most capricious manner. In this particular
district they are moderately plentiful; yet in the whole of a large
parish (some five miles across) they are only found in one place. The
wood which is the roosting-place of all the rooks, large as it is, has
but one haunt of the nightingale. Just in one special spot they may be
heard, and nowhere else. But having selected a locality, they come back
to it as regularly as the swallows.
In another county in the same latitude there is a small copse of birch
which borders a much-frequented road. Here the stream of vehicles and
passengers is nearly continuous; and the birch copse abounds with
nightingales in the spring. On one fine morning I counted eight birds
singing at once. The young birds seemed afterwards as numerous as the
sparrows. Never, in the wildest district I have ever visited, have I
seen so many. They had become so accustomed to passers-by that they
took no notice unless purposely disturbed. Several times I stood under
an oak bough that projected across the sward by the roadside, with a
nightingale perched on it overhead straining his throat. The bough was
some twelve feet high, and in full view of everyone. This road was
constructed about a hundred years ago; and it would be interesting to
learn if a country lane preceded it, well sheltered on both sides by
thick hedges. Birds are fond of such places, and, having once formed
the habit of coming there, would continue to do so after the highway was
laid down.
It has been stated that the flocks of chaffinches which may be seen in
winter consist entirely of females. Male chaffinches are rarely seen:
they have migrated, or in some other manner disappeared. Yet so soon as
the spring comes on the males make their presence known by calling their
defiant notes from every elm along the road. Last spring [1878] I fell
into conversation with a fowler. He had a cock chaffinch in a cage
covered with a black cloth, except on one side. The cage was placed on
the sward beside the--road, and near it a stuffed cock bird stood on the
grass. Two pieces of whalebone smeared with bird-lime formed a pointed
arch over the stuffed chaffinch. The live decoy bird in the cage from
time to time uttered a few notes, which were immediately answered by a
wild bird in the elms overhead. These notes are a challenge; and the
bird in the tree supposes them to proceed from the stuffed bird in the
grass, and descends to fight him, when, as the deceived bird alights,
his wings or feet come in contact with the whalebone--sometimes he
perches on it--and the lime holds him fast.
At that season (March) the cock birds have an irresistible inclination
to do battle; they are ceaselessly challenging each other, and the
fowler takes advantage of it to snare them. Now this man said that
these chaffinches sold for 6 shillings the dozen, and that when the
birds were `on,' as he called it, he could catch five dozen a day. In a
walk of four or five miles I passed half-a-dozen such fellows, with
cages and stuffed chaffinches. This alone proves that cock chaffinches
are very numerous in spring. Where, then, are they in winter, if the
flocks of chaffinches at that period consist almost exclusively of
female birds? Probably they fly in small bodies of three or four, or
singly, and so escape observation. But this division of the sexes
presents a curious resemblance to the social customs discovered amongst
certain savages. During the winter the birds separate, and the females
`pack.' In the spring the males appear, and, after a period of fighting
for the mastery, pair, and the nests are built. After the young are
reared, song ceases, and the old haunts are deserted. This summer I was
much struck with this partial migration, perhaps the more so because
observed in a fresh locality.
During the spring and summer I daily followed a road for some three
miles which I had found to pass through a district much-frequented by
birds. The birch coppice so favoured by nightingales was that way; and,
by the bye, the wrynecks were almost equally numerous; and the question
has occurred to me whether these birds are companions, in a sense, of
the nightingale, having noticed them in other places to be much
together. All spring and summer the hedges, coppices, brakes, thickets,
furze lands, and cornfields abounded with bird life. About the middle
of August there was a notable decrease. Early in September the places
previously so populous seemed almost deserted; by the middle of the
month quite deserted.
There were no chaffinches in the elms or in the road, and scarcely a
sparrow; not a yellowhammer on the hedge by the cornfield; only a very
few greenfinches; not a single bullfinch or goldfinch. Blackbirds,
thrushes, and robins alone remained. The way to find what birds are
about is to watch one of their favourite drinking and bathing-places;
then it is easy to see which are absent. Where had all these birds gone
to? In the middle of the fields of stubble there were flocks of
sparrows--almost innumerable sparrows--and some finches, but not,
apparently, enough to account for all that had left the hedges and
trees. That may be explained by their being scattered over so many
broad acres--miles of arable land being open to them.
But the migration from the hedgerows was very marked. They became quite
empty and silent about the middle of September. This state of things
continued for little more than a week--meaning the absolute silence--
then a bird or two appeared in places at long intervals. They now came
back rapidly, till, on the 28th, the `fink, chink' of the finches
sounded almost as merrily as before. The greenfinches flew from tree to
tree in parties of four, six, or more, calling to each other in their
happy confidential way. On that day the trees and hedges seemed to
become quite populous again with finches. The sparrows, too, were busy
in the roads once more. For a week previously every now and then a
single lark might be heard singing for a few minutes: they had been
silent before. On the 28th half-a-dozen could be heard singing at once,
and now and then a couple might be seen chasing each other as if full of
gaiety. It was indeed almost like a second spring: at the same time a
few buttercups bloomed, to add to the illusion.
This migration of the finches from the hedgerows out into the fields,
and their coming back, is very striking. It may possibly be connected
with the phenomenon of `packing;' for they seem to go away by twos and
threes, to disappear gradually, but to return almost all at once, and in
parties or flocks. The number in the flocks varies a great deal: it is
a common opinion that it depends on the weather, and that in hard
winters, when the cold is severe and prolonged, the flocks are much
larger. Wood-pigeons are seldom, it is said, seen in great flocks till
the winter is advanced.
Has the date of the harvest any influence upon the migration of birds?
The harvest in some counties is, of course, much earlier than in
others--a fact of which the itinerant labourer takes advantage,
following the wave of ripening grass and corn. By the time they have
mown the grass or reaped the wheat, as the case may be, in one county,
the crops are ripe in another, to which they then wend their way.
One of the very earliest counties, perhaps, is Surrey. The white bloom
of the blackthorn seems to show there a full fortnight earlier than it
does on the same line of latitude not many miles farther west. The
almond trees exhibit their lovely pink blossom; the pears bloom, and
presently the hawthorn comes out into full leaf, when a degree of
longitude to the west the hedges are bare and only just showing a bud.
Various causes probably contribute to this--difference of elevation,
difference of soil, and so forth. Now the spring visitors--as the
cuckoo, the swallow, and wryneck--appear in Surrey considerably sooner
than they do farther west. The cuckoo is sometimes a full week earlier.
It would seem natural to suppose that the more forward state of
vegetation in that county has something to do with the earlier
appearance of the bird. But I should hesitate to attribute it entirely
to that cause, for it sometimes happens that birds act in direct
opposition to what we should consider the most eligible course.
For instance, the redwing is one of our most prominent winter visitors.
Flocks of redwings and fieldfares are commonly seen during the end of
the season. They come as winter approaches, they leave as it begins to
grow warm. In every sense they are birds of passage: any ploughboy will
tell you so. (By-the-by, the ploughboys call the fieldfares `velts.'
Is not `velt' a Northern word for field?) But one spring--it was
rapidly verging on summer--I was struck day after day by hearing a loud,
sweet but unfamiliar note in a certain field. Fancying that most bird
notes were known to me, this new song naturally arrested my attention.
In a little while I succeeded in tracing it to an oak tree. I got under
the oak tree, and there on a bough was a redwing singing with all his
might. It should be remarked that neither redwing nor fieldfare sings
during the winter; they of course have their `call' and cry of alarm,
but by no stretch of courtesy could it be called a song. But this
redwing was singing--sweet and very loud, far louder than the old
familiar notes of the thrush. The note rang out clear and high, and
somehow sounded strangely unfamiliar among English meadows and English
oaks.
Then, looking farther and watching about the hedges there, I soon found
that the bird was not alone--there were three or four pairs of redwings
in close neighbourhood, all evidently bent upon remaining to breed. To
make quite sure, I shot one. Afterwards I found a nest, and had the
pleasure of seeing the young birds come to maturity and fly.
Nothing could be more thoroughly opposed to the usual habits of the
bird. There may be other instances recorded, but what one sees oneself
leaves so much deeper an impression. The summer that followed was a
very fine one. It is instances like this that make one hesitate to
dogmatise too much as to the why and wherefore of bird-ways. Yet it is
just the speculation as to that why and wherefore which increases the
pleasure of observing them.
Then there is the corncrake, of whose curious tricks in the mowing grass
I have already written. The crake's rules of migration are not easily
reconciled with any theory I have ever heard of. In the particular
locality which has been described the crakes come early, they enter the
mowing grass and remain there till after it is cut; immediately
afterwards they are heard in the corn. Presently they are silent and
supposed to be gone; but I have heard of their being shot in the opening
of the shooting season on the uplands. The cry of the crake in that
locality is so common and so continuous as to form one of the most
striking features of the spring: the farmers listen for them, and note
their first arrival just as for the cuckoo--which it may be observed, in
passing, even in England keeps time with the young figs.
But when I had occasion to pass a spring in Surrey the first thing I
noticed was the rarity of the crakes; I heard one or two at most, and
that only for a short time. Long before the grass was mown they were
gone--doubtless northwards, having only called in passing. I am told
they call again in coming back, and are occasionally shot in September.
But the next spring, chancing again to be in Surrey at that season,
though constantly about out of doors, I never heard a crake but once--
one single call--and even then was not quite sure of it. I am told,
again, that there are parts of the county where they are more numerous:
they were certainly scarce those two seasons in that locality. Now here
we have an instance in direct contradiction to the suggestion that the
early state of vegetation is attractive to our spring visitors. The
crakes appeared to come earlier, in larger numbers, and to be more
contented and make a longer stay in the colder county than in the warm
one.
The packing of birds is very interesting, and no thoroughly satisfactory
explanation of it, that I am aware of, has ever been discovered. It is
one of the most prominent facts in their history. It is not for warmth,
because they pack long before it is cold. This summer I saw large
flocks of starlings flying to their favourite firs to roost on the
evening of the 19th of June. The cuckoo was singing on the 17th, two
days before.
It would be interesting to know, too, whether birds are really as free
in the choice of their mates in spring as at first sight appears. They
return to the same places, the same favourite hedge, and even the same
tree. Now, when the flocks split up into sections as the spring draws
near, each section or party seems to revisit the hedge from which they
departed last autumn. Do they, then, intermarry year after year? and is
that the reason why they return to the same locality? The fact of a
pair building by chance in a certain hedge is hardly enough to account
for the yearly return of birds to the spot. It seems more like the
return of a tribe or _gens_ to its own special locality. The members of
such a _gens_ must in that case be closely related. As it is not
possible to identify individual birds, the difficulty of arriving at a
clear understanding is great.
Why, again, do not robins pack? Why do not blackbirds, and thrushes, go
in flocks? They never merge their individuality all the year round.
Even herons, though they fish separately, are gregarious in building,
and also often in a sense pack during the day, standing together on a
spit or sandbank. Rooks, starlings, wood-pigeons, fieldfares, and
redwings, may be seen in winter all feeding in the same field, and all
in large flocks.
Some evidence of a supposed tendency to intermarry among birds may
perhaps be deduced from the practice of the long-tailed titmouse. This
species builds a nest exactly like a hut, roof included, and in it
several birds lay their eggs: as many as twenty eggs are sometimes
found; fourteen is a common number. Here there is not only the closest
relationship, but a system of community. This tit has a way sometimes
of puffing up its feathers--they are fluffy, and in that state look like
fur--and uttering a curious sound much resembling the squeak of a mouse;
hence, perhaps, the affix `mouse' to its name.
The tomtit also packs, and flies in small parties almost all the year
round. They remain in such parties until the very time of nesting. On
March 24th last, while watching the approach of a snowstorm, I noticed
that a tall birch tree--whose long, slender, weeping branches showed
distinctly against the dark cloud--seemed to have fruit hanging at the
end of several of the boughs. On going near I counted six tomtits, as
busy as they could be, pendent from as many tiny drooping boughs, as if
at the end of a string, and swinging to and fro as the rude blast struck
the tree. The six in a few minutes increased to eight, then to nine,
then to twelve, and at last there were fourteen together, all dependent
from the very tiniest drooping boughs, all swinging to and fro as the
snow-flakes came silently floating by, and all chuckling and calling to
each other. The ruder the blast and the more they swung--heads
downwards--the merrier they seemed, busily picking away at the young
buds. Some of them remained in the tree more than an hour.
Peewits or lapwings not only pack in the winter, but may almost be said
to pass the nesting time together. There are two favourite localities
in the district, which has been more particularly described,
much-frequented by these birds. One is among some water-meadows, where
the grass is long earlier in the spring than elsewhere: there the first
bennet pushes up its green staff--country people always note the
appearance of the first bennet--and the first cuckoo-flower opens.
Several nests are made here on the ground, in comparatively close
contiguity.
Upon approaching, the old bird flies up, circles round, and comes so
near as almost to be within reach, whistling `pee-wit, pee-wit,' over
your head. He seems to tumble in the air as if wounded and scarcely
able to fly; and those who are not aware of his intention may be tempted
to pursue, thinking to catch him. But so soon as you are leaving the
nest behind he mounts higher, and wheels off to a distant corner of the
field, uttering an ironical `pee-wit' as he goes. If you neglect his
invitation to catch him if you can, and search for the nest or stand
still, he gets greatly excited and comes much closer, and in a few
minutes is joined by his mate, who also circles round; while several of
their friends fly at a safer distance, whistling in sympathy.
Then you have a good opportunity of observing the peculiar motion of
their wings, which seem to strike simply downwards and not also
backwards, as with other birds; it is a quick jerking movement, the wing
giving the impression of pausing the tenth of a second at the finish of
the stroke before it is lifted again. If you pass on a short distance
and make no effort to find the nest, they recover confidence and
descend. When the peewit alights he runs along a few yards rapidly, as
if carried by the impetus. He is a handsome bird, with a well-marked
crest.
The other locality to which I have referred was a wide open field full
of ant-hills. There must have been eight or ten acres of these hills.
They rose about eighteen inches or two feet, of a conical shape, and
overgrown by turf, like thousands of miniature extinct volcanoes. They
were so near together that it was easy to pass twenty or thirty yards
without once touching the proper surface of the ground, by springing
from one ant-hill to the other. Thick bunches of rushes grew between,
and innumerable thistles flourished, and here and there scattered
hawthorn bushes stood. It was a favourite place with the finches; the
hawthorn bushes always had nests in them. Thyme grew luxuriantly on the
ground between the nests and on the ant-hills. Wild thyme and ants are
often found together, as on the Downs. How many millions of ants must
have been needed to raise these hillocks! and what still more
incalculable numbers must have lived in them! A wilder spot could
scarcely have been imagined, though situate between rich meadow and
ploughed lands.
There was always a covey of partridges about the field, but they could
not have had such a feast of eggs as would naturally be supposed,
because in the course of time a crust of turf had grown over the
ant-hills. The temporary hills of loose earth thrown up every summer by
the sides of the fields, where they can lay bare a whole nest with two
or three scratches, must afford much more food. Had it been otherwise
all the partridges in the neighbourhood would have gathered together
here; but there never seemed more than one or two coveys about.
The peewits had nests year after year in this place, and even when the
nesting time was over a few might often be seen. The land for
agricultural purposes was almost valueless, there being so little
herbage upon which cattle could graze, and no possibility of mowing any;
so in the end gangs of labourers were set to work and the ant-hills
levelled, and, indeed, bodily-removed. Thus this last piece of waste
land was brought into use.
Upon the Downs there is a place haunted by some few peewits. In the
colder months they assemble in flocks, and visit the arable land where
it is of a poor character, or where there are signs of peat in the soil.
By the shores of the lake they may, too, be often seen. I have counted
sixty in one flock, and have seen flocks so numerous as to be unable to
count them accurately; that of course was exceptional, but they are by
no means uncommon birds in this district. In others it seems quite a
rare thing to see a lapwing.
They often appear to fly for a length of time together for the mere
pleasure of flying. They rise without the slightest cause of alarm, and
sail about to and fro over the same field for half an hour, then settle
and feed again, and presently take wing and repeat the whirling about
overhead. Solitary peewits will do the same thing; you would imagine
they were going off at a great pace, instead of which back they come in
a minute or two. Other birds fly for a purpose: the peewit seems to
find enjoyment beating to and fro in the air.
Crows frequently build in oaks, and unless they are driven away by shot
will return to the same neighbourhood the following year. They appear
to prefer places near water, and long after the nesting time is past
will visit the spot. Small birds will sometimes angrily pursue them
through the air as they will hawks. As autumn approaches the swallows
congregate on warm afternoons on church steeples; they may be seen
whirling round and round in large flocks, and presently settling. I saw
a crow go past a steeple a short time since where there was a crowd of
swallows, when immediately the whole flock took wing, and circled about
the crow, following him for some distance. He made an awkward attempt
once to get at some of them, but their swiftness of wing took them far
out of his reach. Crows make no friends; rooks, on the contrary, make
many, and are often accompanied by several other species of birds. A
certain friendliness, too, seems to exist between sparrows, chaffinches,
and greenfinches, which are often found together.
Some fields are divided into two by a long line of posts and rails,
which in time become grey from the lichen growing on the wood. The
cuckoos in spring seem to like resting on such rails better than the
hedges; and when they are courting, two, or even three, may be sometimes
seen on them together. Presently they fly, and are lost sight of behind
the trees: but one or other is nearly sure to come back to the rails
again after awhile. Cuckoos perch frequently, too, on those solitary
upright stones which here and there stand in the midst of the fields.
This habit of theirs is quoted by some of the old folks as an additional
proof that the cuckoo is only a hawk changed for the time, and unable to
forget his old habits, hawks (and owls) perching often on poles or
anything upright and detached.
The cuckoo flies so much like the hawk, and so resembles it, as at the
first glance to be barely distinguishable; but on watching more closely
it will be seen that the cuckoo flies straight and level, with a gentle
fluttering of the wings, which never seem to come forward, so that in
outline he resembles a crescent, the convex side in front. His tail
appears longer in proportion, and more pointed; his flight is like that
of a very large swallow flying straight. The cuckoo's cry can perhaps
be heard farther than the call of any other bird. The heron's power of
voice comes nearest: he sails at a great height, and his `quaaack,'
drawn out into a harsh screech, may be heard at a long distance. But
then he has the advantage of elevation; the cuckoo never rises above the
tops of the elms.
Yellowhammers have a habit of sitting on a rail or bough with their
shoulders humped, so that they seem to have no neck. In that attitude
they will remain a long time, uttering their monotonous chant; most
other birds stretch themselves and stand upright to sing. The great
docks that grow beside the ditches are visited by the tomtits, who perch
on them,--the stalk of the dock is strong and supports so light a weight
easily. Sparrows may sometimes be seen in July hawking in the air just
above the sward by the roadside--hovering like the kestrel, a foot or so
high, and then suddenly dropping like stones: they are then so absorbed
that they will scarcely fly away on your approach. At the same time a
rather long red fly is abundant in the grass, and may be the attraction.
The swift's long narrow wings shut behind him as if with a sharp snip,
cutting the air like shears; and then, holding them extended, he glides
like a quoit.
In old days men used to be on the watch about the time of the great
race-meetings, in order to shoot at every pigeon that went past, in hope
of finding a message attached to the bird, and so getting the advantage
of early intelligence. In one such case I heard of, the pigeon had the
name of the winner, and was shot on a tree where it had alighted, weary
from want of food or uncertain as to its course.
The golden-crested wren--smallest of the birds--scarcely ever leaves the
shelter of the hedges and trees. The crest or top-knot is not exactly
golden, but rather orange; and as the body of the tiny creature is dusky
in hue, the bright colour on its head shines like flame in contrast. By
this ruddy lamp upon its head the wren may be discovered hidden deep in
the intricate mazes of the thorn bushes, where otherwise it would be
difficult to find it. These wrens are usually in pairs; I have seldom
seen one by itself. They are not rare, and yet are comparatively little
seen, and must I think travel a good deal. All the same, they have
their favourite places; there was one hedge where, if the bird was
anywhere in the neighbourhood, I could feel sure of finding him. It was
very thick and entirely of hawthorn and blackthorn, and divided two
water-meadows.