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BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

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Ce Seat Mabe

cB IR D Lee
GLIMPSES

BY EDMUND SELOUS

WITH 12 HEADINGS AND 6 FULL-PAGE
ILLUSTRATIONS BY G. E. LODGE

LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN, 156
CHARING CROSS ROAD. MCMV

[All rights reserved]

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Ae Nhe g7zet OF

FLINT HOUSE, ICKLINGHAM

PREFACE

In the autumn of 1899 I came to live at Icklingham
in Suffolk, and remained there, with occasional in-
tervals of absence, for the next three years. During
the greater part of that period I kept a day-to-day
journal of field observation and reflection, and the
following pages represent, for the most part, a portion
of this. They are the work of one who professes
nothing except to have used his eyes and ears to the
best of his ability, and to give only, both in regard
to fact and theory, the result of this method—com-
bined, of course, in the latter case, with such illustra-
tions and fortifications as his reading may have
allowed him to make use of, and without taking
into account some passing reference or allusion.
That my notes relate almost entirely to birds, is
not because I am less interested in other animals,
but because, with the exception of rabbits, there are,
practically, no wild quadrupeds in England. I am
quite aware that a list can be made out, but let any
one sit for a morning or afternoon in a wood, field,

vi PREFACE

marsh, swamp, or pond, and he will then understand
what I mean. In fact, to be a field naturalist in
England, is to be a field ornithologist, and more
often than not—I speak from experience—a waster
of one’s time altogether. Unless you are prepared
to be always unnaturally interested in the commonest
matters, and not ashamed to pass as a genius by a
never-ending barren allusion to them, be assured
that you will often feel immensely dissatisfied with
the way in which you have spent your day. Many
a weary wandering, many an hour’s waiting and
waiting to see, and seeing nothing, will be yours if
you aim at more than this—and to read a book is
fatal. But there is the per contra, and what that is
I know very well. Of a few such per contras—they
were to me, and | can only hope that some may be
so to the reader—these “ Bird Life Glimpses” are

made up.
EDMUND SELOUS.

CHELTENHAM, JVay 1905.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

“AT THE QUIET EVENFALL”

Wood-Pigeons coming in to Roost

THE RULES OF PRECEDENCE

Hooded Crows and Rooks Feeding

A GRAND DESCENT

Herons coming down on to Nest

A STATUESQUE FIGURE

Snipe, with Starlings Bathing, and Peewits

INDIGNANT

Starling in possession of Woodpeckers Nesting

Hole

A PRETTY PAIR
Long-Tailed Tits Building

To face page

CHAPTER HEADPIECES

PHEASANT ROOSTING
YOUNG NIGHTJARS
RooKs AT NEST
HERON FISHING

Vij

8

54

80

119

131

198

Vill LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

MALE WHEAT-EAR

A “MURMURATION” OF STARLINGS .
PEEWITS AND NEST

COAL-TIT

GREEN WOODPECKER

MARTINS BUILDING NEST

MOORHEN AND NEST

DABCHICKS AND NEST.

PAGE

106
129
163
194
224
239
261
296

PHEASANT ROOSTING

Pie hate Gly Ses

CHAPTER «1

IcKLINGHAM, in and about which most of the
observations contained in the following pages have
been made, is a little village of West Suffolk,
situated on the northern bank of the river Lark.
It lies between Mildenhall and Bury St. Edmunds,
amidst country which is very open, and so sandy
and barren that in the last geological survey it is
described as having more the character of an
Arabian desert than an ordinary English land-
scape. ‘There are, indeed, wide stretches where the
sand has so encroached upon the scanty vegetation
of moss and lichen that no one put suddenly down
A

2 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

amongst them would think he were in England, if
it happened to be a fine sunny day. These arid
wastes form vast warrens for rabbits always, whilst
over them, from April to October, roam bands of
the great plover or stone-curlew, whose wailing,
melancholy cries are in artistic unison with their
drear desolation. The country is very flat: no hill
can be seen anywhere around, but the ground rises
somewhat, from the river on the northern side, and
this and a few minor undulations of the sand look
almost like hills, against the general dead level. I
have seen the same effect on the great bank of the
Chesil, and read of it, I think, in the desert of
Sahara. These steppes on the one side of the river
pass, on the other, into a fine sweep of moorland,
the lonely road through which is bordered, on one
side only, by a single row of gaunt Scotch firs. West-
wards, towards Cambridgeshire, the sand-country, as
it may be termed, passes, gradually, into the fenlands,
which, in a modified, or, rather, transitional form, lie
on either side the Lark, as far as Icklingham itself.
The Lark, which, for the greater part of its limited
course, is a fenland stream, rises a little beyond Bury
(the St. Edmunds is never added hereabouts), and
enters the Ouse near Littleport. It is quite a small
river; but though its volume, after the first twelve
miles or so, does not increase to any very appre-
ciable extent, the high artificial banks, through
which, with a view to preventing flooding, it is
made to flow, after entering the fenlands proper,
give it a much more important appearance, and this
is enhanced by the flatness of the country on either
side: a flatness, however, which does not—nor does

CHARM OF THE FENLANDS 3

it ever, in my opinion—prevent its being highly
picturesque. Those, indeed, who cannot feel the
charm of the fenlands should leave nature—as dis-
tinct from good hotels—alone. For myself, I some-
times wonder that all the artists in the world are
not to be found there, sketching; but in spite of
the skies and the windmills and Ely Cathedral in
the near, far, or middle distance, | have never met
even one. It is to the fens that the peewits, which,
before, haunted the river and the country generally,
retire towards the end of October, nor do they
return till the following spring, so that Icklingham
during this interval is almost—indeed, I believe
quite—without a peewit. Bury is eight miles from
Icklingham, and about half-way between them the
country begins to assume the more familiar features
of an English landscape, so that the difference which
a few miles makes is quite remarkable.

Fifty years ago, I am told, there were no trees in
this part of the world, except a willow here and
there along the course of the stream, and a few
huge ones of uncouth and fantastic appearance,
which are sometimes called “she oaks” by the
people. The size of these trees is often quite
remarkable, and their wood being, fortunately, value-
less, they are generally allowed to attain to the
full of it. They grow sparingly, yet sometimes
in scattered clusters, and the sand, with the wide
waste of which their large, rude outlines and scanty
foliage has a sort of harmony, seems a congenial
soil for them. They are really, I believe, of the
poplar tribe, which would make them “‘poppels”’
hereabouts, were this understood. These trees, with

a®

4 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

some elders and gnarled old hawthorns, which the
arid soil likewise supports, rather add to than
diminish the desolate charm of the country, and,
as I say, till fifty years ago there were no others.
Then, however, it occurred to landowners, or to
some local body or council, that sand ought to suit
firs, and now, as a consequence, there are numerous
plantations of the Scotch kind, with others of the
larch and spruce, or of all three mingled together.
Thus, in the more immediate proximity of Ick-
lingham we have the warrens or sandy steppes, the
moorlands passing here and there into green seas
of bracken, the river, with a smaller stream that
runs into it, and these fir plantations, which are
diversified, sometimes, with oaks, beeches, and chest-
nuts, and amidst which an undergrowth of bush
and shrub has long since sprung up. Beyond, on
the one hand, there are the fenlands, and, on the
other, ordinary English country. In all these bits
there is something for a bird-lover to see, though, I
confess, I wish there was a great deal more. The
plantations perhaps give the greatest variety. Dark
and sombre spots these make upon the great steppes
or moors, looking black as night against the dusky
red of the wintry sky, after the sun has sunk.
In them one may sit silent, as the shadows fall, and
see the pheasants steal or the wood-pigeons sweep
to their roosting-trees, listening to the “‘ mik, mik,
mik’”’ of the blackbird, before he retires, the harsh
strident note of the mistle-thrush, or the still
harsher and more outrageous scolding of the field-
fare. Blackbirds utter a variety of notes whilst
waiting, as one may say, to roost. The last, or the

BLACKBIRDS AND PHEASANTS 5

one that continues longest, is the ‘‘ mik, mik”’ that I
have spoken of, and this is repeated continuously for
a considerable time. Another is a loud and fussy
sort of ‘‘chuck, chuck, chuck,” which often ends
in almost an exaggeration of that well-known note
which is generally considered to be the one of
alarm, but which, in my experience, has, with most
other cries to which some special meaning is attri-
buted, a far wider and more generalised significance.
As the bird utters it, it flies, full of excitement, to
the tree or bush in which it means to pass the
night, and here, whilst the darkness deepens, it
*“mik, mik, mile, mik, miks,” till, as I suppose,
with the ne " ws i“ of all, the head is laid beneath
the wing, and it goes peacefully to sleep. It is now
that the pheasants come stealing, often running,
to bed. You may hear their quick, elastic little
steps upon the pine-needles, as they pass you, some-
times, quite close. I have had one run almost upon
me, as I sat, stone still, in the gloom, seen it pause,
look, hesitate, retreat, return again, to be again torn
with doubt, and, finally, hurry by fearfully, and only
a pace or two off, to fly into a tree just behind me.
This shows, I think, that pheasants have their
accustomed trees, where they roost night after night.
In my experience this is the habit of most birds,
but, after a time, the favourite tree or spot will be
changed for another, and thus it will vary in a
longer period, though not in a very short one.
This, at least, is my idea; assurance in such a matter
is dificult. The aviary may help us here. Two
little Australian parrakeets, that expatiate in my
greenhouse, chose, soon after they were introduced,

6 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

a certain projecting stump or knob of a vine, as a
roosting-place. For a week or two they were con-
stant to this, but, after that, I found them roosting
somewhere else, and they have now made use, for
a time, of some half-dozen places, coming back to
their first choice in due course, and leaving it again
for one of their subsequent ones. Part of this
process I have noticed with some long-tailed tits,
which, for a night or two, slept all together, not only
in the same bush but on the same spray of it.
Then, just like the parrakeets, they left it, but I
was not able to follow them beyond this. It would
seem, therefore, that birds, though they do not
sleep anywhere, but have a bedroom, like us, yet
like variety, in respect of one, within reasonable
limits, and go ‘‘ from the blue bed to the brown.”
Pheasants are sometimes very noisy and sometimes
quite silent in roosting, and this is just one of those
differences which might be thought to depend on
the weather. For some time it seemed to me as if
a sudden sharp frost, or a fall of snow, made the
birds clamorous, but hardly had I got this fixed,
as a rule, in my mind, when there came a flagrant
contradiction of it, and such contradictions were
soon as numerous as the supporting illustrations.
I noticed, too, that on the most vociferous nights
some birds would be silent, whilst even on the most
silent ones, one or two were sure to be noisy, so that
I soon came to think that if their conduct in this
respect did not depend, purely, on personal caprice,
it at least depended on something beyond one’s
power of finding out. ‘The cries of all sorts of birds
are supposed to have something to do with the

PHEASANTS ROOSTING 4

weather, but I believe that any one who set himself
seriously to test this theory would soon feel like
substituting “‘nothing” for ‘‘something” in the
statement of the proposition. It is much as with
Sir Robert Redgauntlet’s jackanape, I suspect—“ ran
about the haill castle chattering, and yowling, and
pinching, and biting folk, specially before ill weather
or disturbances in the state.” Every one knows the
loud trumpety note, as I call it, with which a
pheasant flies up on to its perch, for the night. It
is a tremendous clamour, and continues, sometimes,
for a long time after the bird is settled. But some-
times, after each loud flourish, there comes an answer
from another bird, which is quite in an undertone ; in
fact a different class of sound altogether, brief, and
without the harsh resonance of the other, so that
you would not take it to be the cry of a pheasant at
all were it not always in immediate response to the
loud one. It proceeds, too, from the same spot or
thereabouts. What, precisely, is the meaning of this
soft answering note? What is the state of mind of
the bird uttering it, and by which of the sexes
slit. uttered ? )) It.as\sthe cock, that; makes the
loud trumpeting, and were another cock to answer
this, one would expect him to do so in a similar
manner. It isin April that my attention has been
more particularly drawn to this after-sound, so that,
though early in the month, one may suppose the
male pheasant to have mated with at least a part of
his harem. One would hardly expect, however, to
find a polygamous bird on terms of affectionate
connubiality with one or other of his wives, and yet
this little duet reminds me, strongly, of what one

8 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

may often hear, sitting in the woods, when wood-
pigeons are cooing in the spring. Almost always
they are invisible, and it is by the ear, alone, that one
must judge of what is going on. Everywhere
comes the familiar ‘‘ Roo, coo, 00, 00-00,” and this,
if you are not very close, is all you hear, and it sug-
gests that one bird is sitting alone—at least alone in
its tree, though answered perhaps from another.
Sometimes, however, one happens to be at the foot
of the tree oneself, and then, if one listens attentively,
one will generally hear a single note, much lower, and
even softer than the other which precedes it, a long-
drawn, hoarse—but sweetly, tenderly hoarse—‘‘oo.”
The instant this has been uttered, comes the note we
know, the two tones being different, and suggesting
—which, I believe, is the case—that the first utter-
ance is the tender avowal of the one bird, the next
the instant and impassioned response of the other.
There is, perhaps, as much monotonous sameness
—certainly as much of expressive tenderness—in the
coo of the wood-pigeon asin any sound in nature, and
yet, if one listensa little, one will find a good deal of
variety in it. Every individual bird has its own
intonation, and whilst, in the greatest number, this
‘‘speaks of all loves” as it should do, in some few
a coo seems almost turned into a scream. Some-
times, too, I have remarked a peculiar vibration in
the cooing of one of these birds, due, I think, to
there being hardly any pause between the several
notes, which are, usually, well separated. Such
a difference does this make in the character of
the sound, that, at first, one might hardly recognise
it as belonging to the same species. Even in the

CAT eee Our hE VENEAL I”

lVood- Pigeons coming in to Roost

WOOD-PIGEON LANGUAGE 9

typical note, as uttered by any individual bird, there
is not so much sameness as one might think. It is
repeated, but not exactly repeated. Three similar,
or almost similar, phrases, as one may call them, are
made to vary considerably by the different emphasis
and expression with which they are spoken. In the
first of these the bird says, ‘‘ Roo, coo, 00-00, 00-00,”
with but moderate insistence, as though stating an
undeniable fact. Then quickly, but still with a
sufficiently well-marked pause, comes the second,
“© ROG, cd6, 00-66, 00-66,” with very much increased
energy, as though warmly maintaining a proposition
that had been casually laiddown. In the third, ‘‘ roo,
coo,” &c., there is a return to the former placidity,
but now comes the last word on the subject:
‘‘ook?” which differs in intonation from anything
that has gone before, there being a little rise in it,
an upturning which makes it a distinct and unmis-
takable interrogative, an “Is it not so?” to all that
has gone before.

Considerable numbers of wood-pigeons roost,
during winter, in the various fir plantations which
now make a feature of the country round Ickling-
ham. ‘They retire somewhat early, so that it is still
the afternoon, rather than the evening, when one
hears the first great rushing sound overhead, and a
first detachment come sweeping over the tops of
the tall, slender firs, and shoot, like arrows, into them.
Then come other bands, closely following one another.
The birds fly in grandly. Sailing on outspread
wings, they give them but an occasional flap, and
descend upon the dark tree-tops from a considerable

height. The grand rushing sound of their wings,

10 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

so fraught with the sense of mystery, so full of hurry
and impatience, has a fine inspiriting effect; it
sweeps the soul, one may say, filling it with wild
elemental emotions. What is this? Is it not a
yearning back to something that one once was, a
backward-rushing tide down the long, long line of
advance? I believe that most of those vague, un-
defined, yet strongly pleasurable emotions that are
apt to puzzle us—such, for instance, as Wordsworth
looks upon as “ intimations of immortality "—have
their origin in the ordinary laws of inheritance.
What evidence of such immortality as is here
imagined do these supposed intimations of it offer ?
Do they not bear a considerable resemblance to the
feelings which music calls up in us, and which
Darwin has rationally explained?! ‘All these
facts,” says Darwin, “‘ with respect to music and 1m-
passioned speech, become intelligible to a certain
extent, if we may assume that musical tones and
rhythm were used by our half-human ancestors
during the season of courtship, when animals of all
kinds are excited, not only by love, but by the
strong feelings of jealousy, rivalry, and triumph.
From the deeply-laid principle of inherited associa-
tions, musical tones, in this case, would be likely to
call up, vaguely and indefinitely, the strong emotions
of a long-past age. Thus, in the Chinese annals it
is said, ‘ Music’ (and this is Chinese music, by the
way) ‘has the power of making heaven descend

1 The late F. W. H. Myers explains music in his own way—in
forced accordance, that is to say, with his subliminal self
hypothesis—without even a reference to Darwin! Did he not

know Darwin’s views, or did he think himself justified in ignoring
them?

POETS AND EVIDENCE II

upon earth’; and, again, as Herbert Spencer remarks,
‘Music arouses dormant sentiments of which we had
not conceived the possibility, and do not know the
meaning’; or, as Richter says, ‘ tells us of things we
have not seen and shall not see.’”’ I have little
doubt myself that the feelings to which we owe our
famous ode, and those which were aroused by music
in the breast of Jean Paul and the Chinese annalist,
were all much of the same kind, and due to the
same fundamental cause. We may, indeed, say with
Wordsworth that the soul ‘‘ cometh from afar,” but
what world is more afar than that of long past time,
which we may, yet, dimly carry about with us in our
own ancestral memories?

There is, I believe, no falser view than that which
looks upon the poet as a teacher, if we mean by this
that he leads along the path of growing knowledge ;
that he, for instance, and not Newton, gets first at
the law of gravitation, and so forth. If he ever
does, it is by a chance combination, merely, and not
as a poet that he achieves this; but, as a rule, poets
only catch up the ideas of the age and present them
grandly and attractively.

‘‘A monstrous eft was, of old, the Lord and
Master of Earth,” &c.

Yet this very ode of Wordsworth ‘ on intimations
of immortality,” has been quoted by Sir Oliver Lodge
in his Presidential Address to the Society for Psychical
Research,’ as though it were evidential. I cannot
understand this. Surely a feeling that a thing is, is
not, in itself, evidence that it is—and, if not, how
does the beauty and strength of the language

1 As reported in “ Proceedings,” March 1go2. Part xliii.

i) BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

which states the conviction, make it such? In this
famous poem there is no jot of argument, so
that the case, after reading it, stands exactly the same
as it did before. No more has been said now, either
for or against, than if any plain body had expressed
the same ideas in his or her own way. For these
mysterious sensations are not confined to poets or
great people. They are a common heritage, but
attract outside attention only when they find exalted
utterance. Suum cuique therefore. The poet's apti-
tude 1s to feel and express ; not, as arule, to discover.
Besides the grand sweeping rush of the wood-
pigeons over the plantation, which makes the air
full of sound, there is some fluttering of wings, as
the birds get into the trees; but this is less than one
might expect. It is afterwards, when they fly—
first one and then another—from the tree they
have at first settled in to some other one, that they
think will suit them better, that the real noise
begins. ‘Then all silence and solitude vanishes out
of the lonely plantation, and it becomes full of
bustle, liveliness, and commotion. The speed and
impetus of the first downward flight has carried the
birds smoothly on to the branches, but now, flying
under them, amongst the tree trunks, they move
heavily, make a great clattering of wings in getting
up to the selected bough, and often give a loud
final clap with them, as they perch upon it.
Wood-pigeons are in greater numbers in this part
of Suffolk than one might suppose would be the
case, in a country for the most part so open. How-
ever, even a small plantation will accommodate a
great many. I remember one cold afternoon in

PIGEON-TREES 13

December going into one of young oaks and beeches,
skirting a grove of gloomy pines, where the rooks
come nightly to roost. My entry disturbed a
multitude of the birds in question, but after sitting,
for some time, silently, under a tree of the dividing
row, they returned ‘in numbers numberless,”
almost rivalling the rooks themselves. Some trees
seemed favourites, and, from these, clouds of them
would, sometimes, fly suddenly off, as if they had
become overcrowded. There was a _ constantly
recurring clatter and swish of wings, and then
gil) at’ once the’ great bulk of the birds, as it
seemed to me, rose with such a clapping as
Garrick or Mrs. Siddons might have dreamed
of, and departed— quantities of them, at least
—in impetuous, arrowy flight. I should have
said, now, that the greater number were gone,
though the plantation still seemed fairly peopled.
Towards four, however, it became so cold that I
had to move, and a// the pigeons flew out of all
the trees—a revelation as to their real numbers,
quite a wonderful thing to see. Some of the trees,
as the birds left them, just in the moment when
they were going, but still there, were neither oaks
nor beeches—nor ashes, elms, poplars, firs, sycamores,
or any other known kind for the matter of that—
but pigeon-trees, that and nothing else.

For wrens, tits, and golden-crested wrens these
fir plantations are as paradises all the year round.
The first-named little bird may often be seen creep-
ing about amongst the small holes and tunnels at
the roots of trees—especially overturned trees—
going down into one and coming out at another,

14 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

as though it were a mouse. It is very pretty to
see it peep and creep and disappear, and then
demurely appear again. Often it will be under-
ground for quite a little while—long enough to
make one wonder, sometimes, if anything has hap-
pened to it—but nothing ever has. As soon as
it has explored one labyrinth, it utters its little
chirruppy, chirpy, chattery note, and flits, a brown
little shadow, to another, into the first dark root-
cavern of which it, once more, disappears. House-
hunting, it looks lke—for the coming spring
quarter, to take from Lady Day, it being February
now—but it is too early for the bird to be really
thinking of a nest, and no doubt the finding of
insects is its sole object. The golden-crested wrens
are more aerial in their search for food. They pass
from fir-top to fir-top, flitting swiftly about
amongst the tufts of needles, owing to which, and
their small size, it is difficult to follow their move-
ments accurately. ‘The pine-needles seem very
attractive to them. I have often searched these
for insects, but never with much success, and I
think, myself, that they feed principally upon the
tiny buds which begin to appear upon them, very early
in the year. In winter they may often be seen about
the trunks of the trees, and I remember, once, jotting
down a query as to what they could get there on a
cold frosty morning in December, when a spider,
falling on the note-book, answered it in a quite
satisfactory manner.

Many spiders hibernate under the rough outer bark
of the Scotch fir, often in a sort of webby cocoon,
which they spin for themselves; numbers of small

WARNING COLORATION 15

pupe, too, choose—or have chosen in their pre-exist-
ences—the same situations, especially that of the
cinnabar moth, which is extremely common about
here. Its luridly-coloured caterpillar—banded with
deep black and orange—swarms upon the common
flea-bane, which grows something like a scanty crop
over much of the sandy soil; and when about to
pupate, as I have noticed with interest, it ascends the
trunk of the Scotch fir, and undergoes the change in
one of the numerous chinks in its flaky bark. I have
seen numbers of these caterpillars thus ascending
and concealing themselves, but I do not know
from how great a distance they come to the trees.
Probably it is only from quite near, for the majority, to
get to them, would have to travel farther than can be
supposed possible, and, moreover, fir-trees in these
parts date, as I said, only from some fifty years
back. Doubtless it is mere accident, but when one
sees such numbers crawling towards the trees, and
ascending as soon as they reach them, it looks as
though they were acting under some special
impulse, such as that which urges birds to migrate,
or sends the lemmings to perish in the sea. These
caterpillars, however, as I now bethink me, are
nauseous to birds. I have thrown them to fowls
who appeared not to see them, so that they offer, I
suppose, an example of warning coloration. If,
however, the caterpillar is unpalatable, the chrysalis
probably is also, so that it would not be for these
that the golden wren, or the coal-tit, its frequent
companion, searches the bark in the winter.
Coal-tits, too, feed much—xe m’en parlez point—on
the delicate little buds at the ends of the clusters

16 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

of spruce-needles, but they, likewise, pull at and
examine the needles themselves, so may, perhaps,
find some minute insects at their bases. They eat
the buds of the larch, too, and, as said before,
whatever they can get by prying and probing about,
on the trunks of all these firs—especially that of
the Scotch one, which they search, sometimes, very
industriously. Whilst thus engaged they say at
intervals, ‘‘ Woo-tee, woo-tee, woo-tee ” (or ‘‘ Wee-
tee,” a sound between the two), and sometimes
‘““Tooey, tooey, tooey-too; tooey, tooey, tooey-
too.” They flit quickly from place to place, and,
both in this and their way of feeding generally, a
good deal resemble the little golden wrens. The
latter, however, are brisker, more fairy-like, and
still more difficult to watch. Yet, do not let me
wrong the coal-tit—he moves most daintily. Every
little hop is a little flutter with the wings, a little
flirt with the tail. His little legs you hardly see.
He has a little game—not hop, skip, and jump, but
hop, flirt, and flutter. His motion combines all
three—in what proportions, how or when varying,
that no man knoweth. How, exactly, he gets to any
place that he would, you do not see, you cannot tell
—he is there, that you see, but the rest is doubtful.
He does not know, himself, I believe. ‘* Aber frag’
mich niir nicht wie,” he might say, with Heine, if you
asked him about it.

But if there is such a mystery in the movements
of the coal-tit, what is to be said about those of the
long-tailed one? Most unfair would it be to omit
him, now that the other has been mentioned. Nor
will I. Dear little birdikins! The naturalist must

A TIT ACROBAT 17

be b/asé, indeed, who could ever be tired of noting
your ways, though he might well be weary of
following you about amongst the delicate larches,
which are most your fairy home and in which you
look most fairy-like. Such a dance as you lead
him! For always you are passing on, making a
hasting, running examination of the twigs of the
trees you flit through, searching systematically, from
one to another, in a sort of aerial forced-march,
which makes you—oh, birdikins !—most difficult to
watch. Like other tits, you—Oh, but hang the
apostrophe ; I can’t sustain it, so must drop, again
—and I think for ever—into the sober third person.
Like other tits, then, these little long-tailed ones
are fond of hanging, head downwards, on the under
side of a bough or twig: but I am not sure if
I have seen other tits come down on a bough or
twig in this way—at any rate not to the same extent.
Say that a blue or a great tit, and a long-tailed one,
are both on the same bough, together. The two
former will fly, or flutter-fly, to another, alight
upon its upper side, and get round to its under one,
by a process that can be seen. The long-tailed tit
will jump and arrive on the under side, hanging
there head downwards. ‘That, at least, is what it
looks like, as if he had turned himself on his back,
in the air, before seizing hold of his twig. Really
there is a little swing down, after seizing it—like
an acrobat on a trapeze—but this is so quick that
it eludes the eye. It is by his legerdemain and
illusion, and by his jumping, rather than flying,
from bough to bough, that the long-tailed tit is
distinguished. He often makes a good long jump

18 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

—a real jump—without appearing to aid himself
with his wings at all. The note of these tits is a
** Zee, zee—zee, zee, zee, zee,” but it is not of such
a sharp quality as the ‘‘zee”’ or “‘tzee”’ of the blue
tit. It is more pleasing—indeed, there is something
very pleasing about it. What is there, in fact, that
is not pleasing about this little bird ?

But I have something more to say upon the
subject of the coal-tit’s diet ; for he eats, I believe,
the seeds of the fir-cones, and manages not only to
pick them out of these, but to pick the cone itself to
pieces in so doing—a wonderful feat, surely, when
one thinks how large and hard the cone is, and how
small the bird. It is not on the tree that I have
seen these tits feeding in this manner, but on the
ground, and the question, for me, is whether the
cones that lay everywhere about had been detached
and then reduced, sometimes, almost to shreds, by
them or by squirrels. At first | unhesitatingly put
it down to the latter, but I soon noticed that in
these particular firs—not part of a plantation but
skirting the road, as is common here—a squirrel was
never to be seen. Neither were coal-tits numerous,
but still a pair or two seemed to live here, and were
often engaged with the cones. Half-a-dozen of
these I took home to examine at leisure. Two, I

found, had been only just commenced on, and the

punctures upon them were certainly such as might
have been made by the beak of a small bird, sug-
gesting that the tit had here begun the process of
picking the cone to pieces, before any squirrel had
touched it. One of the outer four-sided scales had
been removed, and as no cut or excoriation was

COAL-TITS AND FIR-CONES 19

visible upon the surface thus exposed, this, again,
looked more as if the scale aforesaid had been seized
with a pincers—the bird’s beak—and torn off, than
as though it had been cut away with a chisel—the
squirrel’s teeth—for, in this latter case, the plate
beneath would, in all probability, have been cut into,
too, at some point, and not left in its natural smooth
state. Another two of these cones consisted of the
bases only, and from their appearance and the debris
around them, seemed to have been pecked and torn,
rather than gnawed to pieces. In five out of the
six, the extreme base—that part from the centre of
which the stalk springs—had been left untouched.
In the sixth, however, this had been attacked, and
presented a rough, hacked, punctured appearance,
the stalk itself—represented by just a point—having
apparently been pecked through, suggesting strongly
that the tits had commenced work while the cone
hung on the tree, and had severed it in this way.
All round the basal circle the scales had been
stripped off, and the exposed surface was smooth
and unexcoriated—as in the other instance—except
where a portion of it seemed to have been torn, not
cut, away. Two seed-cavities were exposed and
empty. It certainly looked as though these cones
had been hacked and pulled to pieces by the tits,
and not gnawed by squirrels, so as this agreed with
the absence of the latter, and what I had actually
seen the bird doing, I came to the conclusion that
they had been. Perhaps there is nothing very
wonderful in it after all, but, looking at a fir-cone,
I should have thought it clean beyond the strength
of a coal-tit to tear it to pieces. But what, now, is
B

20 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

the origin of the name “‘coal-tit,” which seems to
have no particular meaning? Is it a corruption of
‘‘cone-tit,”’ which, if the bird really feeds on the
seeds of the fir, and procures them in this manner,
would have one? German Koh/meise, however, is
rather against this hypothesis.

YOUNG NIGHTJARS

CHAPTER 11

One bird there is to whom these scattered fir
plantations, with their surrounding, sandy territory,
dotted here and there with a gaunt elder-bush or
gnarled old hawthorn, are extremely dear, and that
bird is the nightjar. Nightjars are very common
here. If spruces and larches alternate with the
prevailing Scotch fir, they love to sit on the extreme
tip-top of one of these, and there, sometimes, they
will “‘churr” without intermission for an extra-
ordinary length of time. Sometimes it seems as if
the bird would never either move, or leave off, but
all at once, with a suddenness which surprises one, it
rises into the air, and goes off with several loud claps
of the wings above the back, and uttering another
note—‘“ quaw-ee, quaw-ee ’—which is never heard,
save during flight. After a few circles it may be

21

22 - BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

joined by a companion—probably its mate—upon
which, as in an excess of glad excitement, it will
clap its wings, again, a dozen or score of times in
succession. The two then pursue one another,
wheeling in swiftest circles and making, often, the
most astonishing turns and twists, as they strive
‘ either to escape or overtake. Often they will be
joined by a third or fourth bird, and more fast,
more furious, then, becomes the airy play. No
words can give an idea of the extreme beauty of the
flight of these birds. In their soft moods they
seem to swoon on the air, and, again, they flout,
coquette, and play all manner of tricks with it.
Grace and jerkiness are qualities quite opposite to
each other. ‘Fhe nightjar, when..“1’ the vein
combines them with easy mastery, and to see this
is almost to have a new sensation. It is as though
Shakespeare’s Ariel were to dance in a pantomime,’
yet still be Shakespeare’s Ariel. As one watches
such beings in the deepening gloom, they seem not
to be real, but parts of the night’s pageant only—
dusky imaginings, shadows in the shapes of birds.
What glorious powers of motion! One cannot see
them without wishing to be one of them.

I have spoken of the nightjar clapping its wings
a dozen or score of times in succession. ‘This is
not exaggerated. I have counted up to twenty-five
claps myself, and this was less than the real number,
as the first tumultuous burst of them was well-nigh
over before I beganto count. It is not easy, indeed,
to keep up with the bird, and when it stops, one is,

1 Or in The Tempest as produced and acted at Stratford-on-
Avon during the last anniversary.

CLAPPING OF WINGS 23

generally, a little behind. The claps are wonder-
fully loud and distinct—musical they always sound
to me—and I believe, myself, that they are almost as
sexual in their character as is the bleating of the
snipe. The habit has, indeed, become now so
thoroughly ingrained that any sudden emotion, as,
say, surprise or fear, is apt to call it forth, of
which principle, in nature, many illustrations might
be given; but it is when two or more birds are
sporting together—or when one, after a long bout of
“churring,” springs from the tree, and, especially, in
a swift, downward flight to the ground, where its
mate is probably reclining —that one hears it in
its perfection. Why so little has been said about
this very marked and noticeable peculiarity, why a
work of high authority should only tell us that ‘in
general its flight is silent, but at times, when
disturbed from its repose, its wings may be heard
to smite together,” I really do not know. The
expression used suggests that the sound made by
the smiting of the wings is but slight, whereas
one would have to be fairly deaf not to hear it.
And why only ‘‘when disturbed’”’? Under such
circumstances the performance will always be a
poor one, but it is not by startling the bird, but
by waiting, unseen and silent, that one is likely to
hear it in its perfection, and then not alarm or
disquietude, but joy will have produced it—it 1s a
glad ebullition.

The domestic habits of the nightjar are very
pretty and interesting. No bird can be more
exemplary in its conjugal relations, and in its care

and charge of the young. Both husband and wife

24 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

take part in the incubation of the eggs, and there
is, perhaps, no prettier sight than to see the one
relieve the other upon them. It is the female bird,
as I believe, that sits during the day—which, to her,
is as the night—and, shortly after the first churring
round about begins to be heard, her partner may be
seen flying up from some neighbouring clump of
trees, and, as he comes, uttering, at intervals, that
curious note of ‘“‘quaw-ee, quaw-ee,’’ which seems
to be the chief aerial vehicle of the domestic
emotions. As it comes nearer, it is evidently
recognised by the sitting bird, who churrs in
response, but so softly that human ears can only
just catch the sound. The male now settles beside
her, churrs softly himself, and then pressing and,
as it were, snoozling against her, seems to insist
that it is now his turn. For a few seconds the pair
sit thus, churring together, and, whilst doing so,
both wag their tails—and not only their tails, but
their whole bodies also—from side to side, like a dog
in a transport of pleasure. Then all at once, with-
out any fondling or touching with the beak—which,
indeed, I have never seen in them—the female darts
away, leaving the male upon the eggs. She goes
off instantaneously, launching, light as a feather,
direct from her sitting attitude, without rising, or
even moving, first. In other cases the cock bird
settles himself a little farther away, and the hen at
once flies off. There are infinite variations in the
pretty scene, but the prettiest, because the most
affectionate, is that which I have described, where
the male, softly and imperceptibly, seems to squeeze
himself on to the eggs, and his partner off them.

A SOFT DUET 26

I have seen tame doves of mine act in just the same
way, and here, too, both would coo together upon
the nest.

In regard to the two sexes churring, thus, in
unison, I can assert, in the most uncompromising
manner, that they do so, having been several times
a witness of it, at but a few steps’ distance, and in
broad daylight, I may almost say, taking the time
of the year into consideration. The eyes, indeed,
are as important as the ears in coming to a con-
clusion on the matter, for not only is the tail
wagged in these little duets, but with the first
breath of the sound, the feathers of the bird’s throat
begin to twitch and vibrate, in a very noticeable
manner. Various authorities, it is true, either state
or imply that the male nightjar alone churrs, or
burrs, or plays the castanets, however one may try
to describe that wonderful sound, which seems to
become the air itself, on summer evenings, any-
where where nightjars are numerous. But these
authorities are all mistaken, and as soon as they
take to watching a pair of the birds hatching their
eggs, they will find that they were, but not before,
for there is no other way of making certain. It is
true that the churr thus uttered, though as distinct
as an air played on the piano, is now extraordinarily
subdued, of so soft and low a quality that, remember-
ing what it more commonly is, one feels inclined to
marvel at such a power of modulation. But it is
just the same sound ‘‘in little ””—how, indeed, can
such a sound be mistaken ?—and, after all, since a
drum can be beaten lightly, there is no reason why
an instrument, which is part of the performer itself,

26 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

should be less under control. What is really
interesting and curious is to hear such a note
expressing, even to one’s human ears, the soft
language of affection—for it does do so in the most
unmistakable manner.

Though, as we have seen, both the male and
female nightjar help in the hatching of the eggs,
the female takes the greater part of it upon herself,
and is also much more au fait in the business—I
believe so, at least. The sexes are, indeed, hard to
distinguish, and, as the light fades, it becomes, of
course, impossible to do so. Still, one cannot watch
a sitting pair, evening after evening, for an hour or
more at a time, without forming an opinion on
such a point; and this is mine. We may assume,
perhaps, that it is the female ‘bird who sits all day,
without once being relieved. If so, it is the male
who flies up in the evening, and from this point
one can judge by reckoning up the changes, and
timing each bird on the eggs. This I did, and it
appeared to me, not only that the hen was, from
the first, the most assiduous of the two, but, also,
that the cock became less and less inclined to attend
to the eggs, as the time of their hatching drew
near. So, too, he seemed to me to sit upon them
with less ease and to have a tendency to get them
separated from each other, which, in one case, led
to a scene which, to me, seemed very interesting, as
bearing on the bird’s intelligence, and which I will
therefore describe. I must say that, previously to
this, when both birds were away, I had left my
shelter in order to pluck an intervening nettle or
two, and thus get a still clearer view, and I had

A BIRD’S DILEMMA 27

then noticed that the two eggs lay rather wide
apart. Shortly afterwards one of the birds, which
I judged to be the male, returned, and in getting
on to the eggs—which it did by pushing itself
along the ground—it must, I think, have moved
them still farther from one another. At any
rate it became necessary, in the bird’s opinion, to
alter their relative position, and in order to do this
it went into a very peculiar attitude. It, as it were,
stood upon its breast, with its tail raised, almost
perpendicularly, into the air, so that it looked some-
thing like a peg-top set, peg upwards, on the
broad end, the legs being, at no time, visible. Thus
poised, it pressed with the under part of its broad
beak—or, as one may say, with its chin—first one
egg and then the other against its breast, and, so
holding it, moved backwards and forwards over the
ground, presenting a strange and most unbirdlike
appearance. The ground, however, was not even,
and despite the bird’s efforts to get the two eggs
together, one of them—as I plainly saw—rolled
down a little declivity. At the bottom some large
pieces of fir-bark lay partially buried in the sand,
and under one of these the egg became wedged.
The bird was unable to get it out, so as to bring it
up the hill again to where the other egg lay, for
the bark, by presenting an edge, prevented it from
getting its chin against the farther side of the one
that was fast, so as to press it against its breast
as before—though making the most desperate
efforts to do so. Wedging its head between the
bark and the ground, it now stood still more per-
pendicularly upright on its breast, and, in this

28 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

position, shoved and shouldered away, most
desperately. After each effort it would lie a little,
as if exhausted, then waddle to the other egg, and
settle itself upon it; then, in a minute or two,
return to the one it had left, and repeat its efforts
toextricate it. At last, however, after nearly half-an-
hour's labour, an idea seemed to occur to.1t. “Jt
went again to the properly-placed egg, but instead
of settling down upon it, as before, began to move it
to the other one, in the way that I have described.
“If the mountain will not go to Mahomet,
Mahomet must go to the mountain”—that was
clearly the process of reasoning, and seeing how set
the bird’s mind had been on one course of action—
how it had toiled and struggled and returned to its
efforts, again and again—its subsequent, sudden
adoption of another plan showed, I think, both
intelligence and versatility. It, in fact, acted just
as a sensible man would have done. It tried to do
the best thing, till convinced it was impossible, and
then did the second best. Having thus got the
two eggs together again, it tried hard to push away
the piece of bark—which was half buried in the
sand—backwards, with its wings, feet, and tail, after
the manner in which the young cuckoo—in spite
of the anti-vaccinationists "ejects its foster brothers
and sisters from the nest. Finally, as it grew dark,
it flew away. I then went out to look, and found
that the bird had been successful in its efforts, to a
certain extent. The two eggs now lay together,

1 The accuracy of Jenner’s observations on this point, was

questioned, not long since, by his enemies : but most triumphantly
was it vindicated.

YOUNG NIGHTJARS FED 29

and though not quite on the same level, and though
the piece of bark was still in the way of one of
them, both might yet have been covered, though
not with ease, and so, possibly, hatched out. How-
ever, had I left them as they were, I have no doubt
that, assisted, perhaps, by its partner, the bird would
have continued to work away till matters were quite
satisfactory. But having seen so much, and since
it would soon have been too dark to see anything
more, | thought I would interfere, for once, and so
removed the bark, and smoothing down the declivity,
laid the eggs side by side, on a flat surface. I must
add that whilst this nightjar was thus struggling to
extricate its eggs, it uttered from time to time a
low querulous note.

When the eggs are hatched, both parents assist
in feeding the chicks, and the first thing that one
notices—and to me, at least, it was an interesting
discovery—is that they feed them, not by bringing
them moths or cockchafers—on which insects the
nightjar is supposed principally to feed—in their
bill, but by a process of regurgitation, after the
manner of pigeons. There is one difference, how-
ever, viz., that whereas the bill of the young pigeon
is placed within that of the parent, the young
nightjar seizes the parent’s bill in its own. Those
peculiar jerking and straining motions, which are
employed to bring up the food—from the crop, as I
suppose—into the mouth, are the same, or, at least,
closely similar, in either case. J have watched the
thing taking place so often, and from so near, that
I cannot, I think, have been mistaken. There was,
usually, a good light, when the first ministrations

30 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

began, and even after it had grown dark I could
almost always see the outline of the bird’s head
and beak, defined against the sky, as it sat perched
upon the bare, thin point of an elder-stump,
from which it generally flew to feed the chicks.
Never was this outline broken by any projection,
as it must have been had an insect of any size
been held in the bill. A more conclusive argu-
ment is, I think, that the chicks were generally
fed, in the way I have described, several times in
succession. They would always come out from
under their mother, as the evening approached, and,
jumping up at her bill, try to insist on her feeding
them. Whether she ever fed them, then, before
leaving the nest, I cannot, for certain, say. I do
not think she did, nor can I see how she could have
had anything in her crop after sitting, fasting, all
day. Asa rule, at any rate, she first flew off, and
fed them only on her return. When she flew, I
used to watch her for as long as I could, and would
sometimes see her, as well as the other one, circling
and twisting about in the air, in pursuit of insects,
as it appeared to me. I never saw any insects,
however, as I should have done had they been of
any size, nor did I ever see anything, on the part
of the birds, that looked like a snatch in the air
with open bill. But if insects were being caught at
all, the bill must, of course, have been opened to
some extent, and this shows, I think—for what else
could the birds have been doing ?—that it is very
difficult in the dusk of evening to see it opened,
even when it is. For my own part, I have found
it dificult—not to say impossible—to see swallows

FOOD OF NIGHTJARS 31

open their beaks, even in broad daylight, when they
were obviously hawking for insects. The point 1s
an important one, I think, in considering what kinds
of insects the nightjar more habitually feeds on,
and how, in general, it procures them—questions
which, having been settled, as it seems to me,
merely by assertion, are entirely reopened by the
fact that the young are fed in the way I have
described. For if moths and cockchafers are the
bird’s principal food, why should it not bring these
to the young, in the ordinary way? But if it
swallows huge quantities of insects, so small that
it cannot seize them in the bill, but must engulf
them, merely, as it flies, as a whale does infusoria,
we can then see a reason for its not doing so. How
else, but by disgorging it in the form of a pulp,
could such food as this be given to the chick? and
if to do so became the bird’s habitual practice, it
would not be likely to vary it in any instance.
Now the green woodpecker feeds largely on ants,
and, further on, I will give my reasons for believing
that it feeds its young by regurgitation. The little
woodpecker, however, I have watched coming, time
and time again, to its hole in the tree-trunk, with
its bill full of insects of various kinds, and of a
respectable size, so that there is no doubt that it
gives these to its brood, as does a thrush or a black-
bird. What can make a difference, in this respect,
between two such closely-allied species, if it be not
that the one has taken to eating ants, minute crea-
tures which it has to swallow wholesale, and could
not well carry in the bill? When, therefore, we
find the parent nightjar regurgitating food into the

32 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

chick’s mouth, we may suspect that it also swallows
large quantities of insects of an equally small, or
smaller size. The beak need neither be widely nor
continuously opened, for many such to be engulfed
as the bird sailed through a strata of them; but
even if it were both, we need not wonder at
its not often being remarked, in a species which
flies and feeds, mostly, by night, when it is both
dark, and people are in bed. Still, I find in See-
bohm’s ‘‘ History of British Birds” the following :
“The bird has been said to hunt for its food,
with its large mouth wide open, but this is
certainly an error.” The first part of the sentence
impresses me more than the last. Why das the
bird its tremendous, bristle-fringed gape? Does it
not suggest a whale’s mouth, with the baleen?
Other birds catch individual insects as cleverly,
without it.

There is another consideration which makes me
think that nightjars feed much in this way. They
hardly begin to fly about, before 8.30 in the evening,
and between 3 and 4, next morning, they have retired
for the day. Now I have watched them closely, on
many successive evenings in June and July, and, for
the life of me, I could never make out what food they
were getting, or, indeed, that they were getting any,
up to at least 10 o’clock. For much of the time
they would be sitting on a bough, or perched on a
fir-top, and churring, and, when they flew, it was
often straight to the ground, and then back, again,
to the same tree. They certainly did not seem to
be catching insects when they did this, and their
longer flights were not, as a rule, round trees, and

AN AERIAL WHALE 33

often resolved themselves into chasing and sporting
with one another. That they occasionally caught
moths or cockchafers seems, in itself, likely, but I
never had reason to suppose that these were their
particular quarry. It seems strange that I should
have so rarely seen them catch any large insect—l
cannot, indeed, remember an instance; but, on the
other hand, they might well have engulfed crowds
of small ones, as they flew, without my being
able to detect it, and without any special effort
to do so. That the air is often full of these—
gnats, little flies, &c.—may be conjectured by
watching swallows, and also bats. Indeed, one
may both see and feel them oneself—ain cycling,
for instance, when I have often had a small beetle,
constructed on the general plan of a devil’s coach-
horse, sticking all over me. For all the above
reasons, my view is that it is the smaller things of
the air which form the staple of the nightjar’s food,
and that its huge gape, and, possibly, the bristles on
either side of the upper jaw, stand in relation to the
enormous numbers of these which it engulfs. The
bird, in fact—and this would apply equally to the
other members of the family—plays, in my idea,
the part of an aerial whale.

I have watched a pair of nightjars through the
whole process of hatching out their eggs and bring-
ing up their young, as long as the latter were to be
found ; for they got away from the nest—if the bare
ground may be called one—long before they could
fly. It was on the last day of June that the chicks
first burst upon me. I had been watching the sitting
bird for some time, and had noticed that the

34. BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

feathers just under her chin were quivering, while
her beak was held slightly—as slightly as possible—
open. I thought she must be churring, but no
sound reached my ear, so I concluded she was

asleep merely, and dreaming that she was. She sat |

so still and close that I never imagined she could
have ceased incubating. I had seen her eggs, too,
as I thought, yesterday; but in this I may have
been mistaken. All at once, however, a strange

little, flat, fluffy thing ran out from under her ©

breast, and, stretching up, touched its mother’s
beak with its own. She did not respond, however,
on which the chick ran back, disappointed. As soon
as that queer little figure had disappeared, I was all

eagerness to see it again, but hour after hour went |

by, the old bird drowsed and dreamed, and still
there was no re-emergence. It seemed as though I
had had an hallucination of the senses, all looked so
still and unchangeable; but, at last, as the evening
began to fall, and churring to be heard round about,
out, suddenly, came the little apparition again,
accompanied, this time, with an exact duplicate
of itself. The two appeared from opposite sides,
and, with a simultaneous jump, seized and struggled
for the beak of the mother, who again resisted, and
then, suddenly, darted off, just as, with ‘‘ quaw-ee,

uaw-ee,” the partner bird flew up. He settled
himself beside the chicks, and when they sprang up
at him, as they had just before done at the mother,
he fed one thoroughly, but not the other, flying off
immediately afterwards. The hen soon returned,
and fed both the chicks several times, always, as I
say, by the regurgitatory process. Between the

'

THE GREAT GREEDY CHICK 35

intervals of feeding them, she kept uttering a little
croodling note, expressive of quiet content and
affection, whilst the chicks, more rarely, gave vent
to a slender pipe. One of them I now‘ saw to be a
little larger than the other, and of a lighter colour,
and this bird seemed always to be the more greedy.
The difference, in all three respects, increased from
day to day, till at last, in regard to size, it became
quite remarkable. The two parent birds were much
alike in this respect, and as the two chicks had been
born within a day of each other, it seems odd that
there should have been this disparity between them.
But so it was.

It appeared to me that, as the big chick was cer-
tainly the greedier of the two, so both the parents
tried to avoid the undue favouring of it at the
expense of the other. If so, however, their efforts
were not very effective. It was difficult, indeed, to
avoid the eagerness of whichever one first jumped
up at them. As they got older, the chicks were
left more and more alone in the nest, or, rather, on
the spot where they were born. At first, they used
to lie there in a wonderfully quiescent way, not
moving, sometimes, for hours at a time, but gradu-
ally they became more active, and would make little
excursions, from which they did not always trouble
to return. Thus, by degrees, the old nesting-site
became lost, for the parents, though for some time
they continued to show an affection for it, settled
more and more by the chicks, or, if they did not
see them, somewhere near about, and then called
them up to them. This they did with the little

1 Or some days later.

36 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

croodling note which I have spoken of, and which
the chicks, on hearing, would answer with a “ quirr,
quirr,” and run towards it, then stop to listen, and
run again, getting, all the while, more and more
excited. If the old bird was at any distance, which,
as the chicks got older, was more and more fre-
quently the case, there would sometimes be long
intervals between these summoning notes—if we
assume them to be such—and, during these, the
chicks lay still and, generally, close together, as if
they were in the nest. When I walked to them,
on these occasions, both the parent birds would
start up from somewhere in the neighbourhood,
and whilst one of them flew excitedly about, the
other—which I took to be the hen—used always
to spin, in the most extraordinary manner, over
the ground, looking more like an insect than a
bird, or, at any rate, suggesting, by her move-
ments, those of a bluebottle that has got its wings
scorched in the gas, and fallen down on the table.
Whilst she was doing this, the chicks would, some-
times, run away, but, quite as often, one or both of
them would remain where they were—apparently
quite unconcerned—and allow me to take them up.
When, at last, the mother followed the example of
her mate, and flew off, she showed the same superior
degree of anxiety in the air, as she had, before, upon
the ground. She would come quite near me, hover
about, dart away and then back again, sit on a
thistle-tuft, leave it, as though in despair, and, at
last, re-alight on the ground, where she kept up a
loud, distressed kind of clucking, which, at times,
became shriller, rising, as it were, to an agony. The

HABITS OF NIGHTJAR 37

male was a little less moved. Still, he would fly
quite near, and often clap his wings above his back.
I cannot, now, quite remember whether the male
ever began by spinning over the ground, in the same
way as the hen, but, if he did, it did not last long,
and he soon took to flight.

It will be seen from the above that the chicks are
very well able to get about. They run, indeed, as
easily, if not quite so fast, as a young duckling,
and this power is retained by the grown bird, in spite
of its aerial habits, for I have seen my two pursuing
one another over the ground with perfect ease and
some speed, seeming, thus, to run without legs, for
these were at no time visible. The ground-breeding
habits of the nightjar probably point to a time when
it was, much more, a ground-dwelling bird, and as
these habits have continued, we can understand a
fair power of locomotion having been retained also.
My own idea is that the nuptial rite is, sometimes
at least, performed on the ground, but of this I
have had no more than an indication.’

The nightjar utters many notes, besides that very
extraordinary one by which it is so well known, and
which has procured for it many of its names. |
have made out at least nineteen others; but I do
not believe that any very special significance belongs
to the greater number of them, and I hold the
same view in regard to many other notes uttered
by various birds, which are supposed, always, to
have some well-defined, limited meaning. Each, no
doubt, has a meaning, at the time it is uttered,

1 The pursuit, namely, just alluded to; but the birds were soon
lost amongst the nettles.

Cc

38 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

but I think it is, generally, one of many possible
ones which may all be expressed by the same note,
such note being the outcome, not of a definite
idea, but of a certain state of feeling. Surprise, for
instance, may be either a glad surprise or a fearful
surprise, and very varied acts spring from either
joy or fear. With ourselves definite ideas have
become greatly developed; but animals may live,
rather, in a world of emotions, which would then
be much more a cause of their actions, and, con-
sequently, of the cries which accompanied them,
than the various ideas appertaining to each. Be-
cause, for instance, a rabbit stamps with its hind
feet when alarmed, and other rabbits profit by its
doing so, why need this be done as a signal, which
would involve a conscious design? Is it not more
likely that the stamp is merely the reaction to
some sudden, strong emotion, which need not always
be that of fear? If rabbits stamp, sometimes, in
sport and frolic—as I think they do—this cannot
be a signal, and therefore we ought not to assume
that it 1s, when it has the appearance, or produces
the effect, of one. All we can say, as it seems
to me, is that excitement produces a certain
muscular movement, which, according to the class
of excitement to which it belongs, may mean or
express either one thing or another. Such a
movement, or such a cry, is like the bang of a
gun, which may have been fired either as a salute
or with deadly intent. However, if the nightjar’s
nineteen notes really express nineteen definite ideas
in the bird’s mind, I can only confess that I have
not discovered what these are. Some of the sounds,

NOTES OF THE NIGHTJAR 39

indeed, are very good illustrations of the view here
brought forward—for instance, the croodling one
just mentioned, which, when it calls the chicks
from a distance, seems as though it could have no
other meaning than this, but which may also be
heard when parent and young are sitting together,
and, again, between the intervals in the process of
feeding the latter. Is it not, therefore, a sound
belonging to the soft, parental emotions, from
which sometimes one class of actions, and some-
times another, may spring—the note being the same
‘n all? From the number of sounds which the
nightjar has at command, I deduce that it is a bird
of considerable range and variety of feeling, which
would be likely to make it an intelligent bird also ;
and this, in my experience, it 1s. Two of the most
interesting notes, or rather series of notes, which
it utters, are modifications, or extensions, of the
only one which has received much attention—the
churr, namely. One of these is a sort of jubilee of
gurgling sounds, impossible to describe, at the end
of it; and the other—much rarer—a beatification,
so to speak, of the churr itself, also towards the
end, the sound becoming more vocal and expressive,
and losing the hard, woodeny, insect-like character
which it usually has. To these I will not add a
mere list of sounds, as to the import of which—not
wishing to say more than I know—I have nothing
very particular to say.

These are days in which the theory of protective
coloration has been run—especially, in my opinion,
in the case of the higher animals—almost to death.
It may not be amiss, therefore, that I should

40 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

mention the extraordinary resemblance which the
nightjar bears to a piece of fir-bark, when it happens
to be sitting amidst pieces of fir-bark, and not amidst
other things, which, when it is, it no doubt re-
sembles as strongly. If, at a short distance, and for
a considerable time, one steadily mistakes one thing
for another thing, with the appearance of which
one is well acquainted, this, I suppose, is fair proof
of a likeness, provided one’s sight is good. Such
a mistake I have made several times, and especially
upon one occasion. It was midday in June, and a
sunny day as well. I had left the bird in question,
for a little while, to watch another, and when I
returned, it was sitting in the same place, which
I knew like my study table. My eye rested full
upon it, as it sat, but not catching the outline of
the tip of the wings and tail, across a certain dry
stalk, as I was accustomed to do, I thought I was
looking at a piece of fir-bark—one of those amongst
which it sat. I, in fact, looked for the eggs upon
the bird, for I knew the exact spot where they
should be; but, as I should have seen them, at once,
owing to their light colour, I felt sure they must be
covered, and after gazing steadily, for some time,
all at once—by an optical delusion, as it seemed,
rather than by the passing away of one—the piece of
fir-bark became the nightjar. It was like a conjuring
trick. The broad, flat head, from which the short
beak projects hardly noticeably, presented no special
outline for the eye to seize on, but was all in one
line with the body. It looked just like the blunt,
rounded end, either of a stump, or of any of the pieces
of fir-bark that were lying about, whilst the dark

PROTECTIVE RESEMBLANCE 41

brown lines and mottlings of the plumage, besides
that they blended with, and faded into, the sur-
roundings, had, both in pattern and colouring, a
great resemblance to the latter object; the lighter
feathers exactly mimicking those patches which are
made by the flaking off of some of the numerous
layers of which the bark of the Scotch fir is com-
posed. This would only be of any special advantage
to the bird when, as in the present instance, it had
laid its eggs amongst pieces of such bark, fallen from
the neighbouring Scotch fir-trees, and did it invariably
do so, a special protective resemblance might, perhaps,
be admitted. This, however, is not the case. It lays
them, also, under beeches or elsewhere, where neither
firs nor fir-bark are to be seen.

Unless, therefore, it can be shown that a large
majority of nightjars lay, and have for a long time
laid, their eggs in the neighbourhood of the Scotch
fir, the theory of a special resemblance in relation to
such a habit, due to the action of natural selection,
must be given up; as | believe it ought to be in
some other apparent instances of it, which have
received more attention. Of course, there might
be a difference of opinion, especially if the bird
were laid on a table, as to the amount, or even the
existence, of the resemblance which I here insist
mpon. But I return to the essential fact. At the
distance of two paces I looked full at a nightjar
sitting amongst flakes of fir-bark, strewed about the
sand, and, for some time, it appeared to me that
it was one of these. ‘This is interesting, if we
suppose, as I do, that mere chance has brought
about the resemblance, for here is a point from

42 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

which natural selection might easily go on towards
perfection. As I did make out the bird, at last,
there is clearly more to be done. It is, perhaps,
just possible that we already see in the nightjar
some steps towards a special resemblance. The
bird is especially numerous in Norway, as I was
told when I was there; and Norway is one great,
pine forest. However, not knowing enough in
regard to its habitat, and the relative numbers
of individuals that resort to different portions
of it, to form an opinion on this point, I will
suppose, in the meantime, that its colouring has
been made generally protective, in relation to its
incubatory habits; for the eggs are laid on the
ground, and commonly at the foot of a tree,
stump, or bush—in the neighbourhood of such
objects, in fact, as have a more or less brownish
hue.

It is during incubation that the bird would stand
most in need of protection, since it is then exposed,
more or less completely, for a great length of time.
One bird, as far as I have been able to see, sits on the
eggs all day long, without ever once leaving them.
Day, however, is night to the nightjar, who not
only sits on its eggs, but sleeps, or, at least, dozes,
on them as well. Drowsiness may, in this case,
have meant security both to bird and eggs; for the
most sleepy individuals would, by keeping still,
have best safeguarded their young, at all stages, as
well as themselves, against the attacks of small
predatory animals. Flies used often to crawl over
the face of the bird I watched daily. They would

get on its eyes; and once a large bluebottle flew

NIGHTJARS AND TIGERS 43

right at one of them. But beyond causing it just
to open or shut the eye, as the case might be, they
produced no effect upon the sleepy creature. The
nightjar is a remarkably close sitter, and both this
special habit and its general drowsiness upon the
nest may have been fostered, at the same time, by
natural selection. The more usual view of the
nightjar’s colouring is, I suppose, that it is dusky,
in harmony with night. But from what does a
bird of its great powers of flight require protection,
either as against the attacks of enemies or the escape
of prey; and again, what colour, short of white, would
be a disadvantage to it, in the case of either, when
nox atra colorem abstulit rebus ¢

Questions of a similar nature may be asked in
regard to the tiger, lion, and other large feline
animals, which, fearing no enemy, and hunting their
prey by scent, after dark, are yet supposed to be pro-
tected by their coloration. These things are easily
settled in the study, where the habits of the species
pronounced upon, not being known, are not taken
into account; but I may mention that my brother,
with his many years’ experience of wild beasts and
their ways, and, moreover, a thorough evolutionist,
is a great doubter here. How, he asks, as I do
now, with him, can the lion be protected, in this
way, against the antelope, and the antelope against
the lion, when the one hunts, and the other is caught,
by scent, after darkness has set in? Of what use,
for such a purpose, can colour or colour-markings
be to either of them? On the other hand, these
go, in varying degrees, to make up a creature’s
beauty. Take, for instance, the leopard, jaguar, or

44 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

tiger. Surely their coloration suggests adornment
much more obviously than assimilation ; and though
they hunt mostly, as I say, by night, they are yet
sufficiently diurnal to be able to admire one another
in the daytime. Darwin, who is often assumed to
have been favourable to the protective theory of
coloration in the larger animals, in instances where
he was opposed to it, says this: ‘Although we
must admit that many quadrupeds have received
their present tints, either as a protection or as an
aid in procuring prey, yet, with a host of species,
the colours are far too conspicuous, and too
singularly arranged, to allow us to suppose that
they serve for these purposes.” He then cites
various antelopes, giving illustrations of two, and
continues: ‘The same conclusion may, perhaps, be
extended to the tiger, one of the most beautiful
animals in the world, the sexes of which cannot be
distinguished by colour, even by the dealers in wild
beasts. Mr. Wallace believes that the striped coat
of the tiger ‘so assimilates with the vertical stems

1 I can see no reason why those who think the leopard’s spots
and the tiger’s stripes protective, should hold the same theory in
regard to the quiet and uniform colouring of the lion. To others,
however, this and the obscure markings on the young animal
certainly suggest that, here, sexual adornment has given place
to harmony with the surrounding landscape. The male lion, how-
ever, has developed a mane, and this, by becoming fashionable at
the expense of colour and pattern, may have led to the deteriora-
tion of the latter. The aboriginal colouring of all these creatures
was, probably, dull, and to this the lion may have reverted. But if
he is protected by his colouring, how can the leopard—in the same
country and with similar habits—also be? The same question
may be asked in regard to the puma and jaguar, who roam to-
gether, seeking the same prey, over a vast expanse of territory.
Again, if the lion was once spotted, and if his spots, like the
leopard’s, were a protection, why has he lost them?

DARWIN AND REVIEWERS 45

of the bamboo’ as to assist greatly in concealing him
from his approaching prey.’ But this view does not
appear to me satisfactory.’ (It seems opposed to the
more usual habits of the creature.) ‘‘ We have some
slight evidence that his beauty may be due to sexual
selection, for in two species of felis the analogous
marks and colours are rather brighter in the male
than in the female. The zebra is conspicuously
striped, and stripes cannot afford any protection on
the open plains of South Africa.”* Yet, when
naturalists to-day refer every colour and pattern
under the sun to the principle of protection, the
reviewers all agree that Darwin agrees with them.
Truly, nowadays, “‘ Darwin’ laudetur et alget.”

The fact is that for some reason—lI believe
because it lessens the supposed mental gap between
man and other animals—Darwin’s theory of sexual
selection was, from the beginning, looked askance at ;
and even those who may accept it, now, in the
general, do so tentatively, and with many cautious
expressions intended to guard their own reputations.
This is not a frame of mind favourable to applying
that theory, and, consequently, all the applications
and extensions go to the credit of the more accepted,
because less Jizarre, one; for even if authorities are
mistaken here, they will, at least, have erred in the
orthodox groove, which issomething. I believe, my-
self, that it is sexual selection which has produced

1 In Indian sporting works one more often reads of tigers
being located in “nullahs” or patches of jungle than amongst
bamboos. The tiger, moreover, ranges into Siberia, and to the
shores of the Caspian, where bamboos, presumably, do not grow,
or are not common.

2 “Descent of Man,” pp. 543, 545-

46 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

much of what is supposed to be due not only to
the principle of protective, but to that, also, of
conspicuous, or distinctive, coloration. ‘Take, for
instance, the rabbit’s tail. I have never been able
to make out that the accepted theory in regard to
it is borne out by the creature’s habits. Rabbits
race and run not only in alarm, but as an outcome
of high spirits. How can the white tail distinguish
between these two causes; and if it cannot, why
should it be a sign to follow? One rabbit may
indeed judge as to the state of mind of another, but
not by looking at the tail; and if too far off to see
anything else, it can form no opinion. Again, each
rabbit has its own burrow, and it does not follow
that because one runs to it here, another should
there. Accordingly, I have noticed that white tails
in rapid motion produce no effect upon other tails,
or their owners, when these are some way off, but
that rabbits, alarmed, make their near companions
look about them. Of course, in the case of a
general stampede, in the dusk, to the warren—from
which numbers of the rabbits may have strayed
away—it is easy to imagine that the rearmost are
following the white tails of those in front of them ;
or rather that these have given them the alarm,
since all know the way to the warren. But how
can one tell that this is really so, seeing that the
alarm in such a case is generally due to a man
stalking up? Would it not look exactly the same
in the case of prairie marmots, whose tails are not
conspicuously coloured? Young rabbits, it is true,
would follow their dams when they ran, in fear, to
their burrows ; not, however, unless they recognised

FORM AND FASHION 47

them, and this they could not do by the tail alone.
If they were near enough to recognise them, they
would be able, probably, to follow them by sight
alone, tail or no tail, nor would another white
powder-puff be liable to lead them astray, as other-
wise it might do. With antelopes, indeed, which
have to follow one another, so as not to stray from
the herd, a light-coloured patch, or wash upon the
hinder quarters, might be an advantage; but as
some of the kinds that have’ it are handsomely
ornamented on the face and body, and as the wash
of colour behind is often, in itself, not inelegant,
why should not one and all be for the sake of
adornment, or, rather, is it not more likely that
they are so? No one, I suppose, who believes in
sexual selection at all, will be inclined to explain
the origin of the coloured posterior surface in the
mandril, and some other monkeys, in any other way.
To me, having regard to certain primary facts in
the sexual relations of all animals, it does not
appear strange that this region should, in many
species, have fallen under the influence of the latter
power. Can we, indeed, say, taking the Hottentots
and some civilised monstrosities of feminine costume
that do most sincerely flatter them into considera-
tion, that it has not done so in the case of man?
The protective theory, as applied to animals that
hunt, or are hunted, by night, seems plausible only
if we suppose that the enemies against whom they
are protected, are human ones. But even if man has
been long enough upon the scene to produce such
modification, who can imagine that he has had

1 Darwin mentions one conspicuous instance.

48 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

anything to do with the colouring of such an animal
as, say, the tiger, till recently much more the op-
pressor than the oppressed, and, even now, as much
the one as the other—in India, for instance, or Corea,
in which latter country things are certainly equal, if
we go by the Chinese proverb, which says, ‘‘ Half
the year the Coreans hunt the tigers, and the other
half the tigers hunt the Coreans.”

Tigers, indeed—especially those that are cattle-
feeders—would seem, often, to kill their prey towards
evening, but when it is still broad daylight. With
regard, however, to the way in which they accom-
plish this, I read some years ago, in an Indian sport-
ing work, a most interesting account of a tiger
stalking a cow—an account full of suggestiveness,
and which ought to have, at once, attracted the
attention of naturalists, but which, as far as I know,
has never since been referred to. The author—
whose name, with that of his work, I cannot recall
—says that he saw a cow staring intently at some-
thing which was approaching it, and that this some-
thing presented so odd an appearance that it was
some time before he could make out what it was.
At last, however, he saw it to be a tiger, or,
rather, the head of one, for the creature’s whole
body, being pressed to the ground, with the fur
flattened down, so as to make it as small as possible,
was hidden, or almost hidden, behind the head,
which was raised, and projected forward very con-
spicuously ; so that, being held at about the angle
at which the human face is, it looked like a large,
painted mask, advancing along the ground in a very
mysterious manner. At this mask the cow gazed

A TIGER’S RUSE 49

intently, as if spell-bound, seeming to have no idea
of what it was, and it was not till the tiger had got
sufficiently near to secure her with ease, that she
took to her heels, only to be overtaken and pulled
down. Now here we have something worth all the
accounts of tiger-shootings that have ever been
written, and all the tigers that have ever been shot.
So far from the tiger endeavouring to conceal him-
self im foto, it would appear, from this, that he makes
his great brindled head, with its glaring eyes, a very
conspicuous object, which, as it is the only part of
him seen or remarked, looks curious merely, and
excites wonder, rather than fear. I know, myself,
how much nearer to birds I am able to get, by ap-
proaching on my hands and knees, in which attitude
“the human form divine ”’ is not at once recognised.
Therefore I can see no reason why the same prin-
ciple of altering the characteristic appearance should
not be employed by some beasts of prey, and long
before I read this account I had been struck with
the great size of the head of some of the tigers in
the Zoological Gardens.

The moral of it all, as it appears to me, is that,
before coming to any settled conclusion as to the
meaning of colour and colour markings in any
animal, we should get accurate and minute informa-
tion in regard to such animal’s habits. As this is,
really, a most important matter, why should there
not be scholarships and professorships in connection
with it? It is absurd that the only sort of know-
ledge in natural history which leads to a recognised
position, with letters after the name, is knowledge
of bones, muscles, tissues, &c. The habits of

50 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

animals are really as scientific as their anatomies,
and professors of them, when once made, would be
as good as their brothers.

Space, after this disquisition, will not permit
me to say much more about the nightjars—only
this, that they return each year to the same
spot, and have not only their favourite tree, but
even their favourite branch in it, to perch upon. I
have seen one settle, after successive flights, upon a
particular point of dead wood, near the top of a
small and inconspicuous oak, surrounded by taller
trees which had a much more inviting appearance,
and on coming another night, there were just the
same flights and settlings. It is not, however, my ex-
perience that the eggs are laid, each year, just where
they were the year before. It may be so, asa rule,
but there are certainly exceptions, and amongst them
were the particular pair that I watched.

Rooks AT NEST

CHAPIER | ill

Tue hooded crow is common in this part of the
country, during the winter; to the extent, indeed,
of being quite a feature of it. With the country
people he is the carrion crow merely, and they do
not appear to make any distinction between him and
the ordinary bird of that name, which is not seen
nearly so often. He is the one they have grown up
with, and know best, but his pied colouring does not
seem to have gained him any specially distinctive
title. For the most part, these crows haunt the
open warren-lands, and, owing to their wariness and
the absence of cover, are very difficult to get near
to. Like the rooks, they spend most of the day in
looking for food, and eating it when found, their
habit being to beat about in the air, making wider
or narrower circles, whilst examining the ground

51

Me BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

beneath for any offal that may be lying there. This
is not so much the habit of rooks, for they,
being more general feeders, march over the country,
eating whatever they can find. They would be
neglecting too much, were they to look for any class
of thing in particular, though equally appreciative of
offal when it happens to come in their way. ‘‘ The
Lord be praised!” is then their attitude of mind.
The crows, however, feed a good deal in this
latter way, too, and, as a consequence, mingle much
with the rooks, from whom, perhaps, they have
learnt a thing or two. Each bird, in fact, knows
and practises something of the other’s business, so
that, without specially seeking one another’s society,
they are a good deal thrown together. Were there
never any occasion for them to mingle, they would
probably not feel the wish to do so, but the slightest
inducement will bring crows amongst rooks, and
rooks amongst crows, and then, in their actions
towards each other, they seem to be but one species.
They fight, of course; at least there are frequent
disagreements and bickerings between them, but
these have always appeared to me to be individual,
merely—not to have any specific value, so to speak.
Both of them fall out, amongst themselves, as do
most other birds. Rooks, especially, are apt to
resent one another’s success in the finding of food,
but such quarrels soon settle themselves, usually
by the bird in possession swallowing the morsel ;
they are seldom prolonged or envenomed. So it 1s
with the rooks and hooded crows, and, on the whole,
I think they meet as equals, though there may, per-
haps, be a slightly more ‘‘ coming-on disposition ” on

ROOKS AND CROWS 53

the part of the latter, and a slightly more giving-
way one on that of the former bird. One apparent
instance of this I have certainly seen. In this case,
two rooks who were enjoying a dead rat between
them, walked very tamely away from it, when a crow
came up; and, later, when they again had the rat, a
pair of crows hopping down upon them, side by
side, in a very bold and piratical manner, again made
them retreat, with hardly a make-believe of resist-
ance. But one of these two crows may have been the
bird that had come up before, and the rat may have
belonged to it and its mate, by right of first dis-
covery, which, in important finds, there is, I think,
a tendency to respect, even if it needs some amount
of enforcing. I have observed this when rooks and
hooded crows have been gathered together about
some offal which they were devouring. One or, at
most, two birds seemed always to be in possession,
whilst the rest stood around. For any other to
insinuate itself into a place at the table was an affair
demanding caution, nor could he do so without
making himself liable to an attack, serious in pro-
portion to the hunger of the privileged bird. As it
began to appear, however, either from the latter’s
languidness, or by his moving a little away, that this
was becoming appeased, another—either rook or
crow—would, at first warily, and then more boldly,
fall to; and thus, without, probably, any actual
idea of the thing, the working out of the situation
was, more or less, to take it in turns. At least it
was always the few that ate, and the many that
waited, and a general sense that this should and
must be so seemed to obtain. Always, at such

54 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

scenes, there will be many small outbreaks, and when
these have been between the two species, I have been
unable to make out that one was inferior to the
other. But such ebullitions have more of threaten-
ing in them than real fighting, so, taking into con-
sideration the incident just recorded, it may be that
the crow, when really in earnest, is recognised by
the rook as the better bird, though, if anything, I
think he is a little the smaller of the two. Jack-
daws, on the other hand, seem conscious of their
inferiority when with rooks, and slip about de-
murely amongst them, as though wishing not to be
noticed.

On the part of either rook or crow, a combative
inclination is indicated by the sudden bending
down of the head, and raising and fanning out of
the tail. The fan is then closed and lowered, as
the head goes up again, and this takes place several
times in succession. If a bird come within slight-
ing distance of one that has thus expressed himself,
there is, at once, an affaire, the two jumping sud-
denly at one another. After the first pass or two,
they pause by mutual consent—just as duellists
do in a novel—and then stand front to front, the
beaks—or rapiers—being advanced, and pointed a
little upwards, their points almost touching. Then,
instantaneously, they spring again, each bird trying
to get above the other, so as to strike him down.
These fireworks, indeed, belong more to the rooks
than the crows, for the former, being more social
birds, are also more demonstrative. Not that the
crows are without the gregarious instinct. Here,
at least, in East Anglia, one may see in them

SULPIA-T SYOOM PUY SMLOAD papooy “PS
HONGdCHOUdd AO SHTNA AHL

ROOKS AND ROGUE ELEPHANTS 55

something like the rude beginnings of the state at
which rooks have arrived. They do not flock in any
numbers, but bands of six or seven, and upwards,
will sometimes fly about together, or sit in the same
free. or croup of trees. On the ground, too,
though they feed in a much more scattered manner
than do rooks, not seeming to think of one another,
they yet get drawn together by any piece of gar-
bage or carrion that one or other of them may find.
In this we, perhaps, see the origin of the gregarious
instinct in most birds, if not in all. Self-interest
first makes a habit, which becomes, by degrees, a
want, and so a necessity ; for if ‘‘ custom is the king
of all men,” as Pindar has pronounced it to be, so
is it the king of all birds, and, equally, of all other
animals.

I think, myself, that their association with the
rooks tends to make these crows moresocial. They
get to feed more as they do, and this brings them
more together. In the evening I have, sometimes,
seen a few fly down into a plantation where rooks
roosted, and which they already filled, and one I
once saw flying, with a small band of them, on their
bedward journey. Whether this bird, or the others,
actually roosted with the rooks, for the night, I
cannot say, but it certainly looked like it. On the
other hand, if one watches rooks, one will, some-
times, see what looks like a reversion, on the part
of an individual or two, to a less advanced social
state than that in which the majority now are.
Whether there are solitary rooks, as there are rogue
elephants, I do not know, but the gregarious
instinct may certainly be for a time in abeyance

D

56 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

with some, if not with all of them. I have watched
one feeding, sometimes, for a length of time, quite
by itself. Not only, on such occasions, have there
been no others with it, but often none were in sight,
nor did any join it, when it flew up. Nothing, in
fact, can look more solitary than these black specks
upon the wide, empty warrens, or the still more
desolate marshes—fens, as they are called, though,
as I say, Icklingham is separated from the real fen-
lands by some seven miles. These fens are un-
drained, and unless the weather has been dry for
some time, it is dificult to get about inthem. At
first sight, indeed, it looks as though one could do
so easily enough, for the long, coarse grass grows
in tufts, or cushions—one might almost call them—
each one of which is raised, to some height, upon a
sort of footstalk. But if one steps on these they
often turn over, causing one to plunge into the
water between them, which their heads make almost
invisible. These curious, matted tufts were used
here in old days for church hassocks—called pesses—
and several of them, veritable curiosities, are now in
the old thatched church at Icklingham, which has
been abandoned—why I know not—and 1s fast
going to ruin.

Rooks sometimes visit these marshes for the sake
of thistles which grow there, or just on their borders,
the roots of which they eat, as do also, I believe,
some of the hooded crows, since I have seen them
excavating in the same places. I know of no more
comfortless sight than one or two of these crows
standing about on the sodden ground, whilst
another sits motionless, like an overseer, in some

ROOK ECCENTRICITIES a

solitary hawthorn bush, in the grey dawn of a cold
winter’s morning. In the dank dreariness they
look as dank and dreary themselves, and seem to
be regretting having got up. There is, indeed,
something particularly shabby and dismal-looking
in the aspect of the hooded crow, when seen under
unfavourable circumstances. They impress one, I
believe, as squalid savages would—as the Tierra del
Fuegians did Darwin. The rook, at all times, looks
much more civilised, even when quite alone. I
am not sure whether the latter bird, to return to
his occasional adoption of less social habits, ever
roosts alone, but I have some reason to suspect that
he does. I have seen one flying from an otherwise
untenanted clump of trees, before the general flight
out from the rook-roost, two or three miles distant,
had begun; to judge by appearances, that is to
say, for the usual stream in one direction did not
begin till some little time afterwards. A populous
roosting-place drains the whole rook population of
the country, for a considerable distance all around it
—far beyond that at which this rook was from his—
and in January, which was the date of the observation,
such establishments would not have begun to break
up. This process, which leads to scattered parties
of the birds passing the night in various new places,
does not begin before March.

I had heard this particular rook cawing, for some
time, before I saw it, and, on other occasions, I have
been struck by hearing solitary caws, in unfrequented
places, ata similarly early hour. Some rooks, there-
fore, may be less social in their ways than the
majority, and if these could be separately studied,

58 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

we might know what all rooks had once been. The
present natural history book contents itself with a
summary of the general habits of each species, as far
as these are known or surmised, or rather as far as
one compiler may learn them from another secula
seculorum. It is to be hoped that, some day in the
future, a work may be attempted which will record
those variations from the general mode of life, which
have been observed and noted down by successive
generations of field-naturalists. A collection of
these would help as much, perhaps, to solve some
of the problems of affinity, as the dissection of the
body, and there would be this advantage in the
method, viz., that any species under discussion would
be less likely to leave a still further gap in the
various classificatory systems, by disappearing during
the process of investigation.

I have said that rooks and crows meet and
mingle together, as though they were of the same
species, but is there, to the boot of this, some special
relation—what, it would puzzle me to say—existing
between them? I remember once, whilst standing
under a willow tree by the little stream here, my
attention being attracted by a hooded crow, which,
whilst flying, kept uttering a series of very hoarse,
harsh cries, ‘‘ Are-rr, are-rr, are-rr”’ (or “ crar’’)—
the intonation is much rougher and less pleasant
than that of rooks. He did not fly right on, and
so away, but kept hovering about, in approximately
the same place, and still continuing his clamour.
I fancied I heard an answer to it from another
hooded crow in the distance, and then, all at once,
up flew about a score of rooks and joined him.

MYSTERIOUS RELATIONS 59

For some minutes they hovered about, over a space
corresponding with a fair-sized meadow, the crow
making one of them, and still, at intervals, con-
tinuing to cry, the rooks talking much less. Then,
all at once, they dispersed again over the country.
What, if anything, could have been the meaning of
this rendezvous? All I can imagine is that, when
the rooks heard the repeated cries of the crow, they
concluded he had found something eatable, and, there-
fore, flew up to share in it, but that, seeing nothing,
they hovered about for a time on the look-out and
then gave it up and flew off. I can form no idea,
however, of what it was that had excited the crow,
for excited he certainly seemed—it was a sudden burst
of ‘“‘are”-ing. He did not go down anywhere, so
that it can have had nothing to do with a find, and
I feel sure from the way he came up, and the place
and distance at which he began to cry, that he had
not seen me. This, then, was my theory, at the
time, to account for the action of the rooks; but on
the very next day something of the same sort
occurred, which was yet not all the same, and which
could not be explained in this way. This time,
when a crow rose with his ‘‘crar, crar”’ and flew
to some trees, a number of rooks rose also from all
about, and after circling a little, each where it had
gone up, flew to a plantation, where shortly the
crow flew also. Here, again, there was no question
of the crow having found anything, for he rose from
where he had for some time been, and flew straight
away. Nor could the rooks have imagined that he
had, for they all rose as at a signal, and, without
going to where he had been, flew to somewhere

60 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

near where he had gone, and here they were shortly
joined by him. Certainly the rooks were influ-
enced by the crow—the crow afterwards by the
rooks, I think—but in what way, or whether there
was any definite idea on the part of either of them,
Iam unable to say. Birds of different species often
affect one another, psychically, in some way that one
cannot quite explain. I have seen some small tits
flying, seemingly full of excitement, with the first
band of rooks from the roosting-place in the morn-
ing, and, evening after evening, a wood-pigeon would
beat about amongst the hosts of starlings, which
filled the whole sky around their dark little dormi-
tory. He would join first one band and then
another, seeming to wish to make one of them, and
this he continued to do almost as long as the star-
lings remained. Peewits, again, seem to have an
attraction for starlings, and other such instances,
either of mutual or one-sided interest—generally, I
think, the latter—may be observed. We need not,
I think, assume that every case of commensalism
amongst animals has had a utilitarian origin, even
when we can now see the link of mutual benefit.
Rooks, when once introduced, are not birds that
can be lightly dismissed. The most interesting
thing about them, in my opinion, is their habit of re-
pairing daily to their nesting-trees during the winter.
Two visits are paid—at least two clearly marked
ones—one in the morning, the other in the later
afternoon, taking the shortness of the days into
consideration. The latter is the longer and more
important one, and, to give a general idea of what
happens upon it, I will describe the behaviour of

CHRISTMAS GATHERINGS 61

some birds on which I got the glasses fixed, whilst
watching, one Christmas, a small rookery, in some
elms near the house. It is always stated that rooks
visit their nests, during the winter, in order to repair
them. The following slight but accurate account
of what the birds really do during these visits, is
to be read in connection with that statement, which,
as it appears to me, is either inaccurate, or, at
least, not sufficiently full. Towards 3, then, as
I have it, like Mr. Justice Stareleigh, in my notes,
the rooks flew in, and of these a certain number
settled in the largest elm of the group. This
contained, besides other nests, two, if not more,
that were built close against each other, making
one great mass of sticks. One rook perched upon
the topmost of these nests, whilst another sat in
the lower one. ‘The standing rook kept uttering
deep caws, and, at each caw, he made a sudden dip
forward, with his head and whole body. At the
same time he shot up and spread open the feathers
of his tail, which he also arched, becoming, thus, a
much finer figure of a bird. The action seemed to
express sexual emotion, with concomitant bellicosity,
and the latter element was soon manifested in a
spirited attack upon the poor sitting rook, who was,
then and there, turned out of the nest. Shortly
afterwards, a pair of rooks peaceably occupied this
same lower nest, and continued there for some time.
One of them sat in it, and, looking long and steadily
through the glasses, I could see the tail of this bird
thrown, at short intervals, spasmodically upwards.
Then, as the raised and spread feathers were folded
and lowered, the anal portion of the body was

62 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

moved—wriggled—in a very special and suggestive
manner, about which I shall have more to say when
I come to the peewit. Whilst the sitting bird was
behaving in this way, the other one of the pair—
which I put down as the female—stood beside him,
and as she occasionally bent forward towards him,
the black of her feathers becoming lost in his, I
felt assured that she was cossetting and caressing
him, much as the hen pigeon caresses the male,
whilst he sits brooding on the place where the nest
will be. There were also several other combats,
and more turnings of one bird out of the nest, by
another. At 3.15 four rooks sit perched on the
boughs, all round the great mass of sticks, but not
one upon it. One of the four bends the head, with
a look and motion as though about to hop down.
Instantly there is an excited cawing—half, as it
seems, remonstrative, half in the tone of “ Well, if
you do, then I will, too,”—from the other three,
which is responded to, of course, by the first, the
originator of the uproar, and then all four drop on
to the sticks, a pair upon each nest. By 3.20 every
rook is gone, but in ten minutes they are all back,
again, with much cawing. Four birds—the same four
as | suppose—are instantly on the great heap, but as
quickly off it, again, amongst the growing twigs, and
this takes place three or four times in succession.
Two others, though they never come down upon
the heap, remain close beside it, and seem to feel a
friendly interest in it. Sometimes they fly away
for a little, but they return, again, and sit there as
before, their right to do so seeming to be admitted.
Thus there are six birds in all, who seem primarily

LOVE IN WINTER 63

interested in the great heap of sticks, which may,
perhaps, indicate that it is composed of three rather
than of two nests. Once, however, for a little
while, another rook is associated with the six,
making seven. At 3.45 the rooks again fly off,
but return in another ten minutes, and this time
the tree with the great communal nest in it is left
empty. There is a great deal of cawing, mingled
with a higher, sharper note, all very different to the
cries made by the rooks, at this same time of the
year, in their roosting-places, or when leaving or
returning to them in the morning or evening. It
was for this latter purpose, doubtless, that the final
exodus took place at a little past 4. During the
last visit no nest was entered by any bird.

Do the rooks, then, come to their nests in winter,
in order to repair them? Not once, so far as I
could catch their actions, did I see one of these lift
a stick, and their behaviour on other occasions, when
I have watched them, has been more or less the
same. On the other hand we have the combats, the
clamorous vociferation, the caressing of one bird by
another, the raising and fanning of the tail, with
the curious wriggling of it—bearing, 1 in my mind, a
peculiar significance—everything, in fact, to suggest
sexual emotion. To me it appears that the nests
are visited rather for the sake of sport and play, than
with any set business-like idea of putting them in
order. The birds come to them to be happy and
excited, to have genial feelings aroused by the sight
of them—

*¢ Venus then wakes and wakens love ”’

64 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

They come, in fact, as it seems to me, in an
emotional state a good deal resembling that of
the bower-birds of Australia, when they play at
their “runs” or ‘‘ bowers”’; nor do the nests now—
though in the spring they were true ones—differ
essentially, as far as the purpose to which they are
put is concerned, from these curious structures,
of which Gould says: ‘‘ They are used by the birds
as a playing-house, and are used by the males to
attract the females.” This latter statement is cer-
tainly true, in the case, at least, of the satin bower-
bird (Piilorhynchus violaceus), which I have watched
at the Zoological Gardens. That the mainspring,
so to speak, of this bird’s actions is sexual, no
naturalist, seeing them, could doubt. But was the
“bower” originally made for the purpose which it
now serves? Dhid the idea of putting it to such a
use precede its existence in some shape or form, or
did it not rather grow out of something else, because
about it, as it then was, certain emotions were more
and more indulged in, till at last it became the
indispensable theatre for their display? Then, as
the theatre grew, no doubt the play did also, and
vice versa, the two keeping pace with each other. I
believe that this original something was the nest, and
that when we see a bird toy, court, or pair upon the
latter—thus putting it to a use totally different
from that of incubation, but similar to that which is
served by the bower—we get a hint as to the process
by which the one structure has given rise to the
other.

Wonderful as is the architecture and ornamenta-
tion of some of the bowers, as we now know them,

ROOKS AND BOWER-BIRDS 65

especially the so-called garden of amblyornis, their
gradual elaboration from a much simpler structure
presents no more difficulty than does that of a com-
plicated nest from a quite ordinary one. All
that we want is the initial directing impulse, and
this we have when once a bird uses its nest, not only
as a cradle for its young, but, also, as a nuptial bed
or sporting-place. In a passage of this nature, the
nest, indeed, must remain, but why should it not?
Let us suppose that, like the rooks, the bower-birds
—or, rather, their ancestors—used, at one time, to
use their old nests of the spring, as play-houses
during the winter. If, then, they had built fresh
nests as spring again came round, might they not
gradually have begun to build fresh play-houses too?
The keeping up of the old nest—but for a secondary
purpose—would naturally have passed into this, and
the playing about it would, as naturally, have led
to the keeping of it up. That duality of use should
gradually have led to duality of structure—that from
one thing used in two different ways there should
have come to be two things, each used in one of
these ways—does not seem to me extraordinary, but,
rather, what we might have expected, in accordance
with the principle of differentiation and specialisa-
tion, which has played so great a part in organic
evolution. It is by virtue of this principle that
limbs have been developed out of the vertebral
column, and the kind of advantage which all verte-
brate animals have gained by this multiplication and
differentiation of parts, in their own bodily structure,
is precisely that which a bird of certain habits would
have gained, by a similar increase in the number and

66 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

kind of the artificial structures made by it. It is,
indeed, obvious that the ‘‘ bower,” in many cases,
could not be quite what it is, if it had also to answer
the purpose of a nest, and still more so, perhaps,
that the nest could never have made a good bower.
The extra structure, therefore, represents a greater
capacity for doing a certain thing—just as do the
extra limbs—which makes it likely that it has been
evolved from the earlier one, in accordance with the
same general law which has produced the latter.
Thus, in our own rook we see, perhaps, a
bower-bird iz posse, nor is there any wide gap, but
quite the contrary, between the crow family and
that to which the bower-birds belong. ‘The
bower-birds,” says Professor Newton, ‘“‘are placed
by most systematists among the Paradiseide,” and
Wallace, in his “*‘ Malay Archipelago,” tells us that
“the Paradiseide are a group of moderate-sized birds
allied, in their structure and habits, to crows,
starlings, and to the Australian honey-suckers.” It is,
surely, suggestive that the one British bird that uses
its nest—or nests, collectively—as a sort of recreation
ground, where the sexes meet and show affection,
during the winter, should be allied to the one group
of birds that make separate structures, which they
use in this same manner. Of course there are
differences, but what I suggest is that there is an
essential similarity, which, alone, is important. Pro-
bably the common ancestor of the bower-birds was
not social in its habits like the rook, and this
difference may have checked the development of the
bower in the latter bird. As far, however, as the
actions of the two are concerned, they do not appear

SUPERNUMERARY NESTS 67

to me to differ otherwise than one might expect the
final stages of any process to differ from its rough
and rude beginnings. The sexual impulse is, so it
seems to me, the governing factor in both, so that, in
both, it may have led up to whatever else there is.
In regard to the rooks, they did not, when I watched
them, appear to be repairing their nests. I think it
quite likely, however, that they do repair them after
a fashion, though I would put another meaning upon
their doing so. That, being at the nest, there should
often be some toying with and throwing about of
the sticks, one can understand, and also that this
should have passed into some amount of regular
labour: for all these things—with the emotional
states from which they spring—are interconnected
through association of ideas, so that one would glide
easily into another, and it is in this, as I believe, that
we have the rationale of that amount of repairing
which the rook does do. Personally, as said before,
I have seen little or nothing of it.

When we consider that many birds are in the
habit of building one or more supernumerary nests
—not with any definite purpose, as it seems to me,
but purely in obedience to the, as yet, unsatisfied
instinct which urges them to build—we can, perhaps,
see a line along which the principle of divergence and
specialisation, as applied to the nest structure, may,
on the above hypothesis, have been led. Given two
uses of a nest, and more nests made than are used,
might not we even prophesy that one of the re-
dundant ones would, in time, serve one of the uses,
supposing these to be very distinct, and to have a
tendency to clash with one another? Now courting

68 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

leads up to pairing, and I can say positively from my
own observation that rooks often pair upon the nest.
This is the regular habit with the crested grebes,
and I have seen it in operation between them after
some, or at least one, of the eggs had been laid—
possibly they had all been. But this must surely be
to the danger of the eggs, so that, as these birds
build several nests, natural selection would favour
such of them as used separate ones for pairing and
laying. It does not, of course, follow that a ten-
dency to make a secondary nest and use it for a
secondary purpose would develop itself in any bird
that was accustomed to pair or court upon the true
one; but it might in some, and, whenever it did,
the evolution of the “run” or ‘‘ bower”? would be
but a matter of time, if, indeed, it should not be
rather held to exist, as soon as such separation had
come about. There would be but a slight line of
demarcation, as it appears to me, between an extra
nest, which was used for nuptial purposes only, and
the so-called bowers of the bower-birds. As for the
ornamentation which is such a feature of these latter
structures, the degree of it differs amongst them,
and we see the same thing—also in varying degrees
—in the nest proper. The jackdaw, for instance—
and the proclivity has been embalmed in our
literature—is fond of putting a ring “midst the
sticks and the straw” of his, and shags, as |
have noticed, will decorate theirs with flowers, green
leaves, and bleached spars or sticks. It seems
natural, too, that an esthetic bird, owning two
domiciles, one for domestic duties and the other for
love’s delights, should decorate the latter, more and

NESTS AND BOWERS 69

more to the neglect of the former. We see the same
principle at work amongst ourselves, for even in the
most artistic households, the nursery is usually a plain
affair compared with the boudoir or drawing-room.
As bower-building prevails only amongst one
group of birds—not being shared by allied groups—
and as birds, universally almost, make some sort of
nest, we may assume that the latter habit preceded
the former. If so, the ancestral bower-bird, from
which the various present species may be supposed
to be descended, would have built a nest before he
built a bower. Is it not more probable, therefore,
that the new structure should have grown out of the
old one, than that the two are not in any way con-
nected? The orthodox view, indeed, would seem
to be the reverse of this, for we read in standard
works of ornithology that the bowers have nothing
to do with the nests of the species making them;
whilst, at the same time, complete ignorance as to
their origin and meaning is confessed. But if we
know nothing about a thing, how do we know that
it has nothing to do with some other thing? One
argument, brought forward to show that the nests of
the bower-bird are not in any way connected with their
bowers, is that the former present no extraordinary
feature. But if the bower has grown out of the nest,
in the way and by the steps which I suppose, there is
no reason why the latter—and the bird’s general habits
of nidification—should not have remained as they
were. As long asa single structure was used for a
double purpose, the paramount importance of the
original one—that of incubation—would have kept
it from changing in any great degree, and when

70 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

there had come to be two structures for two pur-
poses, that only would have been subjected to
modification which stood in need of it. For the
rest, as incubation and courtship are very different
things, one might expect the architecture in relation
to them to be of a very different kind. For these
reasons, and having watched rooks at their nests in
the winter, and the breeding habits of some other
birds, I think it possible (1) that the bower has
grown out of the nest, and (2) that the sexual
activities of which it is, as it were, the focus, were
once displayed about the nest itself. On the whole,
however—though I suggest this as a possible explana-
tion—it is perhaps more likely that the cleared arena
where so many birds meet for the purposes of court-
ship—as, e.g. the blackcock, capercailzie, ruff, argus
pheasant, cock-of-the-rock, &c. &c.—is the start-
ing-point from which the bower-birds have proceeded,
especially as one species of the family has not got so
very much farther than this, even now.

Rooks, then, to leave speculation and return to
fact, are swayed, even in winter, by love as well as
by hunger—those two great forces which, as Schiller
tells us, rule the world between them. ‘They wake,
presumably, hungry; yet, before they can have fed
much, make shift to spend a little while on the
scene of their domestic blisses. Hunger then looks
after them till an hour or so before evening, when
they return to their rookeries, and love takes up the
ball for as long as daylight lasts. And so, with birds
as men—

« Erfiillt sich der Getriebe
Durch Hunger und durch Liebe.”

PAP isn Le ea SLEEP 77

But there is a third great ruling power in the life of
both, which Schiller seems to have forgotten—sleep
—and as its reign, each day, is as long, or longer,
than that of the other two conjoined, and as it long
outlasts one of them, it may be called, perhaps, the
greatest of the three.

HERON FISHING

CRAP TER «Tv

THERE is a heronry on an estate here, into whicn,
in the early spring, I have sometimes crept, coming
before dawn, in silence and darkness, to be there
when it awoke. What an awakening! A sudden
scream, as though the night were stabbed, and cried
out—a scream to chill one’s very blood—followed
by a deep ‘‘oogh,” and then a most extraordinary
noise in the throat, a kind of croak sometimes, but
more often a kind of pipe, like a subdued siren—a
fog-signal—yet pleasing, even musical. Sometimes,
again, it suggests the tones of the human voice—
weirdly, eerily—vividly caught for a moment, then
an Ovid’s metamorphosis. This curious sound, in
the production of which the neck is as the long
tube of some metal instrument, is very character-

istic, and constantly heard. And now scream after
72

AN AWAKENING 73

scream, each one more harsh and wild than the last,
rings out from tree to tree. Other sounds—strange,
wild, grotesque—cannot even suffer an attempt to
describe them. All this through the darkness, the
black of which is now beginning to be “ dipped in
grey.” There is the snapping of the bill, too—a soft
click, a musical “‘pip, pip’’—amidst all these uncouth
noises. On the whole, it is the grotesque in sound
—a carnival of hoarse, wild, grotesque inarticulations.
Amidst them, every now and then, one hears the great
sweep of pinions, and a shadowy form, just thicken-
ing on the gloom, is lost in the profounder gloom of
some tree that receives it.

Most of the nests are in sad, drooping-boughed
firs—spruces, a name that suits them not—trees
whose very branches are a midnight, as Longfellow
has called them,' in a great, though seldom-men-
tioned poem. Others are in grand old beeches,
which, with the slender white birch and the maple,
stand in open clearings amidst the shaggy firs, and
make this plantation a paradise. Sometimes, as the
herons fly out of one tree into another, they make a
loud, sonorous beating with their great wings, whilst
at others, they glide with long, silent-sounding
swishes, that seem a part of the darkness. Two
will, often, pursue each other, with harshest screams,
and, all at once, from one of them comes a shout of
wild, maniacal laughter, that sets the blood a-ting-
ling, and makes one a better man to hear. Whilst
sweeping, thus, in nuptial flight, about their nesting-
trees, they stretch out their long necks in front of

1 “ As the pine shakes off the snow-flakes

From the midnight of its branches.”
—Hiawatha, xix.

E

74 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

them, sometimes quite straight, more often bent
near the breast like a crooked piece of copper wire.
A strange appearance!—everything stiff and abrupt,
odd-looking, uncouth, no graceful curves or sweeps.
The long legs, carried horizontally, balance the
neck behind—but grotesquely, as one gargoyle glares
at another. Thus herons fly within the heronry,
but as they sail out, en voyage, the head is drawn
back between the shoulders, in the more familiar
way. As morning dawns, the shadowy “‘air-drawn”’
forms begin to appear more substantially. Several
of the birds may then be seen perched about in
the trees, some gaunt and upright, others hunched
up in a heap, with, perhaps, one statuesque figure
placed, like a sentinel, on the top of a tall, slender
larch, the thin pinnacle of the trunk of which is
bent over to form a perch.

Other, and much sweeter, sounds begin now to
mingle with the harsh, though not unpleasing
screams, and, increasing every moment in volume,
make them, at last, but part of a universal and most
divine harmony. The whole plantation has become
a song. Song-thrush and mistle-thrush make it up,
mostly, between them, but all help, and all is a
music ; chatters and twitters seem glorified, nothing
sounds harshly, joy makes it melody. There is a
time—the daylight of dawn, but not daylight—
when the birds sing everywhere, as though to salute
it. As the real daylight comes, this sinks and
almost ceases, and never in the whole twenty-four
hours, is there such an hour again. The laugh,
and answering laugh, of the green woodpecker 1s
frequent, now, and mingles sweetly with the loud
cooing of the wood-pigeons—not the characteristic

A MEETING 75

note, but another, very much like that of dovecot
pigeons, when they make a few quick little turns
from one side to another, moving the feet dancingly,
but keeping almost in the same place: a brisk,
satisfied sound, not the pompous rolling coo of a
serious proposal, nor yet that more tender-meaning
note, with which the male broods on the nest,
caressed by the female. But the representative of
this last, in the wood-pigeon—the familiar spring
and summer sound—-is now frequently heard, and
seems getting towards perfection. So, at last, it is
day, and the loud, bold clarion of the pheasant is
like the rising sun.

The above is a general picture of herons in a
heronry. It is almost more interesting to watch
two lonely-sitting birds, upon each of whom, in
turn, one can concentrate the attention. They
sit so long and so silently, such hours go by, during
which nothing happens, and one can only just see
the yellow, spear-like beak of the sitting bird point-
ing upwards amidst the sticks. Only under such
circumstances can one really hug oneself in that
ecstacy of patience which, almost as much as what
one actually sees, is the true joy of watching. But
at length comes that for which one has been wait-
ing, and may wait and wait, day after day, and yet,
perhaps, not see—the change upon the nest. It
comes—‘“‘Go not, happy day.” There is a loud
croak or two in the air, then a welcoming scream,
and in answer to it, as her mate flies in, the sitting
bird raises herself on the nest, and stretching her
long neck straight up—perpendicularly almost, and
with the head and beak all in one line with it—
pours out a wonderful jubilee of exultant sounds.

76 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

Then, standing on the nest together, vis-a-vis, and
with their necks raised, both the birds intone
hoarsely, and seem to glare at one another with
their great golden eyes. Then the male bends
down his head, raises his crest, snaps his bill several
times, and, sinking down, disappears into the nest ;
whilst the female, after giving all her feathers and
every portion of her person a very violent shake, as
though to scatter night and sleep to the four winds,
immediately flies off. The whole magnificent scene
has lasted but a few seconds. As by magic, then,
it is gone, and this quickness in departing has a
strange effect upon one. The thing was so real, so
painted there, as it were—the two great birds, with
their orange bills and pale-bright colouring, clear in
the morning air. It did not seem as if they could
vanish like that. They looked like permanent
things, not vanishing dreams. Yet before the eye
is satisfied with seeing, or the ear with hearing, the
one has flown off silently like a shadow and the
other sunk as silently into invisibility. Now there
is a great stillness, a great void, and the contrast of
it with the flashed vividness of what has just been,
impresses itself strangely. It is as though one had
walked to some striking canvas of Landseer or Snider,
and, as one looked, found it gone. That, however,
would be magic. This is not, but it seemsso. One
feels as though “‘ cheated by dissembling nature.”

I have described the welcoming cry raised by
the female heron on the arrival of her mate as
‘“‘qa jubilee of exultant sounds,” which indeed it
is, or sounds like; but what these sounds are—
or were—their vocalic value—it is difficult to

JOY WITH THE MORNING 77

recall, even but a few minutes after they have been
uttered. Only one knows that they were harshly,
screamingly musical, for surely sounds full of
poetry must be musical. The actions, however—
the alighting of the one bird with outstretched
neck, the leaping up at him, as one may almost
say, with the marvellous pose, of the other, the
vigorous shake, in which inaction was done with,
and active life begun, and then that searching,
careful contemplation of the nest by the male,
before sinking down upon it—all that is stamped
upon the memory, and will pass before me, many
a night, again, as I lie and look into the dark.

It is the female heron, one may, perhaps, assume,
who sits all night upon the nest, being relieved by
the male in the morning. The first change, in my
experience, takes place between 6 and 9. The next
is in the afternoon—from 4 to 5, or thereabouts
—and there is no other till the following day.
Well, therefore, may the mother bird shake herself
before flying swiftly off, after her long silent vigil.
Perhaps, however, as darkness reigns during most of
this time it is the male heron who really shows most
patience, since his hours of duty include the greater
part of the day.

It must not be supposed that the above is a
description of what uniformly takes place when a
pair of sitting herons make their change upon the
nest. On the contrary, the actions of both birds
vary greatly, and this is my experience in regard
to almost everything that birds do. Sometimes the
scene is far less striking, at other times it is just as
striking, but all the details are different—other cries,

78 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

other posturings, all so marked and salient that one
might suppose each to be as invariable as it is proper
to the occasion. The same genera] character is, of
course, impressed upon them all, but with this the
similarity is exhausted. This—and it is largely the
case, I think, in other matters—makes any general
description of little value. My own view is that, in
describing anything an animal does, it is best to
pick a case, and give a verbal photograph. Two
advantages belong to this process. First, it will be
an actual record of fact, as far as it goes, and, in
the second place, it will also be a better general
description than one given on any other principle.
There will be more truth in it, looked at as either
the one thing or the other.

The particular pair of herons that supplied me
with this particular photograph had a plantation to
themselves for their nest—at least, though other
herons sometimes visited it, they were the only ones
that bred there. I watched them from a little wig-
wam of boughs that I had put against the trunk of
a neighbouring tree, from which there was a good
view. ‘They had built in the summit of a tall and
shapely larch, and beautiful it was to look up and
see nest and bird and the high tree-top set in
a ring of lovely blue, so soft and warm-looking
that it made one long to be there. The air looked
pure and delicate, and the sun shone warmly down
upon the nest and its patient occupant. But the
weather was not always like this. Once there was
a hurricane. The tree, with the nest in it, swayed
backwards and forwards in the violent gusts of
wind, and now and again there was the crash and

FROM A WIGWAM 79

tearing sound of a trunk snapped, or a large branch
torn off. But the heron sat firm and secure. There
were several such crashes, nor was it much to be
wondered at, the plantation being full of quite rotten
birches that I might almost have pushed over,
myself. Ina famous gale here, one Sunday, the firs
in many of the plantations were blown down in rows
and phalanxes, falling all together as they had stood,
and all one way, so that, to see them, it looked as
though a herd of elephants—or rather mammoths—
had rushed through the place. A tin church was
carried away, too—but I was in Belgium during all
this stirring time.

A close, firm sitter was this heron, yet not to be
compared with White’s raven, since the entry of
any one into the plantation was sufficient to make
her leave the nest.. Unfortunately, the nest almost
hid her, as she sat, yet sometimes, as a reward for
patience, she would move the head, by which I saw
it—or at least the beak—a little more plainly.
Sometimes, too, she would crane her neck into
the air or even stand up in the nest, which
was as if a saint had entered the shrine. When
she did this it was always to look at the
eggs, and, having done so, she would turn a little
round, before sitting down on them again. Very
rarely | caught a very low and very hoarse note
—monosyllabic, a sort of croak—but silence almost
always reigned. At first, when I came to watch the
nest, I disturbed the bird each time, and again
on leaving: afterwards I used to crawl up to the
Wigwam, and then retire from it on my hands and
knees, and, in this way, did not alarm her. Once

80 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

in the wigwam, her suspicions soon ceased, and she
returned to the nest, usually from sailing high over
the plantation, evidently on the watch, but, sheltered
as I was, I was invisible even to her keen sight. On
one occasion she flew out over the marshlands, and
went down upon them. I left the plantation
almost at the same time as she did, and, on my way
home, I saw her rise and fly towards it again. Half-
way there she was joined by her mate, and the two
descended upon it, together, most grandly—a really
striking sight. Slowly they sailed up, on broad light
wings that beat the air with regular and leisurely
strokes. Mounting higher and higher, as_ they
neared the plantation, they, at length, wheeled over
it at a giddy height, from which, after a few great
circling sweeps, they all at once let themselves drop,
holding their wings still spread, but raised above
their backs, so as not to offer so much resistance to
the air. At the proper moment the wide wings
drooped again, the rushing fall was checked, and with
harsh, wild screams, the two great birds came wheel-
ing down, in narrower and narrower circles, upon the
chosen spot. Perhaps the swoop of an eagle may
be grander than this, but I doubt it. The drop,
especially, gives one, in imagination, the same sort of
half-painful sensation that the descent part of a
switchback railway does, when one is in it—for one
substitutes oneself for the bird, but retains one’s own
constitution.

Earlier in the year—in cold bleak February—I
used to watch this same pair of herons pursuing one
another, in nuptial flight, over the half-sandy, half-
marshy wastes, that, with the moorland, lie about the

A GRAND DESCENT

Herons coming down on to Nest

p. 80.

“A SIGHT FOR 'SAIR EEN ” 81

lonely, sombre spot that they had chosen for their
home. This, too, is “‘a sight for sair een.” How
grandly the birds move “aloft, incumbent on the
dusky air,” beating it with slow measured strokes of
those ‘‘sail-broad vans” of theirs. They approach,
then glide apart, and, as they sweep in circles, tilt
themselves oddly from one side to another, so that
now their upper, and now their under surface catches
the cold gloomy light—a fine sight beneath the
snow-clouds. With a shriek one comes swooping
round upon the other, who, almost in the moment
of contact, glides smoothly away from him. The
pursuer plies his wings: slow-beating, swift-moving,
they pass over the desolate waste, one but just
behind the other. Again a “wild, wild” cry from
the pursuing bird is answered by another from the
one pursued, and then, on set sails, they sink to earth,
in a long, smooth, gently descending line, reaching
it without another wing-beat. Queer figures they
make when they get there. One sits as though on
the nest, his long legs being quite invisible beneath
him. The other stands in varying attitudes, but all
very different from anything one ever sees repre-
sented, either in a picture or a glass case. That
elegant letter S, which—especially under the latter
hateful condition—the neck is, of custom, put into,
occurs in the living bird less frequently than one
might suppose it would. When resting or doing
nothing in particular, herons draw the head right
in between the shoulders—or rather wings—which
latter droop idly down, and being, thus, partially
expanded, like a fan fallen open, cover, with their
broad surface, the whole body and most of the legs.

82 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

The thighs, so carefully shown in the cases, are
quite hidden, and only about half the shank is seen
beyond the square, blunt ends of the wings. The
beak points straight forward, or almost so. It is a
loose, hunched-up pose, not elegant, but very nice ;
one can smack one’s lips over it; it is like a style in
writing—a little slipshod perhaps, like Scott’s, as
we are told ;* but then give me Scott’s “ slipshod ” (!)
style—I prefer it to Stevenson’s, though Stevenson
himself did not. Then, again, when the bird is
alarmed or thrown on the alert about anything, the
long neck is shot, suddenly, forward and upward, not,
however, in a curve, but in a straight line, from the
end of which another straight line—the head and
beak—flies out at a right angle. The neck, also,
makes a somewhat abrupt angle with the body, and
the whole has a strange, uncouth aspect, which is
infinitely pleasing.

One might suppose that, with its great surface
of wing, and the slowness with which it is moved,
the heron would rise with some difficulty—as does
the condor—and only attain ease and power when
at some little height. This, however, is not the
case. It will rise, on occasions, with a single flap
of the great wings, and then float buoyantly, but
just above the ground, not higher than its leg’s
length—if this can be said to be rising at all.
A single flap will take it twenty paces, or more, like
this, when, putting its legs down, it stands again,
and thus it will continue as long as it sees fit.

From the length of time which herons spend out
on the marshes, or adjoining warrens, they must, I

1 By inappreciative asses.

THE HERON ACTIVE 83

suppose, feed a good deal on frogs, or even less
aquatic prey—moles, mice, shrews, as I believe, for
I have found the remains of these under their trees,
in pellets which seemed to me far too large, as well
as too numerous, to be those of owls, the only other
possible bird: yet I have not observed them in the
pursuit of “‘such small deer,” and herons look for
their food far more, and wait for it far less than is
generally supposed. See one, now, at the river. For
a minute or two, after coming down, he stands with
his neck drawn in between his shoulders, and then,
with a stealthy step, begins to walk along under the
bank, advancing slowly, and evidently on the look-
out. Getting a little more into the stream, he
stands a few moments, again advances, then with
body projecting, horizontally, on either side of the
legs—like the head of a mallet—and neck a little
outstretched, he stops once more. At once he makes
a dart forward, so far forward that he almost—nay,
sometimes quite—overbalances, the neck shoots out
as from a spring, and instantly he has a fair-sized
fish in his bill, which, after a little tussling and
quiet insistence—gone through like a grave formal
etiquette — he swallows. Directly afterwards he
washes his beak in the stream, and then drinks, a
little, as though for a sauce to his fish. There is,
now, a brisk satisfied ruffle of the plumage, after
which he hunches himself up, again, and remains
thus, resting, for a longer or shorter time. In
swallowing the fish, the long neck 1s stretched for-
wards and upwards, and, when it has swallowed it,
the bird gives a sort of start, and looks most comi-
cally satisfied. There is that about him—something

84 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

almost of surprise, if it could be, at his own deedi-
ness—which, in a man, might be expressed by,
““Come, what do you think of that, now? Not so
very bad, isit?’’ A curious sort of half-resemblance
to humanics one gets in animals, sometimes—like,
but in an odd, dizarre way, more generalised, the
thing in its elements, less consciousness of what is
felt. They wear their rue with a difference, but
rue it is. It is interesting, too, to see the way in
which the fish is manipulated. It is not tossed into
the air, and caught, again, head downwards, nor does
it ever seem to be quite free of the beak, at all
points; but keeping always the point, or anterior
part of the mandibles, upon it, the heron contrives,
by jerking its head about, to get it turned and lying
lengthways between them, ez ¢rain for swallowing.
The whole thing has a very tactile appearance; it
is wonderful with what delicacy and nicety, in nature,
very hard, and, as one would think, insensitive
material may be used. How, in this special kind
of handling, does the human hand, about which so
much has been said, excel the bird’s beak? The
superiority of the former appears to me to lie, rather,
in the number of things it can do, than in the greater
efficiency with which it can do any one of them. It
is curious, indeed, that the advantage gained here is
due to the principle of generalisation, as against that
of specialisation, which last we see more in the foot.

In its manipulation of the fish the serratures in
the upper mandible of its bill must be a great help to
the heron, and this may throw some light on the use
of the somewhat similar, though more pronounced,
ones in the claw of its middle toe. Concerning

BROWN-PAPER PARCELS 85

this structure, Frank Buckland—whose half-part
edition of White’s ‘“‘Selborne” I have at hand
—says: ‘The use of it is certainly not for pre-
hension, as was formerly supposed, but rather, as
its structure indicates, for a comb. Among the
feathers of the heron and bittern can always be
found a considerable quantity of powder. The
bird, probably, uses this comb to keep the powder
and feathers in proper order.” Why ‘‘certainly”?
And how much of observation does “ probably”
contain? This is what Dickens has described as
making a brown-paper parcel of a subject, and
putting it on a shelf, labelled, ‘‘ Not to be opened.”
But, ‘‘ By your leave, wax,” and I shall open as many
such parcels as I choose. It is possible, indeed, that
the heron’s serrated claw may not be, now, of any
special use. It may be a survival, merely, of some-
thing that once was. If, however, it is used in a
special manner, what this manner is can only be
settled by good affirmative evidence, and of this, as
Frank Buckland does not give any, we may assume
he had none to give. Instead we have “certainly ”
and ‘‘ probably.” But I, now, have “‘ certainly ”’ seen
the heron use his foot to secure an eel, which had
proved too large and vigorous for him to retain in
the bill, and which he had dropped, after just
managing to fly away with it to the mud of the
shore. Here, therefore, ‘‘ probably” the serrated
claw was of some assistance, and the fact that this
heron flew to the shore, whenever he caught an
unwieldy eel, and dropped it there, goes to show
that this was his regular plan, viz. to put it down
and help hold it with his foot, or two feet. There

86 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

was always a little water where the eel was dropped
—it was not the shore, to be quite accurate, but
only the shallow, muddy water near it—and there-
fore it was only on one occasion that I saw the foot
used in this way, with absolute certainty. But as I
did see it this once, I cannot doubt that it was so
used each time, as indeed it always appeared to me
to be. It is the inner side of each of the two claws
that is serrated, and one can imagine how nicely an eel,
or fish, thus dropped into the mud, could be pinched
between them. This, then, is affirmative evidence.
Negatively, I have seen the heron preen itself very
elaborately, without once raising a foot so as to
touch the feathers. On these occasions the bird
often, apparently, does something to its feet, with the
beak, what, exactly, it is difficult to say, inasmuch
as a heron’s feet are hardly ever visible, except while
it walks. But the head is brought right down, and
then moves slightly, yet nicely, as a hand might
that held some long, fine instrument, with which a
delicate operation was being performed. Were the
extreme tip of the bill to be passed between the
serratures of the claw, the motion would be just like
this, at least I should think it would.

People about here talk of a filament which they
say grows out of one of the heron’s toes, and by
looking like a worm in the water, attracts fish within
his reach, in the same way as does the lure of the
angler-fish. In Bury, once, seeing a heron—a sad
sight—hanging up in a fishmonger’s shop, I looked
at its feet, but did not notice any filament. This,
indeed, was before I had heard the legend, but my
idea is that it has sprung up in accordance with the
popular view that the heron always waits, “like

AS FROM A WATCH-TOWER 87

patience on a monument,” for his prey to come to
him ; whereas my own experience is that he prefers
to stalk it for himself. I suspect, myself, that when
the bird stands motionless, for any very great length
of time, he is not on the look-out for a fish or eel,
as commonly supposed, but resting and digesting
merely. Certainly, should one approach, he might
find himself under the necessity of securing it—his
professional pride would be touched—but why, if
he were hungry, should he wait so long? Why
should he not rather do what, as we have seen, he
is very well able to do, set out and find his own
dinner? It need not take him five minutes to do
so. One use, probably, of the long neck is that,
from the height of it, the bird can peer out into the
stream, as from a watch-tower, which is the simile
that Darwin* has made use of in regard to the giraffe,
an animal whose whole structure has been adapted
for browsing in trees, but which has thereby gained
this incidental advantage, with the result that no
animal is more difficult to approach.

I have given a picture—or, rather, a photograph
—of how a pair of sitting herons relieve each other
on the nest. It is interesting, also, to see one of
them come to it, and commence sitting, when the
other is away. Alighting on one of the supporting
boughs that project from the mass of sticks, he
walks down it with stealthy step and wary mien,
the long neck craned forward, yet bent into a stiff,
ungraceful S. Upon reaching the nest, he stands
for some seconds on its brim, in a curious perpen-
dicular attitude, the legs, body, and neck being

1 Or the man he quotes—and absorbs.

88 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

almost in one straight line, from the top of which
the snake-like head and spiked bill shoot sharply
and angularly out. Standing thus, he raises himself
a-tip-toe once or twice, as though it were St. Cris-
pin’s Day, or to get the widest possible view of the
landscape, before shutting himself out from it, then
stepping into the nest, and sinking slowly down in
it, becomes entirely concealed in its deep, capacious
cavity. Both here, and, still more, in alighting, one
cannot but notice the strange rigid aspect that the
bird presents. ‘‘Cannot but,” I say, because one
would like it to be otherwise—graceful, harmonious
- but it) 1s) ‘nots‘There are no, subtle |. bendainas
curves—no seeming symmetry—but all is hard,
stiff, and angular. Even the colours look crude
and harsh, as they might in a bad oil painting.
Nature 7s sometimes ‘‘a rum ‘un,’ as Squeers said
she was. Here she looks almost unnatural, very
different from what an artist who aimed at being
pleasing, merely, or plausible, would represent her
as. This shows how cautious one ought to be in
judging of the merits, or otherwise, of an animal
artist. There are many more human than animal
experts, and the latter, as a rule, are not artistic, so
that, between critical ignorance and uncultured
knowledge, good work may go for long before it
getsa justrecognition. ‘Those who talk about Land-
seer having stooped to put human expressions into
his animals, seem to me to be out of touch at any
rate with dogs. Probably the thought of how
profoundly the dog’s psychology has been affected
by long intercourse with man has not occurred to
them, it being outside their department. Sure I am

GENIUS AND FASHION 89

that the expression of the dog in that picture, ‘“‘ The
Shepherd’s Chief Mourner,” and of the two little
King Charles spanicls lying on the cavalier’s hat,
are quite perfect things. Even in that great paint-
ing of Diogenes and Alexander—removed, Heaven
knows why, and to my lasting grief, from the
National Gallery—though here there is an inten-
tional humanising, yet it is wonderful how close
Landseer has kept to civilised canine expression—
though one would vainly seek for even the shadows
of such looks in the dogs of savages. As for
Diogenes, the blending of reality with symbolical
suggestion is simply marvellous. Never, I believe,
will any human Diogenes, on canvas, approach to
this animal one. Yet this masterpiece has been
basely spirited away from its right and only worthy
place—its true home—in our national collection,
to make room, possibly, for some mushroom
monstrosity of the time, some green-sick Euph-
rosyne or melancholy, snub-nosed Venus (the
modern-ancient Greek type has often a snub nose),
However, no one seems to mind.

I think some law ought to be enacted to protect
great works against the changes of fashion. Has
not the view that succeeding ages judge better than
that in which a poet or artist lived, been pressed a
great deal too far, or, rather, has it not for too long
gone unchallenged? If something must be gained
by time in the power of forming a correct estimate,
/much also may be lost through its agency. It is
true that the slighter merit—that dependent on
changing things—dies in our regard, whilst the
greater, which is independent of these, lives on in it

F

go BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

and may be better understood as time goes by. But
this better understanding belongs to the élite of
many ages, not to each succeeding age as a whole.
And what, too, is understanding, without feeling?
Must not the one be in proportion to the other
—in all things, at least, into which feeling enters?
But if an age sinks, it sinks altogether, both heart
and head. We know how Shakespeare fared in the
age of Charles the Second, when time had run some
fifty years. It would be very interesting, I think, if
we could compare an Elizabethan audience with one
of our own—full of languid press critics—at a
Shakespearean play—King Lear, for instance. Should
we not have to confess that the age which produced
the thing responded to it—that 1s, understood it—
best? And this, indeed, we might expect—it was in
Moliere’s own day, and he himself was on the stage,
when that cry from the pit arose: “‘ Bravo Moliére!
Voila la bonne comédie!”” But all Shakespeare’s
excellences—Molitre’s as well—were of the per-
manent order, the high undying kind, so that it was
of this that his age had to judge, and judged, there
can be little doubt—for King Lear, as he wrote tt,
was a popular play—much better than our later one.
If we will not confess this with Shakespeare, take
Spenser, the delight of his age, whose glorious
merits none will deny, though few, now, know any-
thing about them. Why, then, must we think that
time is the best judge of men’s work, or dwell only
on the truth contained in this proposition? ‘There
is a heavy per contraagainst it. At the time when a
man’s reputation is most established, his work may
be quite neglected, showing that there is knowledge,

THE TEST OF, TIME gI

merely, accumulated and brought down through the
ages, but no real appreciation—a husk with nothing
inside it. That best judgment which we think we
get through time, even where it exists, is too often
of the head only, whilst more often still it is nothing
at all, a mere assurance received without question—
as we take any opinion from anybody, when we
neither know nor care anything about the subject of
it. How easy to agree that Milton’s greatness is
more recognised, now, than it was, when we have
never yet been able, and never again intend to try,
to read the ‘‘ Paradise Lost”! It is the same with
our detractions. If all the inappreciative, silly things
said about Pope are really meant by the people who
say them—as they seem to wish us to believe, and, as
for my part, I do not doubt—if they really cannot enjoy
‘The Rape of the Lock,” ‘The Dunciad,” or the
various ‘‘ Essays,” then, in the matter of Pope, what
a dull age this must be, compared to that of Queen
Anne! And are we really to believe that Goethe, Scott,
Shelley, with the rest of their generation, were mis-
taken about Byron, whilst we of to-day are not? What
was it that Scott’s, that Shelley’s organism thrilled
to, when they read him, with high delight, if some
microscopic creature who reads him now is right
when he finds him third-rate? It is very odd,
surely, if the most gifted spirits of an age do really
“‘see Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt” in this
way. ‘To me it seems less puzzling to suppose that
successive generations have, as it were, varying sense
organs, which are acted upon by different numbers
of vibrations of the ether, so that for one to belittle
the idol of another, is as it would be for the ear to

92 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

fall foul of millions in a second, it being sensitive,
itself, only to thousands. We do, indeed, admit the
“« Zeitgeist,” but if ever we allow for it when we
play the critic, it is always in favour of our own
perspicuity—and this against any number of past
spiritual giants. This is an age in which most things
are questioned. Is it not time for that dogma of
what we call “‘ the test of time ’’—by which everybody
understands his own time—to be questioned, too?
“In April,” says the rhyme, “the cuckoo shows
his bill.” Somewhat late April, in my experience,
at least about this bleak, open part of Suffolk,
which, however, contrary to what might be ex-
pected, seems loved by the bird. Almost opposite
to my house, but at some little distance from it,
across the river, there is a wide expanse of open,
sandy land, more or less thinly clothed with a long,
coarse, wiry grass, and dotted, irregularly, at very
wide intervals, with elder and hawthorn trees and
bushes—a desolate prospect, which I prefer, myself,
to one of cornfields, unless the corn is all full of
poppies and corn-flowers, which, indeed, it is
here, and I am told it is bad agriculture. If that
be so, then, 2 das the good! Part of this space,
where the sand encroaches on the grass, till it 1s
shared, at last, only by short, dry lichen, which
the rabbits browse, I call the amphitheatre, it
being roughly circular in shape. One solitary
crab-apple tree—from the seed, no doubt, of the
cultivated kind—growing on its outer edge, is a
perfect glory of blossom in the spring, and _ be-
comes, then, quite a landmark. This barren space is
a favourite gathering-ground of the stone-curlews ;

THE CUCKOO PLAY 93

whilst cuckoos seem to prefer the more grassy
expanse, flying about it from one lonely bush or
tree to another, and down a wild-grown hedge that
tops a raised bank on one side, running from a
tangled plantation standing sad and sombre on the
distant verge. Beyond, and all around, is the moor-
land; whilst nearer, through a reedy line, the slow
river creeps to the fenlands. I have seen sights,
here, to equal many in spots better known for their
beauty, not meaning to undervalue these; but as
long as there is sun, air, and sky, one may see
almost anything anywhere. Take an early May
morning—fine, but as cold as can be. Though the
sun is brilliant in a clear, blue sky, the earth is yet
white with frost, and over it hang illuminated mists
that rise curling up, like the smoke from innumerable
camp-fires. A rabbit, sitting upright with them all
around him, looks as though he were warming his
paws at one, and cuckoos, flitting through the misty
sea, appearing and fading like the shades of birds
in Hades, make the effect quite magical. Nature’s
white magic this—oh short, rare glimpses of a real
fairyland, soon to be swallowed up in this world’s
great tedium and commonplace! It is in the after-
noon, however, from 5 o’clock or thereabouts, and
on into the evening, that the cuckoo playground is
best worth visiting. Quite a number of cuckoos—
a dozen sometimes, or even more—now fly continu-
ally from bush to bush, or sit perched in them,
sometimes two or more in the same one. They fly
irregularly over the whole space, and, by turns, all
are with one another, and on every bush and tree
that there is. Two will be here, three or four there,

94 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

half-a-dozen or more somewhere else, whilst the
groups are constantly intermingling, the members of
one becoming those of another, two growing into four
or five, these, again, thinning into two or one, and
soon. But during the height of the play or sport,
or whatever we may term it, there is hardly a
moment when birds may not be seen in pursuit, or,
rather, in graceful following flight, of one another,
over some or other part of the space. This space
—an irregular area of about 1100 paces in circum-
ference—they seldom go beyond or leave, except for
good, and as they repair to it daily, at about the
same times, this makes it, in some real sense, their
playground, as I have called it.

But, now, what is the nature of the play, and
in what does the pleasure consist? If it be sexual,
as I suppose, then it would seem as if the passions
of the cuckoo were of a somewhat languid nature.
The birds, even when there 1s most the appearance
of pursuit, do not, in a majority of cases, seem to
wish to approach each other closely. The rule 1s
that when the pursued or leading cuckoo settles
in a tree or bush, the pursuing or following one
flies beyond it, into another. Should the latter,
however, settle in the same bush, the other, just as
he alights—often on the very same twig—flies on to
the next. This certainly looks like desire on the part
of the one bird; but where two or more sit in the
same tree, or in two whose branches interpenetrate,
they show no wish for a very near proximity.
The delight seems to be in flying or sitting in
company, but the company need not be close.
That the sexual incentive is the foundation-stone

SOME CUCKOO CRIES 95

of all, can hardly be doubted, but this does not
appear to be of an ardent character, and perhaps
social enjoyment, independent of sex, may enter
almost as largely. After all, however, the same
may be said of the sportings of peewits and other
birds, when the breeding-time is only beginning, so
that, perhaps, there is not really any very distinctive
feature. Be it as it may, this sporting of cuckoos
is a very pretty and graceful thing to see. Be-
ginning, as I have said, in the latter part of the
afternoon, it is at its height between 6 and 7 o’clock,
then gradually wanes, but lasts, as far as odd pairs
of birds are concerned, for another hour or more.
As may be imagined, it does not proceed in silence ;
but what is curious—yet very noticeable—is that
the familiar cuckoo is not so often heard. Far
more frequent is a noisy ‘‘cack-a-cack, cack-a-cack,”
a still louder ‘‘ cack, cack, cack ’’—a very loud note
indeed—the loud, single ‘‘cook”’ disjoined from its
softening syllable, and the curious “‘ whush, whush”’
or ‘‘whush, whush, whush-a-whoo-whoo.” The last
is very common, seems to express everything, but is
uttered, I think, oftenest when the bird is excited.
Again, instead of “cuckoo,” one sometimes hears
“cuc-kew-oop,’ the last syllable being divided,
with a sort of gulp in the throat, making it a three-
syllabied cry. This difference is very marked, and,
moreover, the intonation is different, being much
more musical. All these notes, and others less easy
to transcribe, are uttered by the bird, either flying
or sitting. Another one, different from all, and
very peculiar, is generally heard under the latter
condition, but by no means invariably so. It is

96 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

a sharp, thin “quick, quick, quick-a-quick,” or
“kick, kick, kick-a-kick,” pronounced very quickly,
and in a high tone. Whether this is the note of
the female cuckoo only, I cannot say. I have often
heard it in answer to a ‘‘cuckoo,” but I am not
yet satisfied that even this last is uttered by the
male bird alone. To this point, however, ] will
recur.

Now, all the above variants of the familiar
““cuckoo”’—the ‘cook,’ “cack,” “ cack-a-cack)
“‘cuc-kew-oop,” &c.—I have heard both in May and
April, as any one else may do who will only listen.
But in what other way does the cuckoo ‘“ change
his tune,” which, according to the old rhyme, he
does “in June”? ‘‘In June he changes his tune.”
This, at least, is what I take it to mean, and it is
so understood, about here. It can, I think, only
mean this, and if it means anything else it 1s
equally false in my experience. I think, before
putting faith in old country jingles of this sort, one
ought to remember two things. First, that ordinary
country people are not particularly observant, ex-
cept, perhaps, of one another; and then, that, as
a general principle—this at least is my firm belief—
a rhyme will always carry it over the truth, if the
latter is not too preposterously outraged. Some-
thing, in this case, was wanted to rhyme with June,
as with all the other months, in which it happened
to come pretty pat. Oh, then, let the cuckoo
change his sume, for you may hear him do it then
as well as at another time. And many poets, too—
most, perhaps, now and again—led by this same bad
necessity of rhyming, run counter to truth in just

A NET OF NOTHING 97

the same way. Rhyme, indeed, is in many respects
a pernicious influence. It is constraining, cramps
the powers of expression, checks effective detail,
and coarsens or starves the more delicate shades
and touches. Yet, with all the limitations and
shacklings which its use must necessarily impose,
we have amongst us a set of purists who are
always crying out against any rhyme which is not
absolutely exact, though that it is sufficiently so to
please the ear—and what more is required ?—is
proved by this, that many of our best-loved coup-
lets rhyme no better—and by this, that the ear is
pleased with rhythm alone, as in blank verse. And
so the fetters, instead of being widened, as they
ought to be, are to be pulled closer and closer,
and, to get an absolute jingle, all higher considera-
tions—and there can hardly be one that is not
higher—are to be sacrificed. I doubt if there has
ever been a poet whose own ear would have led
him to be so nice in this way; but so-called critics
—for the most part the most artificial and inap-
preciative of men—weave their net of nothing
around them. Happy for our literature, and for
peoples still to be moved by it, to whom what was
thought by the old British pedants to constitute
a cockney rhyme will be a matter but of learned-
trifling interest—if of any—when ‘“‘these waterflies”’
are disregarded! By great poets I would be under-
stood to mean. As for the other ones, ‘‘ de mint-
mis” —yes, and ‘‘de minoribus,” too, here—“ non
curat lex.” Mais laissons tout cela.

There can hardly be a better place for observing
the ways of cuckoos than this open amphitheatre

98 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

which I have spoken of. It is not only their
playing-ground, but their feeding-ground, too, and
the way in which they feed is very interesting—at
least, I think it so. The few hawthorns and elders
that are scattered about, serve them as so many
watch-towers. Sitting, usually, on some top bough
of one, they seem to be resting, but really keep a
watch upon the ground. The moment their quick
eye catches anything ‘“‘ of the right breed” there,
they fly down to it, swallow it on the spot,
and then fly back to their station again. When
they have exhausted one little territory they
fly to a bush commanding another, and so
from bush to bush. ‘They always fly down to a
particular spot, and in a direct line, without
wavering. This proves that they have seen the
object from where they were sitting, though often
it is at a distance which might make one think this
impossible. Their eyesight must be wonderfully
good, but that, of course, one would expect. I
have seen a cuckoo fly from one bush like this,
and return to it, again, eight or nine times in
succession, at short, though irregular, intervals.
Both on this and on other occasions, whenever I
could make out what the bird got, it was always a
fair-sized, reddish-coloured worm, very much like
those one looks for in a dung-heap, to go perch or
gudgeon fishing. When the bush was near I could
see this quite easily through the glasses, if only the
bird showed the worm in its bill, as it raised its
head. Asarule, however, it bolted it too quickly,
whilst it was still indistinguishable amidst the grass.
Now, from time to time, we have accounts of

CUCKOOS FEEDING 99

cuckoos arriving in this country somewhat earlier
than usual—in March, say, instead of April—and
these have been discredited on the ground that the
proper insects would not then be ready for the bird,
so that it would starve; though as birds, like the
poor in a land of blessings, sometimes do starve, |
can hardly see the force of this argument. How-
ever, here is the cuckoo feeding—largely, as it seems
to me—upon worms, which are not insects, and this
might make it possible for it to arrive, sometimes,
at an earlier season, and yet find enough to eat. It
is easy to watch cuckoos feeding in this way in
open country, such as we have here, and a fasci-
nating sight it is. Were I to see it every day of
my life, I think I should be equally interested, each
time. But is it an adaptation to special surround-
ings, or the bird’s ordinary way of getting its
dinner? I think the latter, for I have seen it going
on in one of the plantations, here, from shortly after
daybreak. Here the birds flew from the lower
boughs of oaks and beeches, and their light forms,
crossing and recrossing one another in the soft, pure
air of the early morning, had a very charming effect.
Indeed, I do not know anything more delightful to
see. Though, usually, the cuckoo eats what it finds
where it finds it, yet, once in a while, it may carry it
to the bush, and dispose of it there. I have, also, seen
it fly up from the bush, and secure an insect in the
air, returning to it, then, like a gigantic fly-catcher.
Such ways in such a bird are very entertaining.

My idea is that the cuckoo is in process of
becoming nocturnal—crepuscular it already 1s—
owing to the persecution which it suffers at the

100 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

hands of small birds. This is at its worst during
the blaze of day. It hardly begins before the sun
is fairly high, and slackens considerably as the
evening draws on. Accordingly, as it seems to
me, the cuckoo likes, in the between-while, to sit
still, and thus avoid observation, though it by no
means always succeeds in doing so. It is frequently
annoyed by one small bird only, which pursues it,
from tree to tree, in a most persevering manner,
perching when it perches, sometimes just over its
head, but very soon flying at it, again, and forcing
it to take flight. This is not like the shark and
the pilot-fish, but yet it always reminds me of it.
I am not quite sure, however, whether the relation
may not sometimes be a friendly one, not, indeed,
on the part of the cuckoo, but on that of its per-
severing attendant. All over the country cuckoos
are, each year, being reared by small birds of various
species. When the spring comes round again, have
these entirely forgotten their experience of the
season before? If not, would not the sight, and,
perhaps, still more, the smell of a cuckoo, rouse a
train of associations which might induce them to fly
towards it, in a state of excitement, and would it not
be difficult to distinguish this from anger? More-
over, the probability, perhaps, is that the young
cuckoos, as well as the old ones, return to the
localities that they were established in before migra-
tion, and, in this case, they would be likely to meet
their old foster parents again. It is true that the
real parent and offspring, amongst birds, meet and
mingle, in after life, without any emotion upon either
side, as far, at least, as we can judge; but we must

RUE WITH A DIFFERENCE i1o1

remember what a strange and striking event the
rearing of a young cuckoo must be in the life of a
small bird, at least the first time it occurs. The
smell, also, would not be that of its own species, so
that there would be more than appearance to distin-
guish it. In fact, the thing having been peculiar,
the feelings aroused by it may have been stronger,
in which case the memory might be stronger too,
and revive these feelings, or, at least, it might
arouse some sort of emotion, possibly of a vague
and indistinct kind. Smell is powerful in calling
up associations, and I speculate upon the possibility
of its doing so, here, because the plumage of the
young cuckoo, when it left its foster-parents, would
have been different to that in which it must return
to them. However, these are dreams. There is
certainly much hostility on the part of small birds
to the cuckoo, but perhaps it is just possible that
Pun wempéche pas autre.

The cuckoo, when thus mobbed and annoyed, is
supposed to be mistaken for a hawk. But do
his persecutors fear him, as a hawk? My opinion
is that they do not, and that even though they
may begin to annoy him, under the idea that he
is one, they very soon become aware, either that
he is not, or, at least, that they need not mind
him if he is. It is even possible that small
birds may, long ago, have found out the difference
between a hawk and a cuckoo, but that the habit,
once begun, continues, so that it is, now, as
much the thing to mob the one as the other. Be
this as it may, I do not think that hawks suffer
from this sort of annoyance, to anything like the

102 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

same extent that cuckoos do. They have always
seemed to me to be pretty indifferent, and the
canaille to keep at a wary distance, whereas I have
seen a chaffinch plunge right down on the back of a
cuckoo, who ducked his head, and moved about on

the branch where he was sitting, in a manner, and

with a look, to excite pity, before flying off it, pur-
sued by his petty antagonist. But hawks—even
kestrels—may sit in trees for hours unmolested,
though the whole grove know of their presence
there.

Whilst watching the cuckoos sporting in their
playground, and on other occasions, I have tried to
come to a conclusion as to whether the male only,
or both the sexes cuckoo. I have not, however,
been able to make up my mind, and to me the
point seems difficult to settle. (It has been settled,
I know, but I don’t think that settles it.) The
sexes being indistinguishable in field observation, we
have to apply some test whereby we may know the
one from the other, before we can say which of the
two it is that cuckoos on any one occasion. But
what test can we apply, other than the bird’s actions,
and until we know how these differ in the sexes,
how can we apply it? For how long, too, as a
rule, can we watch any one bird, and when two or
more are together how can we keep them distinct?
Some crucial acts, however, there are, which one
sex alone can perform, and if a man could spend a
week or two in watching, for a reasonable length of
time each day, cuckoos that in this way had declared
themselves to be females, he would then be able to
speak, on this point, with authority. One way,

A SETTLED QUESTION 103

indeed, he might prove the thing in a moment,
but not the other way. For instance, if he were
to see a cuckoo lay an egg, and if that cuckoo
cuckooed, the assumption that the male bird alone
can do so would be, at once, disproved; but if it
‘merely did not cuckoo, the question would lie open,
as before. The chance, however, of making such
an observation as this is an exceedingly small one.
We must think of some other that would be equally
a test. Certain activities may bring the sexes to-
gether, by themselves, but nidification, incubation,
and the rearing of the young, are all non-existent
in the case of the cuckoo. The problem cannot be
solved in the way that I have solved it, with the
nightjar. There is, however, the nuptial rite, and
if we could see this performed, and were able to
keep the sexes distinct, for some time afterwards,
something, perhaps, might be got at. Let us sup-
pose, then, that two cuckoos are observed under
these circumstances, and that the male, only, cuckoos.
Here, again, this would be mere negative evidence,
in regard to the point in dispute. Either both
the birds, or the female only, must cuckoo, or else
the observation, so difficult to make, must be re-
peated indefinitely, and, moreover, each time that
neither bird cuckooed—which might very often be
the case—nothing whatever would have been gained.

This is the view I take of the difficulties which
lie in the way of really knowing whether the
male and female cuckoo utter distinct notes. Short
of the test I have suggested, one can only,
I believe, come to a conclusion by begging
the question—which has accordingly been done.

104 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

Personally, as I say, I have not made up my mind;
but I incline to think that both the sexes cuckoo.
On one occasion, when the behaviour of a pair that
I was watching seemed emphatically of a sexual
character, the bird which I should have said was
the female did so, several times, in full view; and
the other, I think, cuckooed also. But here, again,
I could not say for certain that the two were not
males, and that conduct, which seemed to me eager
and amorous, especially on the part of one bird—it
was the other that certainly cuckooed—was not,
really, of a bellicose character. Another pair I
watched for many days in succession, from soon
after their first arrival, as I imagine, and when not
another cuckoo was to be seen or heard far or near.
They took up their abode in a small fir plantation,
and were constantly chasing and sporting with one
another. ‘That, at least, is what it looked like. If
what seemed sport was really skirmishing, then it
seems odd that two males should have acted thus,
without a female to excite them. Would it not be
odd, too, for two males to repair, thus, to the same
spot, and to continue to dwell there, being always
more or less together and following one another
about ? Though it was early in April, therefore, and
though we are told that the male cuckoo arrives, each
year, before the female, I yet came to the conclusion
that these birds were husband and wife. At first it
seemed to me that only one of them cuckooed, but
afterwards I changed my opinion, though the two
never did soat the same time, or answered each other,
whilst I had them both in view. This, however,
had they both been males, they probably would have

AN OPEN QUESTION 105

done. Space does not allow of my giving these two
instances im extenso, so I will here conclude my re-
marks about the cuckoo; for I have nothing to say
—at least nothing new and of my own observation
—1in regard to its most salient peculiarity—though
for saying nothing, upon that account, I think I
deserve some credit.

MALE WHEAT-EAR

CHAP TPR

ANOTHER bird, very characteristic, whilst it stays,
of the steppes of Icklingham, is the wheat-ear. A
blithe day it is when the first pair arrive, in splendid
plumage always—the male quite magnificent, the
female, with her softer shades, like a tender after-
glow to his fine sunset. Both are equally pleasing
to look at, but the cock bird is by much the more
amusing to watch.

Who shall describe him and all his nice little
ways—his delicate little hops; his still more delicate
little pauses, when he stands upright like a sentinel ;
his little just-one-flirt of the wings, without going
up; his little, sudden fly over the ground, with his
coming down, soon, and standing as though sur-
prised at what he had done; or, lastly and chiefly, his
strange, mad rompings—one may almost call them—

106

“ERCLES’ VEIN” 107

wherein he tosses himself a few yards into the air,
and comes pitching, tumultuously, down, as though
he would tumble all of a heap, yet never fails
to alight, cleanly, on his dainty little black legs?
This last is ‘‘ Ercles’ vein, a tyrant’s vein”: and yet
he has higher flights, bolder efforts. In display, for
instance, before the female, he will fly round in
circles, at a moderate height, with his tail fanned
out, making, all the while, a sharp little snappy sort
of twittering, and clapping his wings from time to
time. He does this at irregular, but somewhat long
intervals, but sometimes, instead of a roundabout, he
will mount right up, and then, at once, descend, in that
same tumultuous, disorderly sort of way, as though
he were thrown, several times, by some unseen hand,
in the same general direction—it looks much more
like that than flying. But there is variation here,
too, and the bird’s ruffling, tousled descent, may
be exchanged for a drop, plumb down, till, when
almost touching the ground, it slants off, and flits
over it, for a little, before finally settling. The
ascent is by little spasms of flight, divided from
one another by a momentary cessation of effort,
during which the wings are pressed to the sides.
Larks will mount something in this way, too,
and, after descending for some time, parachute-wise,
and singing, one will often fold his wings to his
sides, and shoot down, head first—a little ‘jubilee
plunger ”’—for his song is a jubilee. Another way
to come down is at a tangent, and sideways, the tip
of one wing pointing the way, like the bowsprit of a
little ship. Yet another is by terraces, as I call it ;
that is to say, after the first dive down from where it
G

108 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

has hung singing, the bird sweeps along, for a little,
at one level—which is a terrace—then dives, again, to
another one, a little below it, sweeps along on that,
descends to a third, and so on, down to the ground.
There is, indeed, a good deal of individual variety
in the way in which larks fly—at least between any
two or more that one may see doing the same thing
at the same time—soaring, descending, and so on.
The flight itself is of many kinds—as the ordinary,
the mount up to the watch-tower (‘‘ from his watch-
tower in the skies”’), the hanging, motionless, on
extended wings, the descent, the serene on-sailing,
without a stroke, as of the eagle; and, again, the
suspension, with wings lightly quivering, as the
kestrel hovers. But how different is the character
impressed upon these last! What the eagle does in
majesty, and the hawk in rapine, that the lark does
in beauty only, in music of motion and song.

All this, of course, is in the spring and summer
only. In the winter, when they flock, larks fly low
over the land, and this they all do in much the
same way. Though most of their poetry is now
gone, or lies slumbering, yet they are still interest-
ing little birds to watch. They walk or run briskly
along the ground, and continually peck down upon
it, with a quick little motion of the head. They
appear to direct each peck with precision, and to get
something each time, but what I cannot say. It
may be anything, as long as it is minute; that seems
to be the principle—so that, as one sees nothing, it
is like watching a barmecide feast. Larks never
hop, I believe, when thus feeding, though some-
times the inequalities of the ground give them the

LARKS IN WINTER 109

appearance of doing so. They look and move like
little quails, crowd not, but keep together in a
scattered togetherness, and fly, all together, over the
hard earth, often seeming to be on the point of
alighting, but changing their minds and going on,
so that no man—‘‘no, nor woman Sica la ean
say whether, or when, they will settle. Creeping
thus—for, however fast they go, they seem to creep
—over the brown fields in winter, the very shape of
these little birds seems different to what one has
known it. They look flatter, less elongated ; their
body is like a small globe, flattened at the poles,
and the short little tail projects from it, clearly and
sharply. AQ staid tail it is in winter. I have never
seen it either wagged or flirted; for between the
wagging and flirting of a bird’s tail, there is, as
Chaucer says about two quite different things, “‘a
long and large difference.” Much charm in these
little birdies, even when winter reigns and

“Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind.”

Occasionally one hears, from amongst them, a little,
short, musical, piping, note—musical, but

‘¢Oh tamquam mutatus ab illo.”’

By February, however, larks are soaring and sing-
ing, though, at this time, they do not mount very
high. The song, too, is not fully developed, and is,
often, no more than a pleasant, musical twittering,
especially when two or more chase one another
through the air. It is curious how often just three
birds together do this, a thing I have many times

110 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

noticed—not with larks only—and which I believe to
lie at the base of any antic—such, for instance, as that
of the spur-winged lapwing of La Plata—in which
three, and no more, take a part. These trios look
like a pair in love, and an interloper, but it may be
two wanting, and one not caring; or again, as it has
often seemed to me, none of the three may be very
much in earnest. Be it as it may, with the larks, at
this time, there are some delightful chasings, de-
lightful skimmings and flutterings, and then all
three mount into the air, and sing delightfully—a
little Lobegesang. Nature—wild nature—has two
voices, a song of joy and a shriek of agony. Eter-
nally they mingle and sound through one another,
but, on the whole, joy largely predominates. But
when we come to man we get the intermediates ; the
proportions change, the shadows lengthen, the sky
becomes clouded, one knows not what to think.

In winter the larks, here, as one might expect,
keep entirely to the agricultural part of the country
that encircles or intersects the numerous barren
stretches. As the spring comes on, they spread
over these, too, but here they are much outnum-
bered by their poor relations, the titlarks, to whom
such wildernesses are a paradise. Indeed, by his
pleasing ways, and, especially, by the beauty of his
flight, this sober-suited, yet elegant little bird helps
to make them so. With his little ‘‘ too-i, too-1”
note, he soars to a height which, compared, indeed,
to the skylark’s “‘ pride of place,” is as mediocrity to
genius ; but having attained it, he comes down very
prettily—more prettily, perhaps, than does his gifted
relative. The delicate little wings are extended, but

A FAIR DESCENT III

raised, especially when nearing the ground, to some
height above the back, and the fragile body, sus-
pended between them like the car of a tiny balloon,
seems to swing and sway with the air. The tail,
though downward-borne with the rest of the bird,
feels still some “skyey influences,” for it is “ tip-
tilted,” and as “‘ like the petal of a flower,” I fancy,
as any nose on any face. As the bird nears the
heather from which he started—for he especially
loves the moorlands—he, too (perhaps all birds
have), has a way of gliding a little onwards above
it, poised in this manner, which adds much to the
grace of his descent. Then, softly sinking amidst
it, he sits elastic on a springy spray, or walks with
dainty, picked steps over the sandy shoals that lie
amidst its tufty sea. This, indeed, is one of his
show descents. Not all of them are so pretty. In
some the wings are not quite so raised, so that their
lighter-coloured under-surface—an especial point of
beauty—is not seen. Sometimes, too, the titlark
plunges and sweeps earthwards almost perpendi-
cularly, his tail trailing after him like a little brown
comet. But, whatever he does, he is a dainty little
bird with a beauty all his own, and which is none
the less for being of that kind which is not showy,
but ‘sober, steadfast, and demure.”

Now does this flight, which I have described—
the mounting and return to earth again—more
resemble that of a lark or a wagtail? It is the new
way to class the pipits with the latter birds, instead
of with the former, which, now, they “ only super-
ficially resemble.’ Had they been classed, hitherto,
with the wagtails, it would, probably, have been

112 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

discovered that they only superficially resembled
them, and were really larks—and so it goes on, in
that never-ending change-about, called classification.
If the pipits are not larks, why, first, do they fly like
them, and then, again, why do they sing like them?
There is a certain resemblance of tone, even in the
poor, weak notes of the meadow-pipit, and no one
can listen to the rich and beautiful melody of the
tree-pipit, as it descends to earth, in a very lark-like
manner, singing all the time, without recognising
its affinity with that of the skylark, to which—
in Germany, at any rate—it is hardly inferior. Is
song, then, so superficial? ‘To me it seems a very
important consideration in settling a bird’s family
relationship. How strange it would be to find a
dove, duck, crow, gull, eagle, parrot, &c., whose
voice did not, to some extent, remind one of the
group to which it belonged! Is there anything
more distinctive amongst ourselves? The members
of a family will often more resemble one another in
the tone of their voice than in any other particular,
even though there may be a strong family like-
ness, as well. Structure is gue/que chose, no doubt;
especially as, dissection not being a popular pastime,
one has to submit to any statement that one reads,
till the professor on whose authority it rests is con-
tradicted by some other professor—as, in due time,
he will be, but, meanwhile, one has to wait. Classi-
fication, however, should take account of everything,
and, for my part, having heard the tree-pipit sing,
and seen both it and the titlark fly, I mistrust any
system which declares such birds to be wagtails and
not larks.

A PRETTY RUFFLER ie

I think our caution in accepting merely adap-
tive resemblances as tests of relationship may be
pushed a little too far. A bat flies in the same
general way as a bird, but we do not find it prac-
tising little tricks and ways—with an intimate style
of flight, so to speak—resembling that of some
particular group of birds. All men walk; yet a
man, by his walk, may proclaim the family to which
he belongs. A thousand points of similarity may
meet to make any such resemblance, but it is not
likely that they should unless they were founded on
a similarity of structure. Surely, too, the resem-
blances of notes and tones must rest upon corre-
sponding ones in the vocal organs, though these may
be too minute to be made out. To some extent,
indeed, these principles may be applied to get the
titlarks into either family. It is a question of
balance. That there is something in common be-
tween them and the wagtails I do not deny, and
the fact that when the two meet on the Icklingham
steppes neither seems to know the other, proves
nothing in regard to the nearness or otherwise of
the relationship.

The male of the pied- or water-wagtail may often
be seen courting the female here, and a pretty sight
it is to see. He ruffles out his feathers so that his
breast looks like a little ball, and runs to her in a
warm, possession-taking way, with his wings drooped,
and his tail expanded and sweeping the ground.
She, quite unmoved, makes a little peck at him, as
though saying, “‘ Be off with you!” whereat he,
obeying, runs briskly off, but turning when hardly
more than a foot away, comes down upon her, again,

114 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

even more warmly than before. She may relent,
then, or she may not, but, at this point, another
male generally interferes, when all three fly away
together. ‘There is a good deal of similarity between
the courtship of the wagtail and that of the pheasant,
for, having run up to the hen, the little bird, if not
too brusquely repulsed, will run about her in a
semicircle, drooping his wing upon that side, more
especially, which is turned towards her, so as to show
all that she can see—and this I have seen the pheasant
do, time after time, with the greatest deliberation.
Having noticed this method in the wagtail, I
have looked for it in the wheat-ear, also—the two
may often be studied together—but I have not yet
seen him act in quite the same way. His chief
efforts, no doubt, are those aerial ones of which
I have spoken, but having exhausted these, or after
sitting for some time on the top twig of an elder,
singing quite a pretty little song, he will often
pursue the object of his adoration over the sunny
sand, with ruffled plumage, and head held down.
He is reduced to it, I suppose, but it seems quite
absurd that he should be. He ought to be irresis-
tible, dressed as he is, for what more can be wanted ?
Nothing can be purer, or more delicately picked
out, than his colouring—his back cream-grey, his
breast greyey-cream. Divided by the broad, black
band of the wings, these tintings would fain meet
upon the neck and chin, but, here, a lovely little
chestnut sea, which neither can o’erpass, still keeps
them apart. They cannot cross it, to mingle warmly
with each other and make, perhaps, a richer hue.
Fas obstat—but fate, in chestnut, is so soft and pretty

AN ANGRY BIRD 5

that neither of them seems to mind. Then there
are pencilled lines of black and chastened white
upon the face, a softening into white upon the chin,
and a dab of pure white above the tail—but this you
only see in flight. The tail itself seems black when
it disports itself staidly, for it is the black tip, then,
beyond the black of the wings, that you see. Marry,
when it flirteth itself into the air, as it doth full oft,
then it showeth itself white, cloaked in a chestnut.
The pert little bill and affirmative legs are black.
This is how I catch the bird, running over the
warrens, it is not from a specimen on a table; not
so exact, therefore, and yet, perhaps, more so—
“lesser than Macbeth, yet greater.” Truly these
wheat-ears, at 7 o'clock in the morning, with the sun
shining, are splendid—which is what General Buller
said his men were—but I prefer their uniform to
khaki; I am not sure, however, whether I prefer it
to that of the stone-chat, which, though less salient,
is superior in warmth and richness. Both these
handsome little birds sometimes flash about together
in sandy spaces over the moorlands, or may even be
seen perched on the same solitary hawthorn or
elder. ‘Then is the time to compare their styles,
and not to know which to like best.

The stone-chat, by virtue of his little, harsh,
twittering “char,” which, as long as you are near him,
never leaves off, seems always to be an angry bird.
With this assumed state of his mind, his motions,
when he chars like this, seem exactly to correspond.
There is something in his quick little flights about,
from one heather-tuft to another, in the way he
leaves and the way he comes down upon them, in

116 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

the little impatient flutter of the wings, and bold
assertive flirt of the tail, supported—in spite of a
constant threat of overbalancing—by a firm attitude,
that suggests a fiery temper. You get this, more
especially, through the tail. It is flirted at you, that
tail. You feel that, and, also, that the intention, if
questioned, would be avouched, that were you to
sav to the bird, sternly and firmly—in the manner
of Abraham accosting Samson—‘ Do you flirt your
tail at me, sir?” the answer, instead of a pitiful,
shuffling evasion—a half-hearted quibble—would be
an uncompromising, ‘‘I do flirt my tail at you, sir.”
One cannot doubt this—at least I cannot. So sure,
in fact, have I always felt about it, that I have never
yet asked the question. Why should I—knowing
what the answer would be? But though this seems
to be the stone-chat’s mental attitude, when bob
and flirt and flutter are as the gesticulations accom-
panying hot utterance—the impatient ‘char, char,
charring ”—yet, when this last is wanting—which is
when he doesn’t see you—all seems changed, and
such motions, set in silence, assume a softened char-
acter. Now, instead of to the harsh chatter, it is to
the soft purity of the bird’s colouring that they
seem to respond.

Of all the birds that we have here, the peewits,
for a great part of the year, give most life to the
barren lands. In the winter, as I say, they disappear
entirely, going off to the fens, though, here and
there, their voice remains, mimicked, to the life, by
a starling. In February, however, they return, and
are soon sporting, and throwing their fantastic
somersaults, over their old, loved breeding-grounds.

PEEWITS BATHING 117

Pleasant it is to have this breezy joy of spring-time,
once again, to have the accustomed tilts and turns
and falls and rushing sweeps, before one’s eyes, and
the old calls and cries in one’s ears—the sound of
the wings, too, free as the wild air they beat, and
sunlight glints on green and white, and silver-flying
snowflakes. ‘‘ What a piece of work is a peewit !”
The glossy green of the upper surface—smooth and
shining as the shards of a beetle—glows, in places,
with purple burnishings, and, especially, on each
shoulder there is an intensified patch, the last bright
twin-touch of adornment. ‘The pure, shining white
of the neck and ventral surface—shining almost into
silver as it catches the sun—is boldly and beautifully
contrasted with the black of the throat, chin, and
forehead. The neat little, corally stilt-legs are an
elegant support for so much beauty, and the crest
that crowns it is as the fringe to the scarf, or the
tassel to the fez. There is, besides, the walk, pose,
poise, and easy swing of the whole body.

On the sopped meadow-land, near the river, in
‘February fill-dyke’’ weather, it is pleasant to see
peewits bathing, which they do with mannerisms of
their own. Standing upright in a little pool, one
of them bobs down, into it, several times, each
time scooping up the water with his head, and
letting it run down over his neck and back. This
is common; but he keeps his wings all the time
pressed to his sides, so that they do not assist in
scattering the water all over him, after the manner
in which birds, when they wash, usually do. Nor
does he sink upon his breast—which is also usual—
but merely stoops, and rises bolt upright, again, every

118 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

time. Having tubbed in this clean, precise, military
fashion, he steps an inch or so to one side, and then
jumps into the air, giving his wings, as he goes up,
a vigorous flapping, or waving rather, for they move
like two broad banners. He descends—the motion
of the wings having hardly carried him beyond the
original impulse of the spring—jumps up in the
same way, again, and does this some three or four
times, after which he moves a little farther off, and
preens himself with great satisfaction. Either this
is a very original method of washing, on the part of
peewits in general, or this particular peewit is a very
original bird. Apparently the latter is the explana-
tion, for now two other ones bathe, couched on their
breasts in the ordinary manner. Still the wings are
not extended to any great degree, and play a less
part in the washing process than is usual. Both
these birds, too, having washed, which takes a very
little while, make the little spring into the air,
whilst, at the same time, shaking or waving their
wings above their backs, in the way that the other
did, though not quite so briskly, so that it has a
still more graceful appearance. Jt is common for
birds to give their wings a good shake after a bathe,
but, as a rule, they stand firm on the ground, and
this pretty aerial way of doing things is something of
a novelty, and most pleasing. It is like the graceful
waving of the hands in the air, by which the
Normans—as Scott tells us—having had recourse
to the finger-bowl, at table, suffered the moisture to
exhale, instead of drying them, clumsily, on a towel,
as did the inelegant Saxons. The peewit, it is easy
to see, is of gentle Norman blood.

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THROUGH THE WATER-DROPS 119

Towards evening, a flock of starlings come down
amongst the peewits, and some of them bathe,
too, in one of the little dykes that run across the
_ marshlands. There is a constant spraying of water
into the air, which, sparkling in the sun’s slanting
rays, makes quite a pretty sight. On the edge of
the dyke, with the jets d’eaux all about him, a snipe
stands sunning himself, on a huge molehill of black
alluvial earth. He stands perfectly still for a very
long time, then scratches his chin very deftly with
one foot, and stands again. Were I an artist I
would sketch this scene—this solitary statuesque
snipe, on his great black molehill, against the silver
fountains rising from the dark dyke; beyond,
through the water-drops, peewits and _ starlings,
busy or resting, all in the setting sun—‘‘im <Abend-
sonnenschein.” ‘The starlings are constantly moving,
and often fly from one part of the land to another.
With the peewits it is different. They do not move
about, to nearly the same extent. To watch and
wait seems to be their principle, and when they
do move, it is but a few steps forward, and then
stationary again. It appears as if they waited for
worms to approach the surface of the ground, for,
sometimes, they will suddenly dart forward from
where they have long stood, pitching right upon
their breasts, securing a worm, and pulling it out
as does a thrush—herons, by the way, will often go
down like this, in the act of spearing a fish—or they
will advance a few steps and do the same, as though
their eye commanded a certain space, in which they
were content to wait.

Starlings, as I have often noticed, seem to enjoy

120 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

the company of peewits. They feed with them
merely for their company, as I believe, and, when
they fly off, will often go, too. They think them
“‘sood form,” I fancy; but the peewits do not
patronise. They are indifferent, or seem to be so.
They may, however, have a complacent feeling in
being thus followed, and, as it were, fussed about,
which does not show itself in any action. I have
seen, a little after sunrise, a flock of some forty or
fifty peewits go up from the marshlands, and, with
them, a single starling, which flew from one part of
the flock to another, making, or appearing to make,
little dives at particular birds. After a minute or
so, it flew back to the place it had left, and where
other starlings were feeding. One of these flew
to meet it, and joining it, almost midway, made
delighted swoops about it, sheering off and again
approaching, and so, as it were, brought it back.
Now, here, the general body of the starlings remained
feeding when the peewits went up. One, only, went
with them, and this one must have felt something
which we may assume the others to have felt also,
though they resisted. What was this feeling of the
starling towards the peewits? Was it sympathy—
a part joyous, part fussy participation in their
affairs—or something less definable; or, again, was
the attraction physical merely, having to do, perhaps,
with the scent of the latter birds. Something there
must have been, and in such obscure causes we,
perhaps, see the origin of some of those cases of
commensalism in the animal world, where a mutual
benefit is, now, given and received. The subject
seems to me to be an interesting one, and I think it

HEARTS IN WINTER 121

might gradually add to our knowledge and enlarge
the range of our ideas, were naturalists always to
note down any instance of one species seeming to
like the society of another, where a reason for the
preference was not discernible. How interesting,
too, to see this glad welcoming back of one speck in
the air, by another !—for that was the construction
I placed upon it. Was there individual recognition
here? Were the two birds mated? If this were so,
then—as it was September at the time—starlings
must mate for life, as most birds do, I believe. In
this case, the vast flocks, in which they fly, to roost,
through the winter, are only a mantle that masks
more intimate relations, and so it may be with
other birds.

This I know, that starlings have hearts even in
winter. Sitting, in January, amidst the branches of a
onarled old walnut tree that tops a sandy knoll over-
looking the marshes, I have often seen them wave
their wings in an emotional manner, whilst uttering,
at the same time, their half-singing, all-feeling notes.
They do this, especially, on the long, whistling
““whew ”’—the most lover-like part—and as the
wings are waved, they are, also, drooped, which gives
to the bird’s whole bearing a sort of languish. The
same emotional state which inspires the note, must
inspire, also, its accompaniment, and one can judge of
the one by the other. Though of a different build
—not nearly so “massive ’’—these starlings might
say, with Lady Jane, ‘“‘I despair droopingly.” But no,
there is no despair, and no reason for it. One of
them, now, enters a hole in the hollow branch where
he has been sitting, thus showing, still more plainly,

122 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

the class of feelings by which he is dominated.
But how spring-in-winteryfied is all this !—

‘¢ And on old Hiem’s thin and icy crown
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set.”’

And then, all at once, from the midst of the walnut
tree, comes the cry of a peewit, rendered to the life
by one of these birds. ‘There are no peewits near,
nor, though the wide waste around is their very
own, have they been seen there for months. The
fenlands have long claimed them, and the fenlands
are seven miles distant. Most strange—and pleas-
ing strange—it is, to hear their absolute note, when
they are all departed. I have sat and heard a
particular starling, on which my eyes were fixed,
thus mimic the unmistakable cry of the peewit,
eight or nine times in succession. It was the spring
note, so that, this being in January, also, it would
have been still more remarkable had the peewit
itself uttered it.

Over the more barren parts of the Sahara, here,
and even where some thin and scanty-growing
wheat crops struggle with the sandy soil, the great
plovers, or stone-curlews, may often be seen feed-
ing, cheek by jowl, with the peewits. Scattered
amongst them both, are, generally, some pheasants,
partridges, fieldfares, thrushes, and mistle-thrushes,
and all these birds are apt, upon occasions, to come
into collision with one another—or, rather, the
stone-curlews and mistle-thrushes, being the most
bellicose amongst them, are apt to fall out between
themselves, or with the rest. For the stone-curlew,

“PAP! WITTE) A) HATCHET” 124

he is, certainly, a fighter. A cock pheasant that
approaches too near to one is attacked, and put to
flight by it. The rush of this bird along the ground,
with neck outstretched, legs bent, and crouching
gait—a sort of stealthy speed—is a formidable affair,
and seems half to frighten and half to perplex the
pheasant. But what a difference to when rival male
stone-curlews advance against each other to the
attack! ‘Then the carriage is upright—grotesquely
so, almost—and the tail fanned out like a scallop-
shell, which, now, it is not. This is interesting, I
think, for in attacking birds of another species there
would not be so much, if any, idea of rivalry, calling
up, by association, other sexual feelings, with their
appropriate actions. The combats of rival male
birds seem, often, encumbered, rather than anything
else, by posturings and attitudinisings, which do
not add to the kind of efficiency now wanted, but,
on the other hand, show the bird off to the best
advantage—e.g. the beautiful spread of the tail, and
the bow, as with the stock-dove, where both are
combined and make a marked feature of the
fiercest fights.: All these, in my view, are, properly,
displays to the female, which have been imported,
by association of ideas, into the combats of the birds
practising them. But in this attack on the pheasant
there is nothing of all this, and the action seems, at
once, less showy and more pertinent. After routing
the pheasant, this same stone-curlew runs 4 plusieurs
reprises at some mistle-thrushes, who, each time, fly
away, and come down a little farther on. x
revanche a mistle-thrush attacks a peewit, actually
putting it to flight. It then advances three or four
H

124 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

times—but evidently nervous, and making a half
retreat, each time—upon a stone-curlew, who, in its
turn, is half frightened and half surprised. Another
one comes up, as though to support his friend, so
that the last dash of the mistle-thrush is at the two,
after which he retreats with much honour. As he
does so, both the stone-curlews posturise, drawing
themselves up, gauntly, to their full height—an
attitude of haughty reserve—then curving their
necks downwards, to a certain point, at which they
stand still and slowly relax. There is no proper
sequence or proportion in all this. A stone-curlew
chases a mistle-thrush, a mistle-thrush a _ peewit,
and then the stone-curlew himself is half intimidated
by the mistle-thrush that he chased. Yet, just
before, he routed a pheasant, whilst the other day he
ran away froma partridge. ‘‘ Will you ha’ the truth
ont?” It depends on which is most the angry bird,
has most some right infringed, some wrong done,
or imagined done to him. He, for that moment,
is the prevailing party, and the others give him way.

The stone-curlew is an especial feature of the
country hereabout—indeed its most distinctive
one, ornithologically speaking. It begins to arrive
in April and stays till October, by the end of which
month it has, usually, left us, all but a few stragglers
which I have, sometimes, seen flying high in February
—how sadly their cry has fallen, then, and yet how
welcome it was! I am always glad when the voice
of these birds begins to be heard, again, over the
warrens. One can never tire of it—at least, I never
can. With Jacques I say, always, ‘‘ More, more, I
prythee, more,” and I can suck its melancholy—for

THE GATHERING OF THE CLANS 125

it is a sad note enough—“‘as a weasel does eggs.”
There are several variants of the cry, which seems
to differ according to the circumstances under which
it is uttered. The ‘“‘dew-leep, dew-leep”—thin,
shrill, and with a plaintive wail in it— comes
oftenest from a bird standing by itself, and it is
astonishing for what a length of time he will utter
it, unencouraged by any response. He does not
embellish the remark with any appropriate action
or gesture, but just stands, or sits, and makes it.
That isenough forhim. ‘It is his duty and he will.”
But the full cry, or c/amour, as it is called, proceeds,
usually, from several birds together, as they come
down over the warrens. That is a beautiful thing to
hear—so wild and striking—and the spread solitudes
amidst which it is uttered seem always to live in it.
I have seen two birds running, and thus lifting up
their voices, almost abreast, with another one either
just in front of or just behind them, the three
looking, for all the world, like three trumpeters on
the field of battle—for they carry their heads well
raised, and have a wild look of martial devotion.
But it is more the wailing sounds of the bagpipes
than the blast of the trumpet.
*‘ Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
Pibroch of Donuil,

Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan-Conuil.”’

And the wails grow and swell from one group to
another, and all come running down as though it
were the gathering of the clans.

Then there is a note like ‘‘tur-li-vee, tur-li-vee,
tur-li-vee,”’ quickly repeated — sometimes very

126 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

quickly, when it sounds more like “‘ ker-vic, ker-vic,
ker-vic ’—and for such a length of time that it seems
as though it would never leave off. All these notes,
though differing, have the same general quality of
sound, the same complaining wail in them, but one
there is which is altogether different, and which I
have only heard in the autumn, when the birds were
flying in numbers, preparatory to migration. Though
plaintive, it has not that drear character of the
others; a whistling note it is, with a tremulous
rise and fall in it—‘ tir-whi-whi-whi-whi-whi ’—
very pleasant to hear, and bringing the sea and sea-
shore to one’s memory. It bears a resemblance—
a striking one, it has sometimes seemed to me—to
the long, piping cry of the oyster-catcher, but is
very much softer. I have heard this note uttered
by a bird that a hawk was closely pursuing, but
also on other occasions, so that it is not, specially,
a cry of distress. The hawk in question, as I
remember, was a sparrow-hawk, and therefore not
as big as the stone-curlew. The two were close
together when I first saw them—almost touching,
in fact—the hawk spread like a fan over the stone-
curlew, following every deviation of its flight—
upwards, downwards, to one or another side—some-
times falling a little behind, but not as much as to
leave a space—the two were always overlapping.
I can hardly say why—perhaps it was the easy,
parachute-like flight of the hawk, with nothing like
a swoop or pounce, and the bright, clear sunshine
diffusing a joy over everything—but somehow the
whole thing did not impress me as being in earnest,
but, rather, as a sport or play—on the part of the

IN A BIRD-CLOUD 127

hawk more particularly ; and, strange as this theory
may appear, it is, perhaps, somewhat in support of
it, that, a few mornings afterwards, I saw a kestrel,
first flying with a flock of peewits, and then with
one alone. I could not detect any fear of the hawk
in the peewits, and it is difficult to suppose—know-
ing the kestrel’s habits—that he seriously meditated
an attack on one of them. In the same way—or
what seemed to be the same way—TI have seen a
hooded crow flying with peewits,! and a wood-
pigeon with starlings: to the latter case I have
already alluded. The stone-curlew in the above
instance, though separated, for a time, by the hawk,
as I suppose, was one of a great flock, amounting, in
all, to nearly three hundred, which used to fly up
every morning over the moor, where I have often
waited tosee them. Lying pressed amidst heather and
bracken, I once had the band fly right over me, at but
a few feet above the ground, so that, when I looked
up, I seemed to raise my head into a cloud of birds,
A charming and indescribable sensation it was, to be
thus suddenly surrounded by these free, fluttering
creatures. ‘hey were all about me—and so near.
The delicate ‘‘whish, whish ” of their wings was in my
ears,and in my spirittoo. I seemed in flight myself,
and felt how free and how glorious bird life must be.

Almost as interesting is it to see the stone-
curlews fly back to their gathering-grounds, in the
very early mornings, after feeding over the country,
during the night. They come either singly or in
twos and threes—grey, wavering shadows on the
first grey of the dawn. Sometimes there will be

1 “ Bird Watching,” p. 28.

128 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

a wail from a flying bird, and sometimes the sharper
ground-note comes thrilling out of the darkness—
from which I judge that some run home—but
silence is the rule. By the very earliest twilight of
the morning, when the moon, if visible, is yet
luminous, and the stars shining brightly, the
Heimkehr 1s over, and now, till the evening, the
birds will be gathered together on their various
assembly-grounds. With the evening come the
dances, which I have elsewhere described,' and then
off they fly, again, to feed, not now in silence, but
with wailon wail as they go. Such, at least as far as
I have been able to observe, are the autumn habits
of these birds. In the spring they are far more
active during the daytime. Di-nocturnal I would
call the stone-curlew—that is to say, equally at
home, as occasion serves, either by day or night.
Nothing is pleasanter than to see them running
over the sand, with their little, precise, stilty steps.
Sometimes one will crouch flat down, with its head
stretched straight in front of it, and then one has
the Sahara—a desert scene. ‘This habit, however,
does not appear to me to be so common in the
grown bird—in the young one, no doubt, it is
much more strongly developed.

The migration of the stone-curlew begins early in
October, but it is not till the end of that month that
all the birds are gone. About half or two-thirds of
the flock go first, in my experience, and are followed
by other battalions, at intervals of a few days. A
few stay on late into the month, but every day there
are less, and with October, as a rule, all are gone.

1 “Bird Watching,” pp. 9-15.

A **MURMURATION ” OF STARLINGS

CHARTER V1

STARLINGS are not birds to make part of an olla
podrida merely—as in my last chapter—so I shall
devote this one to them, more or less entirely. I
will begin with a defence of the bird, in regard to
his relations with the green woodpecker. Not,
indeed, that he can be acquitted on the main charge
brought against him, viz. that he appropriates to
himself the woodpecker’s nest. This he certainly
does do, and his conduct in so doing has aroused a
good deal of indignation, not always, perhaps, of the
most righteous kind. The compassionate oo/ogist,
more especially, who may have found only starling’s
eggs where he thought to find woodpecker’s, can-
not speak patiently on the subject. His feelings
run away with him, in face of such an injustice.
The woodpecker is being wronged—by the starling ;
129

130 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

it will be exterminated—all through the starling.
It makes his blood boil. To console himself he
looks through his fine collection, which contains
not only woodpecker’s eggs—say a roomful—but
woodpeckers themselves—in the fluff.’ It is some-
thing—balm in Gilead—yet had it not been for the
starling there might have been more.

Personally, I do not share in the panic, and if
the green woodpecker should disappear from this
island—as, indeed, it may—the starling, I am con-
fident, will have had but little to do with it. The
result, as I believe, of the present friction between
the two birds, will be of a more interesting and
less painful character. For say that a woodpecker
be deprived of its first nest, or tunnel, it will as-
suredly excavate another one. Not, however, im-
mediately: it is likely, I think, that there would be
an interval of some days—perhaps a week, or longer
—and, by this time, a vast number of starlings would
have laid their eggs. Consequently, the dispossessed
woodpecker would have a far better chance of
laying and hatching out his, this second time, and a
better one still, were he forced to make a third
attempt. No doubt, a starling wishing to rear a
second brood would be glad to misappropriate
another domicile, but, as the woodpecker would be
now established, either with eggs or young, it would
probably—I should think, myself, certainly—be
unable to do so, but would have to suit itself else-
where. The woodpecker should, therefore, have
reared its first brood some time before the starling
had finished with its second, and so would have time

1 The zakedness in this case rather; but I use the term conven-
tionally.

NANT!

INDIG

Flole

‘ood pecker s Nesting

of Vi

SSESSTONM C

im po

tarling

S

Paaton.

CUCKOOS IN POSSE 131

to lay again, if this, which I doubt, is its habit.
Thus, after the first retardation in the laying of the
one species, consequent upon the action of the other,
the two would not be likely again to come into
collision ; nor would the woodpecker be seriously
injured by being forced, in this way, to become a
later-breeding bird. As long as there are a sufficient
number of partially-decayed trees for both starlings
and woodpeckers—and any hole or hollow does for
the former—I can see no reason why the latter
should suffer, except, indeed, in his feelings; and
even if a time were to come when this were no
longer the case, why should he not, like the La
Plata species, still further modify his habits, even to
the extent, if necessary, of laying in a rabbit burrow?
Love, I feel confident, would ‘“‘ find out a way.”
But there is another possibility. May not either
the woodpecker or the starling be a cuckoo im
posse? If one waits and watches, one may see first
the one bird, and then the other, enter the hole, in
each other’s absence, and it is only when the wood-
pecker finds the starling in possession—and this, as I
am inclined to think, more than once—that he
desists and retires. Now, the woodpecker having
made its nest, is, we may suppose, ready to lay, and,
if it were to do so, it is at least possible that the
starling might, in some cases, hatch the egg. True,
the latter would still have his nest, or a part of it, to
make, but it is of loose material—straw for the most
part—and the cow-bird of America has, I believe,
been sometimes brought into existence under similar
circumstances. Some woodpeckers, too — evolu-
tion, it must be remembered, works largely through

rz2 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

exceptions—might be sufficiently persistent to lay an
egg in the completed nest of the starling. In this
latter case, at any rate, it seems more than likely
that the original parasite would become the dupe of
his ousted victim, ‘‘and thus the whirligig of time”
would have ‘‘ brought in his revenges.”’

Whether in speculating upon the various possible
origins of the parasitic instinct, as exhibited in per-
fection by the cuckoo, this one has ever been con-
sidered, I do not know, but it does not appear to me
to be in itself improbable. It is not difficult to
understand a bird seizing another one’s nest, first
as a mere site for, and then, gradually, as its own.
That the dispossessed bird should still strive to lay
in its own appropriated nest, and, often, succeed in
doing so, is also easy to imagine; and if this should
be its only, or most usual, solution of the difficulty,
it would lose, through disuse, the instinct of incuba-
tion, and become a cuckoo ma/lgré lui. All feeling
of property would, by this time, be gone; the para-
sitic instinct would be strongly developed, and that it
should now be indulged, at the expense of many, or
several, species instead of only one—once the robber,
but whose original theft would be no longer trace-
able—is a sequel that one might expect. Ina process
like this there would have been no very abrupt or
violent departure, on the part of either species—of
the dupe or of the parasite—from their original
habits. All would have been gradual, and naturally
brought about. ‘Therefore, as it appears to me, all
might very well have taken place. Let me add to
these speculations one curious fact in regard to the
two birds whose inter-relations have suggested them,

STARLINGS AS ARCHITECTS 133

which extremely close observation has enabled me
to elicit. I have noticed that a woodpecker which
has abandoned its hole, always lays claim to magna-
nimity, as the motive for such abandonment, whereas
the starling as invariably attributes it to weakness.
I have not yet decided which is right.

But the starling may be regarded in a nobler light
than that of a parasitical appropriator, or even a mere
finder of, dwellings. He is, and that to a very con-
siderable extent, a builder of them, too. I have some
reason to think that he is occasionally, so to speak,
his own woodpecker, for I have seen him bringing,
through an extremely rough and irregular aperture,
in a quite decayed tree, one little beakful of chips
after another, whilst his mate sat singing on the stump
of the same branch, just above him. The chips
thus brought were dropped on the ground, and had
all the appearance of having been picked and pulled
out of the mass of the tree. Possibly, therefore,
the aperture had been made in the same way.

It is in gravel- or sand-pits, however, that the bird’s
greatest architectural triumphs are achieved. Star-
lings often form colonies here, together with sand-
martins, and the holes, or, rather, caverns, which they
make are so large as to excite wonder. A rabbit—
nay, two—might sit in some of them; two would
be a squeeze, indeed, but one would find it roomy
and comfortable. The stock-dove certainly does,
for she often builds in them, as she does in the
burrows of rabbits, and can no more be supposed to
make the one than the other. Besides, I have seen
the starlings at work in their vaults, and the latter
growing from day to day. But no, I am stating, or

134 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

implying, a little too much. Properly, satisfactorily
at work I have not seen them, though I have tried
to; I have been unfortunate in this respect. But
there were the holes, and there were the starlings
always in and about them, and, sometimes, hanging
on the face of the sand-pit, like the sand-martins
themselves. ‘That the latter had had anything to
do with these great, rounded caves, or that the
starlings had merely seized on the last year’s martin-
holes, and enlarged them, I do not believe. That
may be so in some cases, but here, as it seems to me,
it would have been impossible. Sand-martins, as 1s
well known, drive their little narrow tunnels, for an
immense way, into the cliff—nine feet sometimes, it
is said, but this seems rather startling. Large and
roomy and cavernous as are the chambers of the
starlings, yet they are not quite so penetrating, so
bowelly, as this. Therefore—and this would especi-
ally apply in the earlier stages of their construction—
the original martin-holes ought always to be found
piercing their backward wall, if the starlings had
merely widened the shaft for themselves. This,
however, has not been the case in the excavations
which I have seen, even when they were mere
shallow alcoves in the wall of the cliff—but just
commenced, in fact. Moreover, some of these
starling-burrows were several feet apart, the cliff
between them being unexcavated. Sand - martins,
however, drive their tunnels close together, and in
a long irregular line, or series of lines, so that if,
in these instances, starlings had seized upon them,
there ought to have been many small holes in the
interstices between the large ones. Lastly, if a

CAVE DWELLINGS 135

starling can do such a prodigious amount of excava-
tion for himself, why should he be beholden to a
sand-martin, or any other bird, for a beginning or
any part of it? That he will, sometimes, commence
at a martin’s hole, just as he might at any other
inequality of the surface—as where a stone has
dropped out—and, so, widen a chink into a cavern,
a fine, roomy apartment (as Shakespeare ennobled
inferior productions, which was not plagiarism), I
am not denying, nor that he might enjoy work, all
the more, when combined with spoliation. But,
with or without this, the starling appears to me to
be an architect of considerable eminence, and, as such,
not to have received any adequate recognition.

To return to these wonderful sand-caves—his
own work —it seems curious, at first, considering
their size, how he can get them so rounded in
shape. Here there is no question of turning about,
in a heap of things soft and yielding, pressing with
the breast, to all sides, moulding, as it were, the
materials, like clay upon the potter’s wheel—the
way in which most nests are made cup-shaped ; but
we have a large, airy, beehive-like chamber, some-
what resembling the interior of a Kaffir hut, except
that the floor is not flat, but more like a reversed
and shallower dome. The entrance, too, is small,
compared to the size of the interior, in something
like the same proportion. Here, on the outside,
where the birds have clung, the sand looks scratched,
as with their claws, or, sometimes, as though chiselled
with their beaks; but within, the walls and rounded
dome have a smooth and swept appearance, almost as
if they had been rubbed with sandpaper. Sometimes

136 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

I have wondered if the starlings scoured, so to speak,
or fretted the inside of their caverns, by rapidly
vibrating their wings against them, so as to act like
a stiff brush on the soft, friable sandstone. One of
my notings, when watching in the sand-pits, was this:
‘“‘A starling appears, now, at the mouth of a hole,
waving his wings most vigorously. Then disappear-
ing into it, again, he quickly returns, still waving
them, and moves, so, along the face of the cliff, for
there is something like a little ledge below the row
of holes.” This bird, indeed, waved its wings so
long and so vigorously that I began to think it
must have a special and peculiar fondness for so
doing—that here was an exaggeration, in a single
individual, of a habit common to the species, for
starlings during the nesting season are great per-
formers in this way. But if the wings were used as
suggested, they would certainly, I think, be sufficiently
strong, and their quill-feathers sufficiently stiff, to
fret away the sand; and as their sweeps would be
in curves, this would help to explain the domed and
rounded shape of these bird cave-dwellings. Only,
why have I not seen them doing it? Though many
of the holes were unfinished—some only just begun
—and though the birds were constantly in them, I
could never plainly see any actual excavation being
done by them, except that, sometimes, one, in a per-
functory sort of manner, would carry some nodules
of sand or gravel out of a hole that seemed nearly
finished ; yet still they grew and grew. The thing,
in fact, is something of a mystery to me.

It is easier to see how, when the chambers are
completed, the starlings build their nests in them ;

TOPSY-TURVY LAND £377

and, especially, the fact of their entering and
plundering each other’s is open and apparent.
They seem to chance the rightful owner being at
home, or in the near neighbourhood. There is no
stealth, no guilty shame-faced approach. Boldly
and joyously they fly up, and if unopposed, “so,”
as Falstaff says (using the little word as the Germans
do now); if not, a quick wheel, a gay retreat, and
a song sung at the end of it. Such happy high-
handedness, careless guilt! A bird, issuing from a
cave that is not his own, is flown after and pecked
by another, just as he plunges into one thatis. The
thief soon reappears at the door of his premises, and
sings, or talks, a song, and the robbed bird 1s, by
this time, sing-talking too. Both are happy—immer
munter—all is enjoyment. A bird, returning with
plunder, finds the absent proprietor in his own
home. Each scolds, each recognises that he has
“received the dor”; but neither blushes, neither
is one bit ashamed. Happy birdies! They fly about,
sinning and not caring, persist in ill courses, and
how they enjoy themselves! There is no trouble of
conscience, no remorse. ‘‘Fair is foul, and foul is
fair,” with them. It is topsy-turvyland, a kind
of right wrong-doing, and things go on capitally.
Happy birdies! What a bore all morality seems,
as one watches them. How tiresome it is to be
human and high in the scale! Those who would
shake off the cobwebs—who are tired of teachings
and preachings and heavy-high novellings, who
would see things anew, and not mattering, rubbing
their eyes and forgetting their dignities, missions,
destinies, virtues, and the rest of it—let them

138 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

come and watch a colony of starlings at work in a
gravel-pit.

But starlings are most interesting when they flock,
each night, to their accustomed roosting-place; in
autumn, more especially, when their numbers are
greatest. It is difficult to say, exactly, when the
more commonplace instincts and emotions, which
have animated the birds throughout the day, begin
to pass into that strange excitement which heralds
and pervades the home-flying. Comparatively
early, however, in the afternoon many may be
seen sitting in trees—especially orchard trees—and
singing in a very full-throated manner. They are
not eating the fruit; a dead and fruitless tree holds
aS many, in proportion to its size, as any of the
other ones. Presently a compact flock comes down
in an adjacent meadow, and the birds composing it
are continually joined by many of the singing ones.
Whilst watching them, other flocks begin to sweep
by on hurrying pinions, and one notices that many
of the high elm trees, into which they wheel, are
already stocked with birds, whilst the air begins,
gradually, to fill with a vague, babbling susurrus,
that, blending with the stillness or with each ac-
customed sound, is perceived before it is heard—a
felt atmosphere of song. One by one, or mingling
with one another, these flocks leave the trees, and
fly on towards the wood of their rest; but by that
principle which impels some of any number, how-
ever great, to join any other great number, many
detach themselves from the main stream of advance,
and fly to the ever-increasing multitudes which still
wheel, or walk, over the fields. It seems strange

SPRAY OF THE EARTH 139

that these latter should, hitherto, have resisted that
general movement which has robed each tree with
life, and made a music of the air; but all at once,
with a whirring hurricane of wings, they rise like
brown spray of the earth, and, mounting above one
of the highest elms, come sweeping suddenly down
upon it, in the most violent and erratic manner,
whizzing and zigzagging about from side to side, as
they descend, and making a loud rushing sound
with the wings, which, as with rooks, who do the
same thing, is only heard on such occasions. They
do not stay long, and as all the flocks keep moving
onwards, the immediate fields and trees are soon
empty of birds. To follow their movements
farther, one must proceed with all haste towards
the roosting-place. About a mile’s distance from
it, at the tail of a little village, there is a certain
meadow, emerald-green and dotted all over with
unusually fine tall elms. In these, their accustomed
last halting-place, the starlings, now in vast
numbers, are swarming and gathering in a much
more remarkable manner than has hitherto been
the case. It is, always, on the top of the tree that
they settle, and, the instant they do so, it becomes
suddenly brown, whilst there bursts from it, as
though from some great natural musical box, a
mighty volume of sound that is like the plash of
waters mingled with a sharper, steelier note—the
dropping of innumerable needles on a marble floor.
On a sudden the sing-song ceases, and there is a
great roar of wings, as the entire host swarm out
from the tree, make a wheel or half-wheel or two,
close about it, and then, as though unable to go

140 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

farther, seem drawn back into it, again, by some
strong, attractive force. Or they will fly from one
tree to another of a group, swarming into each, and
presenting, as they cluster in myriads about it, before
settling, more the appearance of a vast swarm of
bees, or some other insects, than of birds. These
flights out from the trees, always very sudden, seem,
sometimes, to be absolutely instantaneous; whilst
in every case it is obvious that vast numbers must
move in the same twinkle of time, as though they
were threaded together.

All this time, fresh bands are continuing to
arrive, draining different areas of the country.
From tree to field, from earth to sky, again, is flung
and whirled about the brown, throbbing mantle of
life and joy; nature grows glad with sound and
commotion; children shout and clap their hands;
old village women run to the doors of cottages to
gaze and wonder—the starlings make them young.
Blessed, harmless community! The men are out,
no guns are there, it is like the golden age. And
now it is the final flight, or, rather, the final many
flizhts, for it is seldom—perhaps never—that all, or
even nearly all, arrive together at the roosting-place.
As to other great things, so to this daily miracle
there are small beginnings; the wonder of it grows
and grows. First a few quite small bands are seen
flying rapidly, yet soberly, which, as they near or pass
over the silent wood—their pleasant dormitory—
sweep outwards, and fly restlessly round in circles—
now vast, now narrow—but of which it is ever the
centre. ‘Then comes wandering by’”’ one single
bird—apart, cut off, by lakes of lonely air, from all

MADNESS IN THE SKY 141

its myriad companions. Some three or four follow
separately, but not widely sundered; then a dozen
together, which the three or four join; then another
small band, which is joined by one of those that
have gone before it, itself now, probably, swollen by
amalgamation. Now comes a far larger band, and
this one, instead of joining, or being joined by, any
other, divides, and, streaming out in two directions,
follows one or other of those circling streams of
restless, hurrying flight, that girdles, as with a zone
of love and longing, the darksome, lonely-lying
wood. AQ larger one, still, follows; and now, more
and faster than the eye can take it in, band grows
upon band, the air is heavy with the ceaseless sweep
of pinions, till, glinting and gleaming, their weary
wayfaring turned to swiftest arrows of triumphant
flight—toil become ecstasy, prose an epic song—
with rush and roar of wings, with a mighty com-
motion, all sweep, together, into one enormous
cloud. And still they circle; now dense like a
polished roof, now disseminated like the meshes of
some vast all-heaven-sweeping net, now darkening,
now flashing out a million rays of light, wheeling,
rending, tearing, darting, crossing, and piercing one
another—a madness in the sky. All is the starlings’
now; they are no more birds, but a part of elemental
_ nature, a thing affecting and controlling other things.
Through them one sees the sunset ; the sky must peep
through their chinks. Surely all must now be come.
But as the thought arises, a black portentous cloud
shapes itself on the distant horizon ; swiftly it comes
up, gathering into its vast ocean the small streams
and driblets of flight; it approaches the mighty host
I

142 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

and is the mightier—devours, absorbs it—and, sailing
grandly on, the vast accumulated multitude seems
now to make the very air, and be, itself, the sky.
As a rule, this great concourse separates, again,
into two main, and various smaller bodies, and it is
now, and more especially amongst the latter, that
one may witness those beautiful and varied evolu-
tions which are, equally, a charm to the eye and a
puzzle to the mind. Each band, as it circles rapidly
round, permeated with a fire of excitement and glad
alacrity, assumes diverse shapes, becoming, with the
quickness of light, a balloon, an oil-flask, a long,
narrow, myriad-winged serpent, rapidly thridding
the air, a comet with tail streaked suddenly out, or
a huge scarf, flung about the sky in folds and
shimmers. A mass of flying birds must, indeed,
assume some shape, though it is only on these
occasions that one sees such shapes as these. More
evidential, not only of simultaneous, but, also, of
similar motion throughout a vast body, are those
striking colour changes that are often witnessed.’
For instance, a great flock of flying birds will be,
collectively, of the usual dark-brown shade. In
one instant—as quickly as Sirius twinkles from
green to red, or red to gold—it has become a light
grey. Another instant, and it is, again, brown, and
this whilst the rapidly-moving host seems to occupy
the same space in the air, so lightning-quick have
been the two flashes of colour and motion—for
both may be visible—through the living medium;
as though one had said, ‘‘ One, two,” or blinked the
eyes twice. Yet in the sky all is a constant quantity ;

1 Or might be, if any one cared to witness them. Nobody does.

A GREAT ERROR 143

the sinking sun has neither rushed in nor out, on
all the wide landscape round no change of light
and shade has fallen, and other bands of movin
birds maintain their uniform hue. Obviously the
effect has been due to a sudden change of angle in
each bird’s body, in regard to the light—as when
one rustles a shot-silk dress—and this change has
shot, in the same second of time, through myriads of
bodies. Sometimes the light of the sky will show,
suddenly, like so many windows, through a multi-
tude of spaces, which seem to be at a set and
regular distance from one another; and then, again,
be as suddenly not seen, the whole mass becoming
opaque to the eye, as before. Here, again, the effect,
which is beautiful, can only be produced by a certain
number of the birds just giving their wings a slant,
or otherwise shifting their posture in the air, all at
the same instant of time. This, at least, is the only
way in which I can explain it.

What the nature of the psychology is, that directs
such movements, that allows of such a multitudinous
oneness, must be left to the future to decide; but to
me it appears to offer as good evidence for some form
of thought-transference—containing, moreover, new
points of interest—as does much that has been col-
lected by the Psychical Research Society, which, in
its investigations, seems resolved to treat the universe
as though man only existed in it. This is a great
error, in my opinion, for even if greater facilities
for investigation are offered by one species than by
any other, yet the general conclusions founded on
these are almost certain to be false, if the com-
parative element is excluded. How could we have

144 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

acquired true views in regard to the nature and
meaning—the philosophy—of any structure in our
human anatomy, through human anatomy alone?
How should we know that certain muscles, found
in a minority of men, were due to reversion, if we
did not know that these same muscles were nor-
mally present in apes or other animals?’ Exactly
the same principle applies to the study of psy-
chology, or what is called psychical research: and it
is impossible not to get exaggerated, and, as one
may say, misproud ideas of our mental attributes,
and consequently of ourselves, if we do not pay
proper attention to the equivalents, or representa-
tives, of these in our blood relations, the beasts.

In fact, if we study man, either mentally or
physically, aS one species amongst many, we have a
science. If we study him only, or inordinately, we
very soon have a religion. ‘The Psychical Research
Society appears to me to be going this way. Its
leading members are becoming more and more im-
pressed by certain latent abnormal faculties in the
human subject, but they will not consider the nature
and origin of such faculties, in connection with many
equally mysterious ones scattered throughout the
animal kingdom, or pay proper attention to these.
The wonder of man, therefore, is unchecked by
the wonder of anything else: no monkey, bat, bird,
lizard, or insect pulls him up short: he sees himself,
only, and through Raphaels and Virgils and genius
and trances and ecstasies—soon sees himself God, or
approaching, at least, to that size. So an image is
put up in a temple, and joss-sticks lighted before

1 “ The Descent of Man,” pp. 41, 42.

HYMNS TO OURSELVES 145

It. Service is held. There are solemn strains,
reverential attitudes, and “Out of the deeps,” and
“Cometh from afars,” go up, like hymns, from
the lips of officiating High Priests—the successive
Presidents of the Society. It is church, in fact,
with man and religion inside it. Outside are the
animals and science. Jn such an atmosphere field
natural history does not flourish. You may not
bring dogs into church. That, however, is what I
would do, and it is just what the Society ought to
do. With man for their sole theme they will
never, it seems likely, get beyond a solemn sort of
mystic optimism. If they want to get farther they
should let the dogs into church.

Whilst starlings are thus flying to the roosting-
place, they often utter a peculiar, or, at any rate, a
very distinctive note, which I have never heard them
do, upon any other occasion, except in the morning,
on leaving it. It is low, of a musical quality, and
has in it a rapid rise and fall—an undulatory sound
one might call it, somewhat resembling that note I
have mentioned of the great plover, which, curiously
enough, is also uttered when the birds fly together
in flocks. But whilst there is no mistaking the
last, this note of the starlings is of a very elusory
nature, and I have often been puzzled to decide
whether it was, indeed, vocal or only caused by the
wings. Sometimes there seems no doubt that the
former is the case, but on other occasions it is more
dificult to decide. I think, however, that it is a
genuine cry, and, as I say, I have only heard it upon
these occasions, nor have I ever heard or read any
reference to it. It is usually stated that starlings

146 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

fly, together, in silence, but besides the special note I
have mentioned, and which is totally unlike any of
their other ones, they often make a more ordinary
twittering noise. It is not loud, and does not seem
to be uttered by any large proportion of the birds, at
once. Still, their numbers being so great, the volume
of sound is often considerable; and no one could
watch starlings going to roost, for long, without hear-
ing it. Those, therefore, who say that they always
fly in silence cannot have watched them for long.
The final end and aim of all the gatherings,
flights, circlings, and “‘skiey”’ evolutions generally,
which are gone through by starlings, at the close of
each day, is, of course, the entry into that dark wood
where, in “‘numbers numberless,”’ yet packed into a
wonderfully small space, they pass the night, clinging
beneath every leaf, like those dreams that Virgil
speaks of. This entry they accomplish in various
ways. Sometimes, but rarely, they descend out of the
brown firmament of their numbers, in one perpetual
rushing stream, which seems to be sucked down by
a reversed application of the principle on which the
column of a waterspout is sucked up from the
ocean. More often, however, they fly in, in detach-
ments; or again, they will swarm into one of the
neighbouring hedges, forming, perhaps, the mutual
boundary of wood and meadow, and, commencing
at the remote end, move along it, flying and flutter-
ing, like an uproarious river of violent life and joy,
the wood at last receiving them. But should there
be another thicket or plantation, a field or so from
their chosen dormitory, it is quite their general
habit to enter this, first, and fly from it to the latter.

FROM WOOD TO WOOD 147

The passage from the one to the other is an in-
teresting thing to see, but it does not take place till
after a considerable interval, during which the birds
talk, and seem to be preparing themselves for going
to bed. At last they are ready, or the proper time
has come. The sun has sunk, and evening, in its
stillness, seems to wait for night. The babbling
sing-song, though swollen, now, to its greatest
volume, seems—such are the harmonies of nature
—to have more of silence in it than of sound, but,
all at once, it changes to a sudden roar of wings, as
the birds whirl up and fly across the intervening
space, to their final resting-place. It seems, then,
as though all had risen, at one and the same
moment, but, had they done so, the plantation
would now be empty, and the entire sky, above it,
darkened by an immense host of birds. Such,
however, is not the case. There is, indeed, a con-
tinuous streaming out, but, all or most of the while
that it is flowing, the plantation from which it
issues must be stocked with still vaster numbers,
since it takes, as a rule, about half-an-hour for it to
become empty. It is drained, in fact, as a broad
sheet of water would be, by a constant, narrower
outflow, taking the water to represent the birds.
Thus, though the exodus commences with sud-
denness, it is gradually accomplished, and this gives
the idea of method and sequence, in its accomplish-
ment. The mere fact that a proportion of the
birds resist, even up to the last moment, the impulse
to flight, which so many rushing pinions, but just
above their heads, may be supposed to communicate,
suggests some reason for such self-restraint, and

148 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

gradually, as one watches—especially if one comes
night after night—the reason begins to appear. For
a long time the current of flight flows on, unin-
terruptedly, hiding with its mantle whatever of form
or substance may lie beneath. But, at last, the
numbers begin to wane, the speed—at least in ap-
pearance—to flag, and it is then seen that the star-
lings are flying in bands, of comparatively moderate
size, which follow one another at longer or shorter
intervals. Sometimes there is a clear gap between
band and band, sometimes the leaders of the one are
but barely separated from the laggards of the other,
sometimes they overlap, but, even here, the band
formation is plain and unmistakable. This, as I
have said, is towards the end of the flight. On
most occasions, nothing of the sort is to be seen at
its beginning. There is a sudden outrush, and no
division in the continuous line is perceptible. Occa-
sionally, however, the exodus begins in much the
same way as it ends, one troop of birds following
another, until soon there ceases to be any interval
Berean them. But though the governing principle
is now masked to the eye, one may suppose that it
still exists, and that as there are unseen currents in
the ocean, so this great and, apparently, uniform
stream of birds, is made up of innumerable small
bands or regiments, which, though distinct, and
capable, at any moment, of acting independently, are
so mingled together that they present the appear-
ance of an indiscriminate host, moving without
order, and constructed upon no more complex prin-
ciple of subdivision than that of the individual unit.
There is another phenomenon, to be observed in

FLYING TO BED 149

these last flights of the starlings, which appears to
me to offer additional evidence of this being the
case. Supposing there to be a hedge, or any other
shelter, in the bird’s course, one can, by stooping
behind it, remain concealed or unthought of, whilst
they pass directly overhead. One then notices that
there is a constant and, to some extent, regular
rising and sinking of the rushing noise made by
their wings. It is like rush after rush, a maximum
roar of sound, quickly diminishing, then another
roar, and so on, in unvarying or but little varying
succession. Why should this be? That, at more
or less regular intervals, those birds which happened
to be passing just above one, should fly faster, thereby
increasing the sound made by their wings, and that
this should continue during the whole flight, does
not seem likely. It would be method without
meaning. But supposing that, at certain points,
the living stream were composed of greater multi-
tudes of birds than in the intermediate spaces, then,
at intervals, as these greater multitudes passed above
one, there would be an accentuation of the uniform
rushing sound. Now in a moderate-sized band of
starlings, flying rapidly, there is often a thin for-
ward, or apex, end, which increases gradually, or,
sometimes, rather suddenly, to the maximum bulk
in the centre, and a hinder or tail end, decreasing
in the same manner. If hundreds of these bands
were to fly up so quickly, one after another, that
their vanguards and rearguards became intermingled,
yet, still, the numbers of each main body ought
largely to preponderate over those of the combined
portions, so that here we should have a cause

150 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

capable of producing the effect in question. The
starlings then—this, at least, is my own conclusion
—though they seem to fly all together, in one long
string, really do so in regiment after regiment, and,
moreover, there is a certain order—and that a
strange one—by which these regiments leave the
plantation. It is not the first ones—those, that is
to say, that are stationed nearest the dormitory—
that lead the flight out to it, but the farthest or
back regiments, rise first, and fly, successively, over
the heads of those in front of them. Thus the
plantation is emptied from the farther end, and that
part of the army which was, in sitting, the rear,
becomes, in flying, the van. This, at least, seems to
be the rule or tendency, and precisely the same
thing is observable with rooks, though in both it
may be partially broken, and thus obscured. One
must not, in the collective movements of birds,
expect the precision and uniformity of drilled human
armies. It is, rather, the blurred image, or confused
approximation towards this, that is observable, and
this is, perhaps, still more interesting.

One more point—and here, again, rooks and star-
lings closely resemble each other. It might be
supposed that birds thus flying, in the dusk of
evening, to their resting-place, would be anxious to
get there, and that the last thing to occur to them
would be to turn round and fly in the opposite
direction. Both here, however, and in the flights
out in the morning, we have that curious phenome-
non of breaking back, which, in its more salient
manifestations, at least, is a truly marvellous thing

to behold. With a sudden whirr of wings, the

ORDER IN DISORDER 151

sound of which somewhat resembles that of a squall
of wind—still more, perhaps, the crackling of sticks
in a huge blaze of flame—first one great horde, and
then another, tears apart, each half wheeling round,
in an opposite direction, with enormous velocity,
and such a general seeming of storm, stir, and
excitement, as is quite indescribable. This may
happen over and over again, and, each time, it
strikes one as more remarkable. It is as though
a tearing hurricane had struck the advancing host
of birds, rent them asunder, and whirled them to
right and left, with the most irresistible fury. No
act of volition seems adequate to account for the
thing. It is like the shock of elements, or, rather,
it is a vital hurricane. Seeing it produces a strange
sense of contrast, which has a strange effect upon
one. It is order in disorder, the utmost perfection
of the one in the very height of the other—a
governed chaos. Every element of confusion 1s
there, but there is no confusion. Having divided
and whirled about in this gusty, fierce fashion, the
birds, for a moment or so, seem to hang and crowd
in the air, and then—the exact process of it is
hardly to be gathered—they reunite, and continue
to throng onwards. Sometimes, again, a certain
number, flashing out of the crowd, will wheel,
sharply, round in one direction, and descend, in a
cloud, on the bushes they have just left. In a second
or two they whirl up, and come streaming out again.
In these sudden and sharply localised movements we
have, perhaps, fresh evidence of that division into
smaller bodies, which may, possibly, underlie all great
assemblies either of starlings or other birds.

152 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

If anything lies in the way of the starlings, dur-
ing this, their last flight, to the dormitory—as,
say, a hedge—the whole mass of them, in perfect
order and unison, will, as they pass it, increase their
elevation, though why, as they were well above
it before, one cannot quite say. However they
do so, and the brown speeding cloud that they
make, whirling aloft and flashing into various
sombre lights against the darkening sky, has a fine
stormy effect. It would make the name of any
landscape painter, could he put on canvas the stir
and spirit of these living storms and clouds that
fill, each morning and evening, a vast part of the
heavens with their hurrying armies, adding the
poetry of life to elemental poetry, putting a heart-
beat into sky and air. Were Turner alive, now, I
would write to him of these wondrous sights; for,
unless he despaired, surely he can never have seen
them. He who gave us “ Wind, steam, and speed ”
might, had he known, have given us a ‘Sky, air,
and life,” to hang, for ever (if the trustees would
let it) on the walls of the National Gallery. But
who, now, is there to write to? Who could give us
not only the thing, but the spirit of the thing—the
wild, fine poetry of these starling-flights? It 1s
strange how much poetry lies in mere numbers, how
they speak to the heart. What were one starling,
winging its way to rest, or even adozenorso? But
all this great multitude filled with one wish, one
longing, one intent—so many little hearts and wings
beating all one way! It is like a cry going up from
nature herself; the very air seems to yearn and pant
for rest. And yet there is the precise converse of

A DISSEMINATING PROCESS 153
this. The death of one child—little Paul Dombey,

for instance—is affecting to read about: thousands
together seem not to affect people—no, not even
ladies—at all.

It is interesting to sit in the actual roosting-place
of the starlings, after the birds have got there.
They are all in a state of excitement, hopping and
fluttering from perch to perch, from one bush to
another, and always seeming to be passing on.
One is in the midst of a world of birds, of a sea of
sound, which is made up, on the whole, of a kind
of chuckling, chattering song, in which there are
mingled—giving it its most characteristic tones—
long musical whews and whistles, as well as some
notes that may fairly be called warblings—the whole
very pleasing, even in itself; delightful, of course,
as a part of all the romance. As one sits and
watches, it becomes more and more evident that a
disseminating process is going on. The birds are
ever pushing forward, and extending themselves
through the thick undergrowth, as though to find
proper room for their crowded numbers. There is,
in fact, a continual fluttering stream through the
wood, as there has been, before, a flying stream
through the air, but, in the denseness of the under-
growth, it is hard to determine if there is a similar
tendency for band to follow band. The universal
sing-song diminishes very slowly, very gradually,
and, when it is almost quite dark, there begin to
be sudden flights of small bodies of birds, through
the bushes, at various points of the plantation, each
rush being followed by an increase of sound. In-
stead of diminishing, these scurryings, with their

154 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

accompanying babel, become greater and more nume-
rous, as the darkness increases, but whether this is a
natural development, or is caused by an owl flying
silently over the plantation, I am not quite sure,
though I incline to the former view. Night has
long fallen, before silence sinks upon that darker
patch in darkness, where so many hearts, burdened
with so few cares, are at rest.

Next morning, whilst it is still moonlight, there
is a subdued sing-songing amongst the birds, but
by crawling, first on one’s hands and knees, and then
flat, like a snake, one is able to get, gradually, into
the very centre of their sleeping-quarters, where,
sitting still, though one may create a little disturb-
ance at first, one soon ceases to be noticed. As
daylight dawns, there is some stretching of the
wings, and preening, and then comes an outburst of
song, which sinks, and then again rises, and so con-
tinues to fluctuate, though always rising, on the
whole, until the sound becomes a very din. At
length comes a first wave of motion, birds fluttering
from perch to perch, and bush to bush, then a
sudden roar of wings, as numbers fly out, a lull, and
then a great crescendo of song, another greater roar,
a still greater crescendo, and so on, roar upon roar,
crescendo on crescendo, as the tide of life streams
forth. The bushes where the birds went up are
completely empty, but soon they fill again, and the
same excited scene that preceded the last begins to
re-enact itself. Birds dash from their perches, hang
hovering in the air, with rapidly-vibrating wings,
perch again, again fly and flutter, the numbers ever
increasing, till the whole place seems to seethe.

“RERVET OPUS” 155

‘“« Fervet opus,” as Virgil says of the bees. Greater
and greater becomes the excitement, more and more
deafening the noise, till, as though reaching the
boiling-point, a great mass of the birds is flung off,
or tears itself from the rest, and goes streaming
away over the tree-tops. The pot has boiled over:
that, rather than an act of volition, is what it looks
like. There is a roar, thousands rise together, but
the greater part remain. It is as though, from
some great nature-bowl of dancing, bubbling wine,
the most volatile, irrepressible particles—the very
top sparkles—went whirling joyously away; or as
though each successive flight out were a cloud of
spray, thrown off from the same great wave. It will
thus be seen that the starlings fly out of their bed-
room, as they fly into it, in successive bodies, namely,
and not in one cloud, all together.

In the plantation are many fair-sized young trees,
but it is only now, when the birds have begun to fly,
that they may be seen dashing into them. They
have been empty before, standing like uninhabited
islands amidst an ocean of life. When roosting,
starlings seem to eschew trees that are at all larger
than saplings, or whose tops project much above the
level of the undergrowth. ‘Tall, thin, flexible bushes
—such as hazel or thorn—closely set together, seem
to be what they demand for a sleeping-place. They
sit on or near the tops of these, and it is obvious
that a climbing animal, of any size—say a cat or a
pole-cat—would find it difficult, or impossible, to run
up them, and would be sure to sway or shake the
stem, even if it succeeded. Whether this has had
anything to do, through a long course of natural

156 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

selection, with the choice of such coverts, I do not
know, nor, do I suppose, does anybody. It is matter
of conjecture, but what I have mentioned in regard
to the many small trees, scattered through the
plantation, seems to me curious. How comfortably,
one would think, could the birds roost in these, but,
again, how easily could a cat run up them. Of
course a habit of this kind, gained in relation to such
possibilities as these, would have been gained ages
ago, when there might have been great differences
both in the numbers and species of such animals as
would have constituted a nightly danger. Certain
it is that starlings, during the daytime, much affect
all ordinarily-growing trees. They roost, also, in
reed-beds, where they would be still safer from the
kind of attack supposed.

Even whilst this book is going through the press,
have come the usual shoutings of the Philistines
—their cries for blood and fierce instigations to
slaughter. The starlings, they tell us, do harm,
but what they really mean is this, that, seeing them
in abundance, their fingers itch to destroy. It is
ever so. These men, having no souls in their
bodies, have nothing whatever to set against the
smallest modicum of injury that a bird or beast
(unless it be a fox or a pheasant) may do—against
any of those sticks, in fact, that are so easily found
to beat dogs with. In one dingle or copse of their
estate a pheasant or two is disturbed. Then down
with the starlings who do it, for what good are the
starlings to them? ‘They do not care about grand
sights or picturesque effects. They would sooner
shoot a pheasant nicely, to see it shut its eyes

A PRETEXT POR SLAUGHTER 157

and die in the air—a subject of rapture with them,
they expatiate to women upon that—than gaze on
the Niagara Falls—nay, they would sooner shoot it
anyhow. Were it a collection of old masters that
swept into their plantations, to flutter their darlings,
they would wish to destroy them too— unless
indeed they could sell them: there would be
nothing to /ook at. Pheasants are their true
gods. To kill them last, they would kill every-
thing else first—dogs, men, yea women and chil-
dren—but not liking, perhaps, to say so, they talk,
now, about the song-birds. The starlings, forsooth,
disturb them. Oh hypocrites who, for a sordid
pound or two, which your pockets could well
spare, would cut down the finest oak or elm
that ever gladdened a whole countryside—yes, and
have often done so—would you pretend to an
esthetic motive? This wretched false plea, with
an appeal for guidance in the matter of smoking
out or otherwise expelling the starlings from their
sleeping-places, appeared lately in the Daily Tele-
graph. In answer to it I wrote as follows—for I wish
to embody my opinion on the matter with the rest
of this chapter, nor can I do soin any better way :—

©S1rr,— Will you allow me to make a hasty
protest—for I have little time, and write in the
railway-train—against the cruel and ignorant pro-
position to destroy the starlings, or otherwise inter-
fere with their sleeping arrangements, under the
mistaken idea that they do harm to song-birds?
I live within a few miles of a wood where a great
host of these birds roost, every night. The wood
is small, yet in spite of their enormous numbers,

K

158 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

they occupy only a very small portion of it, for
they sleep closely packed—and consider the size of
a starling. In that small wood are as many song-
birds as it is common to find in others of similar
size belonging to the district, and they are as in-
different to the starlings as the starlings are to
them—or, if they feel anything as they come sailing
up, it is probably a sympathetic excitement; for
small birds, as I have seen and elsewhere recorded,’
will sometimes associate themselves joyously with
the flight out of rooks from their woods in the
morning, and I know not why they should more
fear the one than the other. That they do not
care to roost amidst such crowds may be true; but
what of that? Were their—the song-birds’—num-
bers multiplied by a thousand, there would still be
plenty of room for them, even in the same small
wood or plantation; and, if not, there is no lack of
others. What, then, is the injury done them? It
exists but in imagination. How many of those
who lightly urge the smoking out of these poor
birds from their dormitories (must they not sleep,
then?) have seen starlings fly in to roost? Night
after night I have watched them sail up, a sight
of surpassing grandeur and interest—nay, of wonder
too; morning after morning I have seen them burst
forth from that dark spot, all joyous with their
voices, in regular, successive hurricanes—a thing
to make the heart of all but Philistines rejoice
exceedingly. Moreover, these gatherings present
us with a problem of deep interest. Who can
explain those varied, ordered movements, those

1 “Bird Watching,” p. 284.

UNCONSCIOUSC HY POCRISY 159

marvellous aerial manceuvrings, that, at times,
absolute simultaneousness, as well as identity of
motion and action amidst vast crowded masses of
birds, flying thick as flakes in a snow-storm? Is
there nothing to observe here, nothing to study?
Are we only to disturb and destroy? Our island
offers no finer, no more grand and soul-exalting
sight than these nightly gatherings of the starlings
to their roosting-places. Who is the barbarian that
would do away with them? Why, it would take a
Turner to depict what I have seen, to give those
grand effects—those living clouds and storms, those
skies of beating breasts and hurrying wings. Will
no artist lift up his voice? Will no life-and-nature
lover speak? I call upon all naturalists with souls
(as Darwin says somewhere, feeling the need of a
distinction), upon all who can see beauty and poetry
where these exist, upon all who love birds and hate
their slayers and wearers, to protest against this
threatened infamy, the destruction of our starling-
roosts. Howshould these gatherings interfere with
the song-birds? The latter must be numerous
indeed if some small corner of a wood—or even
some small wood itself—to which all the starlings
for ten or twenty miles around repair, can at all
crowd them for room. Such an idea is, of course,
utterly ridiculous, and in what other way can they
be incommoded? In none. They do not fear the
starlings. Why should they? They are not hawks,
not predaceous birds, but their familiar friends and
neighbours. The whole thing is a chimera, or, rather,
a piece of unconscious hypocrisy, born of that thirst
for blood, that itching to destroy, which, instead of

160 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

interest and appreciation, seems to fill the breasts of
the great majority of people—men, and women, too,
those tender exterminators—as soon as they see bird
or beast in any numbers. It is so, at least, in the
country. How well I know the spirit! How well
I know (and hate) the kind of person in which it
most resides. They would be killing, these people
—so they talk of ‘ pests,’ and ‘keeping down.’”’
Ever since I came to live in the west of England,
I have watched the starlings as opportunity presented,
and I believe, of all birds, they are the greatest
benefactors to the farmer, and to agriculture gener-
ally. Spread over the face of the entire country,
they, all day long, search the fields for grubs, yet
because, at night, they roost together in an incon-
siderable space, they “infest ’’ and are to be got rid
of. As to the smallness of the space required, and
the wide area of country from which the birds who
sleep in it are drawn, I may refer to a letter which
appeared, some time ago, in the Standard,’ in which
the opinions of Mr. Mellersh, author of ‘ The
Birds of Gloucestershire,” are referred to. That
starlings eat a certain amount of orchard fruit is
true—that is a more showy performance than the
constant, quiet devouring of grubs and larve. Such
as it is, | have watched it carefully, and know how
small is the amount taken, compared with the size
of the orchards and the abundance of the fruit.
Starlings begin to congregate some time before they
fly to their roosting-place. They then crowd into
trees—often high elm-trees, but often, too, into
those of orchards. The non-investigating person

1 December 8, 1904, I think, or thereabouts.

STICKS TO BEAT STARLINGS 161

takes it for granted that they are there, all for
plunder, and that all are eating—but this is a
wrong idea. The greater number—full of another
kind of excitement—touch nothing, and dead
barkless trees may be seen as crowded as those
which are loaded with fruit. Some fruit, as I say,
they do destroy, and this, in actual quantity, may
amount to a good deal. But let anybody see the
orchards in the west of England—where starlings
are most abundant—during the gathering-time, and
he may judge as to the proportion of harm that the
birds do. It is, in fact, infinitesimal, not worth the
thinking of, a negligeable quantity. Yet in the same
year that mountains of fruit are thrown away, or left
ungathered, when it may rot rather than that the
poor—or indeed anybody—should buy it cheap, you
will hear men talk of the starlings.

Why, then, do the starlings “infest”? Why
should they be persecuted? Because they sleep
together, in the space of, perhaps, a quarter of an
acre here and there—one sole dormitory in a large
tract of country? Is that their crime? For myself
I see not where the harm of this can lie, but sup-
posing that a thimbleful does lie somewhere, that
a pheasant or two—for whose accommodation the
country groans—is displaced, is not the pleasure
of having the birds, and their grub-collecting all
day long, sufficient to outweigh it? Is there nothing
to love and admire in these handsome, lively, friendly,
vivacious birds? ‘They do much good, little harm,
and none of that little to song-birds. Indeed they
are song-birds too, or very nearly. How pleasant
are their cheery, sing-talking voices! How greatly

162 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

would we miss them—the better part of us, I mean
—were they once gone! Harm to the song-birds!
Why, when do these grand assemblages take place?
Not till the spring is over, and our migratory
warblers gone or thinking of going. They are
autumn and winter sights. Are our thrushes and
blackbirds alarmed, then?—or bold robin? Perish
the calumny! ‘“Infest!’’ No, it is not the star-
lings—loved of all save clods—who infest the
country. It is rather, our country gentlemen.
‘“‘Song-birds!”” No, sey have nothing to do with
it; “Wall you ha’ the truth ‘on’t?”:’ To sec ate
and to wish to take it, is one and the same thing
with the many, so that the greater the numbers, the
greater seems the need to destroy.

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PEEWITS AND NEST

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PerewitTs, besides those aerial antics which are of
love, or appertaining to love, have some other and
very strange ones, of the same nature, which. they go
through with on the ground. A bird, indulging in
these, presses his breast upon the ground, and uses it
aS a pivot upon which he sways or rolls, more or less
violently, from side to side. The legs, during this
process, are hardly to be seen, but must, I suppose,
support the body, which is inclined sharply upwards
from the breast. The wings project like two horns
on either side of the tail, which is bent down
between them, in a nervous, virile manner. All at
once, a spasm or wave of energy seems to pass
through the bird, the tail is bent, still more forcibly,
down, the body and wings remaining as before ; and,

with some most energetic waggles of it, from side to
163

164 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

side, the generative act appears to be performed.
That, at any rate, is what it looks like—the re-
semblance could hardly be more exact.

What is the meaning of this strange performance ?
The cock bird, say the handbooks, is displaying
before the hen. But where is the Fen? In nine
cases out of ten she is not there; and this, and, still
more, the peculiarity of the actions, have convinced
me that a wish to please is not the real motive of
them. Again, it is assumed that the cock bird, only,
rolls in this way. But is this the case? Some
further observations, as recorded by me in my field
notes, may serve to answer this question. ‘*’ Two
peewits have just paired. I noticed no prior
antics, but, immediately after coition, one of the
two—I am not quick enough with the glasses to
say which—runs a little way over the sand, and
commences to roll. In a moment or two, the other
runs up, looking most interested, and, on the first
one’s rising and standing aside, immediately sits
along, in the exact spot where it was, and in the
same sort of attitude, though without rolling.
Then this bird rises also, and both stand looking at
the place where they have just lain, and making
little pecks at it—or just beside 1t—with their bills.
One of the two then walks a little away, so that I
lose her, whilst the other one, on which I keep the
glasses, and which I now feel sure is the male, rolls,
again, in the same place, and in the most marked
manner. ‘Then, rising, he runs, for some way, with
very short precise little steps, which have a peculiar
character about them. His whole pose and attitude
is, also, peculiar. The head and beak are pointed

A STRANGE PERFORMANCE 165

straight forward, in a line with the neck,|which is
stretched straight out, to its fullest extent, the crest
lying flat down upon it. In this strange, set attitude,
and with these funny little set, formal steps, he
advances, without a pause, for some dozen or twenty
yards, then stops, resumes his ordinary demeanour,
and, shortly, flies off. In a little while the same
thing occurs again, and, though still not quick
enough with the glasses to be quite certain which
bird it is that leads the way, immediately after the
nuptial rite has been accomplished, I yet think it is
the male; and he rolls now in two different places,
making arun to some distance, in the way described,
after the first time of doing so. It is only on the
second occasion that the other bird runs up to him.
The actions of the two are, then, as before, except
that the last comer—the female, as J think—rolls
this time, slightly, also. It is in a very imperfect
and, as one may say, rudimentary manner, but I
catch the characteristic, though subdued, motion
with the tail.

My glass is now upon a_peewit standing
negligently on the warrens, when another one,
entering its field, flies right down upon and pairs
with this bird, without having previously alighted
on the ground. Immediately afterwards he (the
male) makes his funny little run forward, starting
from by the side of the female, and, at the end of
it, pitches forward and commences to roll. The
female, shortly, comes up to him, with the same
interested manner as on the other occasions, and, on
his moving his length forward, and sinking down
again, she sits in the spot where he has just rolled,

166 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

pecking on the ground, as before described, whilst
he rolls, again, just in front of her. The two birds
then rise, and stand together, making little desultory
pecks. After a while the hen walks away, leaving
the cock, who rolls a little more before following
her. A strange performance this rolling is, when
seen quite plainly through the glasses. ‘The whole
body is lifted up, so that the bird often looks not so
much sitting as standing on his breast, the rest of
him being in the air. The breast is, thus, pressed into
the sand, whilst a rolling or side-to-side movement
of it, varying in force, helps to make a cup-shaped
hollow. This curious raised attitude, however,
alternates with a more ordinary sitting posture,
nor is the rolling motion always apparent. After
each raising of the wings and tail, they are depressed,
then again raised, and so on, whilst, at intervals, there
is the curious waggle of the tail, before described,
suggesting actual copulation.

In none of the above instances did I walk to
examine the place where the birds had rolled after
they had left them. They would, indeed, have been
dificult to find, but upon another occasion, when
the circumstances made this easy, I did so, and
found just such a little round basin in the sand as
the eggs are laid in. No eggs, however, were ever
laid here, whilst the bird was afterwards to be seen
rolling in other parts. It is easy, under such circum-
stances, to keep one peewit—or at least one pair of
them—distinct from others, for they appropriate
a little territory to themselves, which they come
back to and stand about in, however much they
may fly abroad. And here the birds return, in my

THE RAW MATERIAL 167

experience, spring-time after spring-time, to lay their
eggs, so that I judge them to pair for life. It is
well known that the peewit does produce hollows in
the way described—as, indeed, he could hardly
avoid doing—and as he is constantly rolling in
various places numbers of such little empty cups
are to be found about the bird’s breeding haunts.
Mr. Howard Saunders, in his ‘‘ Manual of British
Birds,”’ says, alluding to the spring-tide activities of
the peewit, ‘“‘ The ‘ false nests’ often found are scraped
out by the cock in turning round, when showing off
to the female.” I have shown what the bird’s
movements on these occasions really are. They
have upon them, in my opinion, the plain stamp of
the primary sexual impulse, and it is out of this
that anything which can be looked upon as in the
nature of a conscious display must have grown.
There is, indeed, evidence to show that one bird
performing these actions may be of interest to
another, but in spite of this and of the bright
colour of the under tail-coverts (which I have seen
apparently examined, even touched, by one peewit,
whilst another, their owner, was rolling), it may be
said that, in the greater number of cases, the per-
forming bird is paid no attention to, and does not,
itself, appear to wish to be, being often, to all intents
and purposes, alone. What relation, then, do such
actions, which are not confined to the peewit,
bear to the more pronounced and undoubted cases
of sexual display? They are, I believe, the raw
material out of which these latter have arisen—
sometimes, at least, if not always. I have, also,
shown that it is not the male peewit, only, that rolls.

168 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

As usual, it has been assumed that this is so, because
here, as in other cases, it is impossible, in field
observation, to distinguish the one sex from the
other, and to assume is a much easier process than
to find out. Immediately after coition, however,
one has both the male and the female bird before
one, and under these circumstances I have seen
them both act in the same way, as just described.
It is true that the actions of the female were less
pronounced than those of the male, but it does not
follow that this is always the case, and, moreover, it
is of no great importance if it is. The essential
fact is that both the sexes go through the same
movements, and, therefore, if these movements are,
as I believe them to be, the basis of sexual display,
one can see why, in some cases, there might be an
inter-sexual display, and, as a consequence, an inter-
sexual selection. But I leave this question, which
has been profoundly neglected, to come to another.
In the passage I have quoted, the term “ false nest ”
is put in inverted commas, showing, I suppose, that
it has often been used, and, consequently, that the
close resemblance of the false nest to the real one
has been generally recognised. I suggest that the
false nest is the real one—by which I mean that
there is no essential difference in the process by
which each is produced; and, further, that the
origin of nest-building generally, amongst birds, has
been the excited nervous actions to which the
warmth of the sexual feelings give rise, and the
activity of the generative organs.

My theory is based upon two assumptions, neither
of which, I think, is in itself improbable. The first

A LEBORY 1" 169

of these assumptions is that birds, in early times,
made no nests, and the second that the eggs were
originally laid upon the ground only. Assuming
this, and that these ancient birds, like many modern
ones, gave themselves up, during the breeding time,
to all sorts of strange, frenzied movements over the
ground, I suppose the eggs to have been laid in
some place which had been the scene of such move-
ments. For, by a natural tendency, birds, like
other animals, get to connect a certain act with
a certain place, or with certain places. Thus they
are wont to roost in the same tree, and often on
the same bough of it, to bathe in the same pool
or bend of the stream, &c. &c. In accordance with
this disposition, their antics, or love-frenzies, would
have tended to become localised also; the places
where they had been most frequently indulged in
would have called up, by association, the nuptial
feelings, and, consequently, the eggs would have
been more likely to have been laid in such places
than in other ones having no special significance.
Like every other act that is often repeated, this one
of laying in a certain spot would have passed into a
habit, and thus the place of mutual dalliance—per-
haps of pairing, also—would have become the place
of laying, therefore the potential nest. Having got
thus far, let us now suppose that one chief form
of these frenzied movements, which I suppose to
have been indulged in by both sexes, was a rolling,
buzzing, or spinning round upon the ground, by
which means the bird so acting produced, like the
peewit, a greater or lesser depression in it. If the
eggs were laid in the depression so formed, they

170 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

would then have been laid in a nest, but such
nest would not have been made with any idea of
receiving the eggs, or sheltering the young. Its
existence would have been due to excited and
non-purposive movements, springing out of the
violence of the sexual emotions. Now, however,
comes a further stage, which, it might well be
thought, could only have grown out of deliberate
and intelligent action—I mean at every slight step
in the process—on the part of the bird. I allude
to the lining of grass, moss, sticks, or even stones
or fragments of shells, with which many birds
that lay their eggs in a hollow, made by them
in the ground, further improve this. That the
nature and object of this process is now, through
memory, more or less understood by many birds,
I, for one, do not doubt; but, as every evolutionist
will admit, it is the beginnings of anything, which
best explain, and are most fraught with significance.
Is it possible that even the actual building of the
nest may have had a nervous—a frenzied—origin?
Lions and other fierce carnivorous animals will, when
wounded, bite at sticks, or anything else lying within
their reach. That a bird, as accustomed to peck as
a dog or a lion is to bite, should, whilst in a state of
the most intense nervous excitement, do the same,
does not appear to me to be more strange, or, in-
deed, in any way peculiar; and that such a trick
would be inherited, and, if beneficial, increased and
modified, who that has Darwin in his soul can
doubt? Now if a bird, whilst ecstatically rolling
on the ground, were to pick up and throw aside
either small sticks or any other loose-lying and

THE BIRTH OF AN INSTINCT 171

easily-seized objects—such as bits of grass or fibrous
roots—I can see no reason why it should not, by
stretching out its neck to such as lay just within its
reach, and dropping them, again, when in an easier
attitude, make a sort of collection of them close
about it—of which, indeed, I will quote an instance
farther on. Then if the eggs were laid where the
bird had rolled, they would be laid in the midst
of such a collection.

Now, I submit that these curious actions of the
peewit, during the breeding time, support the theory
of the origin of nest-building, which I have here.
roughly sketched, if not entirely, at least to a cer-
tain extent. They point in that direction. Here
we have movements, on the part of both the male
and female bird, which are, obviously, of a sexual
character, having upon them, I would say, the plain
stamp of the primary sexual instinct. They are
most marked—or, at any rate, most elaborate—
immediately after the actual pairing, commencing,
then, in the curious little run and set attitude of the
male. Out of, and as a result of, these movements,
a depression in the ground, greatly resembling—if
not, as I believe, identical with—that in which the
eggs are laid, is evolved, and in or about this is
shown a tendency to collect sticks, grass, or other
loose substances. But how different are these col-
lecting movements to those which we see in a bird
whose nest-building instinct has become more highly
developed! They seem to be but just emerging
from the region of blind forces, to be only half-
designed, not yet fully guided by a distinct idea
of doing something for a definite end. Yet it is

72 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

just these actions that most resemble those which
seem so purposive, in the ordinary building of a
nest. All the others seem to me to belong to
that large and important class of avine movements,
which may be called the sexually ecstatic, or love-
mad, group. Nor can these two classes of actions
be separated from each other. The motion by
which the hollow is produced is accompanied by—if
it may not rather be said to be a part of—that most
pronounced, peculiar, and, as it seems to me, purely
sexual one of the tail, or rather of the anal parts;
and there is, moreover, the very marked and dis-
tinctive run, with the set, rigid attitude—that
salient feature of a bird’s nuptial antics—which
immediately precedes the rolling, in the same way
that the run precedes the jump in athletics. All
this set of actions must be looked upon as so many
parts of one and the same whole thing, and to ex-
plain such whole thing we must call in some cause
which will equally account for all its parts. The
deliberate intention of making a nest will not do
this, for many of the actions noted do not in the
least further such a plan. On the other hand,
sexual excitement may just as well produce rolling
on the ground—as, indeed, it does in some other
birds—and, perhaps, even pecking round about on
it, as it may the stiff, set run, and those other
peculiar movements. And if some of many move-
ments, the cause of all of which is sexual excite-
ment, should be of such a nature as that, out of
them, good might accrue to the species, why should
not natural selection seize hold of these, and gradu-
ally shape them, making them, at last, through the

ANTICS AND ECSTASIES c7%

individual memory, intelligent and purposive? since,
by becoming so, their ability might be largely in-
creased, and their improvement proceed at a quicker
rate. I believe that in these actions of the peewit,
which sometimes appear to me to stand in the place
of copulation, and at other times commence imme-
diately after it, with a peculiar run, and then go on,
without pause or break, to other motions, all of which
—even the curious pecking which I have noticed—
have, more or less, the stamp of sexual excitement
upon them, though some may, in their effects, be ser-
viceable—I believe, I say, that in all these actions we
see this process actually at work ; and I believe, also,
that in the nest-building of species comparatively
advanced in the art, we may still see traces of its
early sexual origin. I have been, for instance,
extremely struck with the movements of a hen
blackbird upon the nest that she was in course
of constructing. These appeared to me to partake
largely of an ecstatic—one might almost say a
beatific—nature, so that there was a large margin
of energy, over and above the actual business of
building—at least it struck me so—to be accounted
for. Iwas not in the least expecting to see this, and
I well remember how it surprised and struck me.
The wings of this blackbird were half spread out,
and would, I think, have drooped—an action most
characteristic of sexual excitement in birds—had
not the edge of the nest supported them, and |
particularly noted the spasmodic manner in which
the tail was, from time to time, suddenly bent down.
It is true that it then tightly clasped—as one may
almost call it—the rim of the nest, pressing hard

174 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

against it on the outer side. But though such
action may now have become part of a shaping
process, yet it was impossible for me, when I saw
it, not to think of the peewit, in which something
matkedly similar could have answered no purpose
of this kind. Were the latter bird, instead of
rolling on the ground, to do so in a properly con-
structed nest, of a size suitable to its bulk, the
tail, being bent forcibly down in the way I have
described, would compress the rim of it, just as did
that of the blackbird. And were the blackbird to
do what I have seen it do, on the bare ground,
and side by side with the peewit, a curious parallel
would, I think, be exhibited. As far as I have
been able to see, the actions of rooks on the nest
are very similar to those of the blackbird, and a
black Australian swan, that I watched in the Pittville
Gardens at Cheltenham, went through movements,
upon the great heap of leaves flung down for it,
which much resembled those of the peewit upon
the ground. By what I understand from the swan-
keeper at Abbotsbury, the male of the mute swan
acts in much the same way. Of course what is
wanted is extended observation of the way in which
birds build their nests—that is to say, of their in-
timate actions when on them, either placing the
materials or shaping the structure. If the origin
of the habit has been as I imagine, one might expect,
here, to see traces of it, in movements more or less
resembling those to which I have drawn attention.

I have noticed the curious way in which both the
male and female peewit—after movements which
appear to me to differ considerably from the more

FROM NERVES TO NESTS 175

characteristic love-antics of birds in general—peck
about at bits of grass, or any other such object
growing or lying within their reach; and I have
speculated on the possibility of actions like these,
though at first of a nervous and merely mechanical
character, having grown, at last, into the deliberate
and intentional building of a nest. Whether, in the
case of the peewit, we see quite the first stage of
the process, I will not be certain; but we see it, I
believe, in another of our common British birds,
viz. the wheat-ear. My notes on the extraordinary
behaviour of two males of this bird, whilst courting
the female, I have published in my work, “ Bird
Watching,” * from which I will now quote a few
lines bearing upon this point: ‘Instead of fighting,
however, which both the champions seem to be
chary of, one of them again runs into a hollow, this
time a very shallow one, but in a manner slightly
different. He now hardly rises from the ground,
over which he seems more to spin, in a strange sort
of way, than to fly; to buzz, as it were, in a con-
fined area, and with a tendency to go round and
round. Having done this a little, he runs from the
hollow, plucks a few little bits of grass, returns
with them into it, drops them there, comes out
again, hops about as before, flies up into the air,
descends, and again dances about.”” Now, here, a
bird brings to a certain spot, not unlike such a one
as the nest is usually built 1n—approaching it, at
any rate—some of the actual materials of which the
nest is composed, and I ask if, under the circum-
stances, it can possibly be imagined that such bird
i Pagé/72.
L

176 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

really is building its nest, in the ordinary purpose-
implying sense of the term. As well might one
suppose—so it seems to me—that a man, in the
pauses of a fierce sword-and-dagger fight with a
rival suitor, should set seriously to work house-
hunting or furniture-buying. These wheat-ears, I
should mention, had been following each other about,
for the greater part of the afternoon, and though,
as hinted, not exactly fire-eaters, had yet several
times closed in fierce conflict. The manner in which
the grass was plucked by one of them, partook
of the frenzied character of their whole conduct.
How difficult, therefore, to suppose that here, all at
once, was a deliberate act, having to do with the
building of a nest, before, apparently, either of the
two rivals had been definitely chosen by the hen
bird! Yet, when once the object had been seized,
associations may have been aroused by it.

Facts of this kind appear to me to prove, at least,
the possibility of a process so elaborate, and, seem-
ingly, so purposive as that of building a nest, having
commenced in mere mechanical, unintelligent actions.
As further evidence of this, and also of the passing
of such actions into a further stage—that of actual
construction, more or less combined with intelli-
gence—lI will now quote from an interesting account,
by Mr. Cronwright Schreiner, of the habits of the
ostrich, as farmed in South Africa, which was
published in the Zoo/ogist for March 1897, but which
I had not read at the time these ideas first occurred
to me :—

“« The Nest Made by the Pair Together—The cock
goes down on to his breast, scraping or kicking the
sand out, backwards, with his feet. . . . The hen

PEEWITS AND OSTRICHES 177

stands by, often fluttering and clicking her wings,
and helps by picking up the sand, with her beak,
and dropping it, irregularly, near the edge of the
growing depression.” (Compare the actions, as
I have noted them, of both the male and female
peewit.)

“<The Little Embankment Round the Nest.—The
sitting bird, whilst on the nest, sometimes pecks
the sand up, with its beak, nearly as far from the
nest as it can reach, and drops it around the body.
A little embankment is thus, gradually, formed. .. .
The formation . .. is aided by a peculiar habit of
the birds. When the bird on the nest is much excited
(as by the approach of other birds, or people) it
snaps up the sand, spasmodically, without rising
from the nest, and without lifting its head more
than a few inches from the ground. The bank is
raised by such sand as falls inward. The original
nest is, merely, a shallow depression.”

Remarks follow on the use of the bank, which
has become a part—and an important part—of the
nest. We, however, are concerned with the origin
both of it and the depression. It seems clear, from
the account, that the former is made, in part at
least, without the bird having the intention of doing
so; whilst, to make the latter, the cock assumes the
attitude of sexual frenzy (described in the same
paper, and often witnessed by myself), an attitude
which does not seem necessary for mere scratching,
nor, indeed, adapted for it. Why should a bird,
possessing such tremendous power in its legs—
moving them so freely, and accustomed to kick and
stamp with them—have to sink upon its breast in
order to scratch a shallow depression? Surely,

178 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

considering their length, they could be much less
conveniently used, for such a purpose, in this position,
than if the bird stood up. If the scratching, how-
ever, has grown out of the sexual frenzy, we can,
then, well understand the characteristic posture of
the latter being continued. I suspect, myself, that
the breast of the bird still helps to make the de-
pression, as in courtship it must almost necessarily
do—for the ostrich rolls, on such occasions, in much
the same way as the peewit.

These nesting habits of the ostrich* seem to me
to support my idea of the origin of nest-making.
How strange, if ‘“‘spasmodic”’ and ‘‘ excited ”’ actions
have had nothing to do with it, that they should
yet help, here, to make the nest! How strange that
the cock ostrich, only, should make the depression,
assuming that attitude in which he rolls when court-
ing—or, rather, desiring—the hen, if this has no con-
nection with the fact that it is he only (or he
pre-eminently) who, in the breeding time, acts in
this manner! In most birds, probably—though this
has been taken too much for granted—-those frenzied
movements arising out of the violence of sexual de-
sire, are more violent and frenzied in the male than
in the female. In this way we may see, upon my
theory, the reason why the cock bird so often helps
the hen in making the nest ; nor is it more difficult
to suppose that the hen, in most cases, may have

1 There are two kinds of ostriches—-the scientific, or professorial
kind, that behaves in a way peculiar to itself, because it is “a ratz~e
bird,” and the common, vulgar kind, as known to people in South
Africa, who have observed its habits on the ostrich-farms. For
the first, see various authorities, and for the second, Mr. Cronwright
Schreiner, in the Zoologis¢, as mentioned above.

A REVERSAL 179

been led to imitate him, than it is to suppose the
converse of this. We might expect, however, that
as the process became more and more elaborate and
intelligent, the chief part in it would, in the majo-
rity of instances, be taken by the female, as is the
case; for as soon as a nest had come to be con-
nected, in the bird’s mind, with eggs and young,
then her parental affection (the “‘ cropyy””’ of Gilbert
White), by being stronger than that of the male,
would have prompted her to take the lead. I can
see no reason why acts which were, originally, ner-
vous, merely—spasmodic, frenzied—should not have
become, gradually, more and more rational. Natural
selection would have accomplished this; for, bene-
ficent as actions, blindly performed, might be to
an animal, they would, surely, be more so, if such
animal were able, by the exercise of its intelligence,
to guide and shape them, in however small a degree.
Thus, not only would those individuals be selected,
who performed an act which was advantageous, but
those, also, whose intelligence best enabled them
to see to what end this act tended, and, so, to im-
prove upon it, would be selected out of these. Such
a process of selection would tend to develop, not only
the general intelligence, but, in a more especial degree,
intelligence directed along certain channels, so that
the latter might be out of proportion to the former,
and this is what one often seems to see in animals.
Thus, as it appears to me, instead of instinct
having commenced in intelligence, which has sub-
sequently lapsed, the latter may often have grown
gradually out of the former, blind movements,
- as we may call them, coming, at length, to have

180 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

an aim and object, and so to be rational ones. It
may be asked, by what door could this intelligence,
in regard to actions originally not guided by it, have
entered? Ireply, by that of memory. A bird does not
make a nest or lay eggs once only, but many times.
Therefore, though the actions by which the nest 1s
produced, on the first occasion, may have no object
in them, yet memory, on the next and subsequent
ones, will keep telling the bird for what purpose
they have served. Such individuals as remembered
this most strongly, and could best apply their recol-
lections, would have an advantage over the others,
for their actions would now be rational, and, being
so, they would be able to modify and improve them.
Their offspring would inherit this stronger memory
and these superior powers, and also, probably, a
tendency to use them both, in the same special
direction. Whether knowledge itself may not, in
some sort of way, be inherited, is, also, a question
to be asked. If a bird instinctively builds a nest,
may it not instinctively know why it does so?
If there is any truth in these views, we ought
to see, in some of the more specialised actions
of animals—and, more particularly, of birds—a
mingling, in various proportions, of intelligence and
blind, unreasoning impulse. This, to my mind, 1s
just what we do see, in many such; as, for instance,
in the courting or nuptial antics, in those other ones,
perhaps more extraordinary, which serve to draw
one’s attention from the nest or young, and, finally,
in the building of the nest. Not only do the
two elements seem mingled and blended together,
in all of these, but they are mingled in varying

NERVOUS PARENTS 181

proportions, according to the species. No one who
has seen both a snipe and a wild duck “‘ feign,” as it
is commonly called, being disabled, can have helped
noticing that far more of intelligence seems to enter
into the performance of the latter bird, than into
that of the former. The moor-hen is not a bird
that is known in connection with any special ruse
or device for enticing intruders from its young, but
I have seen one fall into a sort of convulsion, on the
water, upon my appearing, very suddenly, on the bank
of a little stream where she was swimming, with her
young brood. The actions of a snipe, startled from
its eggs, were much more extraordinary, and equally,
as it seemed to me, of a purely nervous character.’
Here, surely, we must have the raw material for that
remarkable instinct, so highly developed in some
birds, by which they attract attention from their
young, towards themselves. But, if so, this instinct
is not lapsed intelligence, but, rather, hysteria become
half-intelligent. The part which mere muscular-
nervous movements may have played, under the
agency of natural selection, in the formation of some
instincts, has not, I think, been sufficiently consi-
dered.

There is another class of facts which, I think,
may be explained on the above view of the origin
of the nest-building instinct. Some birds pair,
habitually, on the nest, whilst a few make runs, or
bowers, for the express purpose, apparently, of court-
ing, and where pairing, not improbably, may also
take place. Now, if the ancient nest had been,
before everything, the place of sexual intercourse,

1 “Bird Watching,” pp. 60, 61.

\

182 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

we can understand why it should, in some cases,
have retained its original character, in this respect.
What, now, is the real nature of those frenzied
motions in birds, during the breeding season, before
they have passed, either into what may properly be
called courting antics, or the process of building a
nest? I have described what the peewit actually
does, and I suggest that the rolling of a single bird
differs only, in its essential character, from actual
coition, by the fact of its being singly performed,
and that, thus, the primary sexual instinct (der
thierische Trieb) directly gives birth to the secon-
dary, nest-building one. It is true that the pair-
ing, when I saw it, did not take place on the same
spot where the rolling afterwards did. Nevertheless,
the distance was not great, and it varied considerably.
The run, which preceded the rolling, commenced
immediately on the consummation of the nuptial
rite, as though arising from the excitation of it—as
may be seen with other birds; and if this run, which
varied in length, were to become shorter and ulti-
mately to be eliminated altogether, the bird would
then be pairing, rolling, and at last, as I believe,
laying its eggs in one and the same place.’ Suppos-
ing this to have been originally the case, then the
early nest would have been put to two uses, that of
a thalamum and that of a cradle, and to these two
uses it is in some cases put now, as I have myself
seen. That out of one thing having two uses—
‘the bed contrived a double debt to pay ’’—there
should have come to be two things, each having
1 The female peewit, it must be remembered, acted in much the

same way as the male, and the sexual antics of many birds seem
to be identical in both sexes.

A STRANGE BEGINNING 183

one of these uses—as, e¢.g., the nest proper and
the bower—or that the one use should have tended
to eclipse and do away with the other, is, to my
idea, all in the natural order of events; but this
I have touched upon in a previous chapter. To
conclude, in the peewit movements of a highly
curious nature immediately succeed, and seem thus
to be related to, the generative act, and whilst these
movements in part resemble that act, and bear, as
a whole, a peculiar stamp, expressed by the word
‘“sexual,” some of them, not separable from the
tout ensemble, of which they form a part, suggest, also,
the making of a nest; and, moreover, something
much resembling a peewit’s nest is, by such move-
ments, actually made.

Taking all this together, and in conjunction with
the breeding and nesting habits of the ostrich and
some other birds, we have here, as it seems to me,
an indication of some such origin of nest-building,
amongst birds, as that which I have imagined. That
the art is now, speaking generally, in such a greatly
advanced state is no argument against its having
thus originated, since there is no limit to what
natural selection, acting in relation to the varying
habits of each particular species, may have been able
to effect. Certainly, the actual evidence on which I
found my theory, though it does not appear to me
to be weak in kind, is very scanty in amount. To
remedy this, more observation is wanted, and what
I would suggest is that observant men, with a taste
for natural history, should, all over the world, pay
closer attention to the actual manner in which birds
do all that they do do, in the way of courting,

184 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

displaying, anticking, nest-building, enticing one from
their young, fighting, &c. &c.—all those activities,
in fact, which are displayed most strongly during
the breeding season. I do not at all agree with a
certain reviewer of mine, that the scientific value of
such observations has been discounted by Darwin—
as if any man, however great, could tear all the
heart out of nature! On the contrary, I believe
that the more we pry the more will truth appear,
and I look upon mere general references, such as
one finds in the ordinary natural history books,
as mere play-work and most sorry reading for an
intellectual man. What is the use of knowing that
some bird or other goes through “‘ very extraordinary
antics in the season of love”? This is not nearly
enough. One requires to know what, exactly, these
antics are, the exact movements of which they con-
sist—the minutest details, in fact, gathered from a
number of observations. When one knows this one
may be able to speculate a little, and what interest
is there, either in natural history or anything else,
if one cannot do that? Mere facts are for children
only. As they begin to point towards conclusions
they become food for men.

In the study of bird-life nothing perhaps is more
interesting than the antics of one sort or another
which we see performed by different species, and the
nature and origin of which it is often difficult to
understand. As has been seen, I account for some
of these through natural selection acting upon
violent nervous movements, the result either of
sexual or some other kind of emotion—as, for
instance, sudden fright when the bird is disturbed

FORMAL FIGHTING 185

on the nest, or elsewhere, with its young, producing
a sort of hysteria or convulsion; others I believe to
be due to what instinct, generally, is often supposed
to be, namely, to the lapse of intelligence. I believe
that if a certain action or set of actions is very fre-
quently repeated, it comes to be performed unintelli-
gently; nay, more, that there is an imperious necessity
of performing it, independently of any good which
it may do. It is watching birds fighting which has
led me to this conclusion. Far from doing the best
thing under the circumstances, they often appear to
me to do things which lead to no particular result,
neglecting, through them, very salient opportunities.
A striking instance of this, though not quite of the
kind that I mean, is offered by the stock-dove, for
when these birds fight, they constantly interrupt the
flow of the combat, by bowing in the most absurd
way, not to one another, but generally, so to speak,
for no object or purpose whatever, apparently, but
only because they must do so. The fact is, the bow
has become a formula of courtship, and as courting
and fighting are intimately connected, the one sug-
gests the other in the mind of the bird, who bows,
all at once, under a misconception, and as not being
able to help it. But though there is no utility here,
it may be said that there is a real purpose, though a
mistaken one, so that the bird is not acting auto-
matically. It is in the actual movements of the
fight itself—in the cut and thrust, so to speak—
that I have been struck by the automatic character
impressed upon some of them. This was especially
the case with a pair of snipes that I watched fighting,
by the little streamlet here, one morning, perhaps

186 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

for half-an-hour. They stood facing each other,
drawn up to their full height, and, at or about the
same instant, each would give a little spring into the
air, and violently flap the wings. I would say that
they struck with them—that manifestly was what
they should have done, the rationale of the action—
but the curious point is that this did not seem to be
necessary, or, at any rate, it was often, for a consider-
able space of time, in abeyance. The great thing
appeared to be to jump, and, at the same time, to
flap the wings, and as long as the birds did this,
they seemed satisfied, though there was often a foot
or more of space between them. Sometimes, indeed,
they got closer together, and then they had the ap-
pearance of consciously striking at one another; but
having watched them attentively, from beginning to
end, I came to the conclusion that this was more
apparent than real, and that, provided the wings
were waved, it mattered little whether they came in
contact with the adversary’s person, or not. For
when these snipes jumped wide apart, or, at any rate,
at such a distance that each was quite beyond the
other’s reach, they did not seem to be struck with
the futility of hitting out, under these circumstances,
or to be greatly bent on closing, and putting an end
to such a fiasco. Far from this, they went on in
just the same way, and, for one leap in which they
smote each other, there were, perhaps, a dozen in
which they only beat the air. I do not mean to
suggest that the birds were not actually and con-
sciously fighting, but it certainly did seem to me
that their principal fighting action—the blow, with
the leap in the air, namely—had become stereotyped

THE ORTHODOX THING 187

and, to some extent, dissociated from the idea of
doing injury, in which it had originated. It seemed,
in fact, to be rather an end in itself, than a means to
an end. Another and very noticeable point, which
helped to lead me to this view, was that, except in
this way, which, as I have said, was mostly ineffective,
the birds seemed to have no idea of doing each other
harm. Often they would be side by side, or the beak
of the one almost touching the back or shoulder of
the other. Yet in this close contiguity, where the
one bird was often in a position very favourable,
as it seemed, for a non-specialised attack, no such
attack was ever made; on the contrary, to go by
appearances, one might have thought them both
actuated by a quite friendly spirit. After about
half-an-hour’s conflict of this description, these
snipes flew much nearer to me, so that I could see
them even more distinctly than I had done before.
I thought, now, that I saw a perplexed, almost a
foolish, look on the part of both of them, as though
they had forgotten what, exactly, was the object which
had brought them into such close proximity; and
then, each seeming to remember that to jump and
flap the wings was the orthodox thing to do, they
both did it, in a random and purposeless sort of way,
as though merely to save the situation. This was the
last jump made, and then the affaire appeared to
end by the parties to it forgetting what it was about,
or why there had been one. My idea is that such
oblivion may prevail, at times, during the actual
combat, which becomes, then, a mere set figure, an
irrational dance or display, into which it might, by
degrees, wholly pass.

188 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

There was another point of interest in this inte-
resting spectacle. The birds, when they were not
actually springing or flapping, mutually chased, or,
rather, followed and were followed by, each other.
But this, too, seemed to have become a mere form,
for I never saw either of them make the slightest
effort to dash at and seize the other, though they
were often quite at close quarters and never very
far apart. When almost touching, the foremost
bird would turn, upon which the other did also, as
a matter of course, but instead of running, walked
away in a formal manner, and with but slightly
quicker steps. The whole thing had a strange,
formal look about it. When this following or
dogging—chasing it cannot properly be called—
passed into the kind of combat which I have de-
scribed, it was always in the following manner.
The bird behind, having pressed a little upon the
one in front, instead of making a dash at him—as
would have seemed natural, but which I never once
saw—-jumped straight into the air, flapping its wings,
and the other, turning at the same instant, did like-
wise, neither blow, if it could indeed be called one,
taking effect. The two thus fronted one another
again, and the springing and flapping, having re-
commenced, would continue for a longer or shorter
period. When these snipes leaped, their tails were
a little fanned, but not conspicuously so. Another
thing I noticed was, that the bird retreating often
had its tail cocked up perpendicularly, whereas this
was not the case with the one following.

Both the two points that struck me in the fight-
ing of these snipes, viz. the apparent inability to

TURN AND TURN AGAIN 189

fight in any but one set way, and the formal, alter-
nate following of, and retreating from one another,
I have noticed, also, in the fighting of blackbirds, and
other birds, whilst the last has been pushed to quite
a remarkable extreme in the case of the partridge.
Pairs of these birds may be seen, as early as January,
running up and down the fields—-often along a
hedge, or, here, a row of pine trees—as though to
warm themselves, but really in pursuit of one
another, though the interval between them is often
so great that, but for both turning at the same
precise instant of time, one would think they were
acting independently. This interval may be as
much as a hundred yards, or even more, and it is
often exactly maintained for a very long time. At
any moment the two birds, whilst thus running at
full speed, may turn, and the chase is then con-
tinued in exactly the same way, except that it is
now in an opposite direction, and that the pursuer
and pursued have changed parts. Apollo—one
might say, were the sport of an amorous nature—
has become Daphne, Daphne Apollo; for as each
turns, each becomes actuated by the spirit that, but
a second before, had filled the other—a complete
volte face upon either side, both spiritually and cor-
poreally. Keepers have, in fact, told me that it is
the male and female partridge, who thus chase one
another; but this, from my own observation, I do
not believe. Often, indeed, the birds will get out
of sight before the interval between them has been
lessened, or the pursued one will fly off, followed
by his pursuer, without anything in the nature of a
combat having occurred. At other times, however,

190 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

the distance separating the two is gradually dimi-
nished, the turns, as it lessens, become more and
more frequent, and, at length, a sort of sparring
scuffle takes place, in which beak as well as claw is
used. One of the birds has been run down, in fact,
but the odd thing is that, as soon as it escapes, it
turns round again, upon which the other does also,
and the scene that I have described recommences.
Now why should a bird that has just had the dis-
advantage in a struggle, and is being pursued by
the victor, turn so boldly round upon him, and why
—this in a much higher degree—should that victor,
with the prestige of his victory full upon him, turn,
the instant the bird he has vanquished does, and
run away from him like a hare? In all this there
appears to me to be something unusual, suggest-
ing that what was, originally, an act of volition,
is now no longer so, but has become an auto-
matic reaction to an equally automatic stimulus.
The will, as it appears to me, except, of course,
in /os primeros movimientos, has almost dropped out
of use, so that when the drama has once com-
menced, all the rest follows of itself. I have said
that the two birds turn simultaneously. Strictly
speaking, I suppose that one of them—the pursued
one probably—makes the initial movement towards
doing so: but so immediate is the action of the other
upon it, that it often looks as though both had swung
round at the same instant of time. This, surely,
at a distance of fifty or a hundred yards, is, in itself,
a very remarkable thing, though, as far as I can
make out, these curious chases have not attracted
much attention. If we wish to see their real origin,

A SET FIGURE 191

we must watch the fighting of other species. In all,
or nearly all, birds, there is a mixture of pugnacity
and timidity. The former urges them to rush upon
the foe, the latter to turn tail and retreat, whenever
they are, themselves, rushed upon. Tins, in most
combats, there is a good deal of alternate advancing
and retreating, but this is no more than what one
might expect, and has a quite natural appearance.
In various species, however, the tendency is exag-
gerated in a greater or less degree, until, in the
partridge, we find it developed to a quite extra-
ordinary extent; whilst there is something—a sort
of clockwork appearance in the bird’s actions, due,
I suppose, to the wonderful simultaneousness with
which they turn, and the length of time for which
they keep at just the same distance from one an-
other, with a wide gap between them—which strikes
One as very peculiar.

Do we not see in these varying degrees of one
and the same thing, commencing with what is scarce
noticeable, and ending in something extremely pro-
nounced, the passage, through habit and repetition,
of a rational action into a formal one? Do we not,
in fact, see one kind of aniic, with the cause of it?
A natural tendency has led to a certain act being so
frequently performed that it has become, at last, a
sort of set figure that can no longer be shaken off.
As, in the case of the partridge, this figure is gone
through over and over again, sometimes for an hour
or more together, I believe that it will, some day,
either quite take the place of fighting, with this spe-
cies, or become a thing distinct and apart from it; so
that its original meaning being no longer recognisable,

M

192 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

it will be alluded to as “‘ one of those odd and inex-
plicable impulses which seem, sometimes, to possess
birds,”’ &c. &c.—so difficult to explain, in fact, that
some naturalists would prefer not to try to. For
myself, I like trying, and I see, in the curiously set
and formal-looking combats of many birds, a pos-
sible origin of some of those so-called dances or
antics which do not seem to bear any special relation
to the attracting or charming of the one sex by the
other. The whole thing, I believe, is this. Any-
thing constantly gone through, in a particular
manner, becomes a routine, and a routine becomes,
in time, automatical, the more so, probably, as we
descend lower in the scale of life. Whilst the
actions get more and more fixed, the clear purpose
that originally dictated them, becomes, first, subor-
dinated, then obscured, finally forgotten, and
intelligence has lapsed. We have, then, an antic,
but when this has come about, change is likely to
begin. For the actions being not, now, of any
special use, there will be nothing to keep them
fixed, and as muscular activity goes hand in hand
with mental excitement, such excitement will, pro-
bably, give rise to other actions, which, having no
definite object, and being of an energetic character,
must often seem grotesque. Movements, indeed,
appear odd in proportion as we can see no meaning
in them. There being, now, such antics, accom-
panied with excitement, it is probable that excite-
ment of any kind will tend to produce them, and,
the strongest kind of excitement being the sexual
one, they are likely to become a feature of the
season of love. Moreover, the most vigorous birds

NEUTRAL ANTICS 193

will be the best performers in this kind, and if these
be the males, then, whether they win the females by
their vigour, or whether the females choose them
for the result of it—their antics namely—in either
case these will increase. For my part, I believe that
the one sex will, generally, take an interest in what
the other does, which would lead to more and more
emulation, and more and more choice. Thus, how-
ever any antic may have originated, it seems to me
very probable that it will, ultimately, become a sexual
one, and it will then often be indistinguishable from
such as have been entirely sexual in their origin.
Examples of the latter would be, in my view, those
frenzied motions, springing from the violence of the
sexual passion, which, by their becoming pleasing to
the one sex, when indulged in by the other, have
been moulded, by this influence, into a conscious
display. Inasmuch, however, as, upon my suppo-
sition, almost any action can become an antic, and
as a long time may then elapse before it is employed
sexually, 1t is natural that we should find, amongst
birds, a number of antics which are not sexual ones,
and which neither add to, nor detract from, the
evidence for or against sexual selection.

It may be said that the snipes which I saw fight-
ing were only one pair. Still they were a pair of
snipes, and as representative, I suppose, as any other
pair of the same bird. No doubt there would be
degrees of efficiency and formality, but this would
not affect the general argument. Wherever, in
nature, any process is going on, some of the indi-
viduals of those species affected by it will be more
affected than others.

COaL-TIT

CHAPLDER. Vill

Tits, as 1 think’ I -have said, or implied, araza
feature of Icklingham. They like the fir plan-
tations, which, though of no great dimensions—for
they only make a patch here and there—are to
them, by virtue of their tininess, as the wide-
stretching forests of Brazil. Sitting here, in the
spring-time, on the look-out, with a general alertness
for anything, but not thinking of tits in particular,
one may become, gradually, aware—for their softness
sinks upon one, one never sees them suddenly—of
one of these little birds dropping, every few minutes,
from the branches of a fir to the ground, and there
disappearing. In a lazy sort of way you watch—to
be more direct I once watched—and soon I saw
there were a pair. They crossed one another, some-

times, going or coming, and, each time, the one that
194

THE GORDIAN KNOT 195

came had something very small in its bill. Walking
to the tree, I found, at only a foot or two from
its trunk, a perfectly circular little hole, opening
smoothly from amongst the carpet of pine-needles,
with which the ground was covered. Against this
I laid my ear, but there were no chitterings from
inside, all was silent in the little, future nursery—
for evidently the nest was a-making. But how, now,
was I to watch the birds closely? When I sat quite
near they would not come, the cover being not very
good ; when I lay, at full length, behind a fir-trunk,
and peeped round it, I could see, indeed, the ground
where the hole was, but not the hole itself, which
was just what I wanted to, inasmuch as, otherwise, I
could not see the birds enter it. How they did so
was something of a mystery, for they just flew down
and disappeared, without ever perching or hopping
about — at least I had never seen them do so. |
Here, then, was a difficulty—to lie, and yet see
the hole, or to sit or stand, and look at it, without
frightening the birds away. But Alexander cut the
Gordian knot, and I, under these circumstances,
climbed a fir-tree. There was one almost by the
side of the one they flew to, and the closeness of its
branches, as well as my elevated situation amongst
them—birds never look for one up aloft—would, I
thought, prevent their noticing me. Up, therefore,
I got, to a point from which I looked down, directly
and comfortably, on their little rotunda. Soon one
of the coal-tits flew into its tree—the same one
always—and dropping, softly, from branch to branch,
till it got to the right one, dived from it right into
the tiny aperture, and disappeared through that, in

196 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

a feather-flash. It was wonderful. There was no
pause or stay, not one light little perch on the
smooth brink, not a flutter above it even, no twist
or twirl in the air, nothing at all; but he just flew
right through it, as though on through the wide
fields of air. I doubt if he touched the sides of it,
even, though the hole looks as small as himself.
And it is the same every time. With absolute
precision of aim each bird comes down on that dark
little portal, and vanishes through it, like a ball
disappearing through its cup. If they touch it at
all, they fit it like that.

For upwards of an hour, now, the two birds pass
and repass one another, popping in and out and
carrying something in with them each time, but
such a small something that I can never make out
what it is—a little pinch of stuff, one may call it,
only just showing in the beak. Sometimes it is green,
as though the birds had picked off tiny pieces of
the growing pine-needles, and sometimes it looks
brown, which may mean that they have pulled off
some bark—but always very small. An attempt to
follow the birds on their collecting journeys, and see
what they get, is unsuccessful. They fly, very
quickly, into the tops of the firs, which stand dark
and thick all around, and are immediately lost to
view. Whatever the material is, they come to the
nest with it every five or six minutes, nor do they
once make their entrance except by flying directly
through the aperture. They would be ashamed,
I think, to perch and hop down into it. Very
pretty it was to see these little birds coming and
going—especially coming. Sometimes they would

A REAL PRINCESS 197

be with me quite suddenly, and yet so quietly, so
mousily, they never gave me a start. At other
times I used to see them coming, fluttering through
the sun-chequered lanes of the fir-trees, till, reach-
ing their very own one, they would sink, as it were,
through its frondage, full of caution and quietude,
descending, each time, by the same or nearly the
same little staircase of boughs, from the bottom step
of which they flew down. Some days afterwards,
they were still building their nest, but after that I
had to leave. The nest itself I pulled up and
examined, a year afterwards, and it disproved all my
theories as to what the birds had been building it
with. It was of considerable size—round, as was
the cavern in which it lay—and composed, almost
wholly, of three substances, viz. moss, wool, and
rabbits’ fur. The two latter had been employed
to form the actual cup or bed—the blankets, so to
speak—whilst the moss made the mattress. All
three were in great abundance, and no royal
personage, I think—not even Hans Andersen’s real
princess—can ever have slept in a softer or warmer
bed. It seems wonderful—almost incredible—that
these two tiny birds, carrying, each time, such a tiny
little piece, in their bills, could ever have got so great
a mass of materials together. There it was, how-
ever, one more example of the great results which
spring from constantly repeated small causes. The
cavity in which the nest was placed, was, no doubt,
a natural one, but the hole by which the birds entered
it was so very round, that it must, I think, have been
their own work, or, at least, modified by them. It
looked just as if a woodpecker had made it.

198 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

It was in a hedge opposite toa plantation like this
—a hedge made of planted branches of the Scotch
fir, such as are common in these parts—that I once
watched a pair of long-tailed tits building their
much more wonderful nest. Like the coal-tits they
are joint-labourers, and both seem equally zealous.
Often they arrive together, each with something in
its bill. One only enters, the other stays outside
and waits for it to come out, before going in itself.
This, at least, is the usual régime. Occasionally, if
the bird inside stays there a very long time, the other
gets impatient, and goes in too, so that both are in
the nest together—but this one does not often see.
It is a prettier sight to see one hang at the entrance
with a feather in his bill, which is received by the
other—just popping out its head—upon which he
flies away. This is in the later stages, when the
nest is being lined, and when the birds come, time
after time, at intervals of a few minutes, each with
a feather in its bill. White these feathers often
are, and of some size (so that they look very con-
spicuous). I have seen a bird, once, with two—two
broad, soft, white ones that curled round, backwards,
on each side of its head, so as almost to hide it.
Such feathers must be brought from some particular
place—a poultry-yard most probably—and both
birds arriving with them, at the same time, is proof,
or at least strong evidence, that they do their collect-
ingincompany. I have noticed, too, that if one bird
comes with a feather of a different kind —for
instance, a long straight one instead of a soft curled
one—the other does too, showing how close is the
association. At other times they bring lichen—with

A PRET Y. PARR
Long-Tailed Tits Building

p. 198.

FALSE IMPRESSIONS 199

which the whole of the nest, outside, is stuck over—
and so tiny are the pieces they carry, that I have,
time after time, been unable to see them, even
though sitting near and using the glasses. I have
been so struck with this, that, sometimes, I have
thought the lichen was carried rather in the mouth
than in the bill, by which means it would be
moistened, and so stick the easier on the outside
surface of the nest.

It is most interesting to see the nest growing
under the joint labours of the two little architects,
and it does so at a quicker pace than one would
have thought possible. At first it is a cup, merely,
like most other nests—those of the chaffinch, gold-
finch, linnet, &c.—and it is because the birds will
not leave off working, but continue to build, that the
cup becomes deeper and deeper till it is a purse or
sack. Here, as I imagine, we see the origin of
the domed nest. It was not helped forward by
successive little steps of intelligence, but only by
the strength of the building instinct, which would
not let the birds make an end. The same cause
has produced also, as I believe, the supernumerary
nests which so many birds make, and which are such
a puzzle to many people, who wonder at what
seems to them extra labour, rather than extra delight.
Even naturalists are always talking about the labour
and toil of a bird, when building, but this, in my
Opinion, is an utterly erroneous way of looking at
it. As Shakespeare says, “‘the labour we delight in
physics pain,” and what delight can be greater
than that of satisfying an imperious and deep-
seated instinct? It is in this that our own greatest

200 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

happiness lies, whilst the inability, from various
causes, to do so, constitutes misery. But with the
building bird there is no real labour, nothing that
really makes toil, only a fine exhilarating exercise
which must be a pleasure in itself, and to which is
added that pleasure which ease and excellence in
anything we do and wish to do, confers. The best
human equivalent for the joy which a bird must
feel in building its nest, is, I think, that of a great
artist or sculptor, whose soul is entirely absorbed in
his work. ‘Those who pity the toils of such men
in producing their masterpieces may, with equal
propriety, pity the bird; but here, too, the latter
has the advantage, for not even the sway of genius
can be so o’ermastering as that of a genuine in-
stinct, the strength of which we must estimate by
those few primary ones—we call them passions—
which are left in ourselves.

It is this mighty joy in the breast of the little tit,
which, by the help of natural selection, has pro-
duced, as I believe, his wonderful little nest, and if
we watch him building we may get a hint as to how
the charming little round door that gives admission
to it, has come about. He did not contrive it, but
by having, always, his one way in and out, and con-
tinuing to build, it grew to be there; for even when
the nest is but a shallow cup, open all round, the
birds enter and leave it by one uniform way, so that
this way must be left, right up to the very last, by
which time it has become that neat little aperture,
which looks so nicely thought out. Something like
design may, perhaps, now have entered into the con-
struction, which would account for the hole getting,

HEADS AND TAILS 201
gradually, higher, in the side of the nest—though

this, too, I am inclined to attribute to the mere
love of building. The bird builds everywhere that
it can, and thus the place where it enters gets
higher, with the rest of the nest. When, however,
the top of the nest, on one side, is pulled over, so as
to meet the other side,’ where the entrance is, it
can go no higher, since, if it did, the bird would
either be kept in or out. Thus, as it appears to
me, the exact position of the hole in the nest,
which is a somewhat curious one, is philosophically
accounted for.

When one of a pair of long-tailed tits enters the
nest, he first pays attention to that part of it which
is exactly opposite to him, as he does so. This he
raises with his beak, and, also, by pushing with his
head and breast. He then, often, disappears in the
depths of the cup, and you see the sides of it swell
out, now in one place and now in another, as he
butts and rams at them, which he does not only with
his head, but by kicking with his legs, behind him.
Then he turns round, the long tail appearing where
the head has lately been, whilst the head emerges,
projecting over the rim in exactly the same place
as where he entered, but looking, now, outwards.
This part he now pushes down with his chin, just
as he raised the other with his head and beak, and
having done this, he comes out. But often, sitting
in the nest as he entered it, he turns his head right

1 This, in itself, has the appearance of design only. The bird,
however, works from within, and, if I mistake not, there would be
a growing tendency for the structure, as it rose in height, to bend
over inwards rather than outwards.

202 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

round, on one side or another, examining and
manipulating the edges; and sometimes, bending it
down over the rim, he presses or arranges a lichen,
on the outside. This, however, he does more rarely
than one would think, his best attention being
given to the interior. Sometimes, too, he flutters
his wings in the nest, as though to aid in the
moulding of it. There is one extraordinary power
which these tits possess, which is that of turning
their bodies quite round in the nest, whilst keeping
the tail motionless, and in exactly the same place
all the time. I have often seen—or seemed to see
—them do this, but as the tail sticks upright, and
is—till the cup gets too deep—a very conspicuous
object, it would not be easy to be mistaken.
How they do it J know not—they are little con-
tortionists—but I have often noticed how loosely
and flexibly the long tail feathers of these birds
seem just stuck into the body. ‘There is another
thing that I have seen them do, viz. turn the head
entirely round without any part of the body seeming
to share in the movement; but here, I think, there
must have been some hocus-pocus.

I have spoken of these tits having but one way
of entering and leaving the nest, even when all
ways lie open to them: but, more than this, they
have one set path, by which they approach and
retire from it. You first notice this when one of
the birds passes, inadvertently, on the wrong side of
some twig or bough, which makes a conspicuous
feature in its accustomed path. The eye is caught
by the novelty, and you realise, then, that it is one.
This happens but rarely, and, when it does, it has

IN A FIR HEDGE 203

sometimes struck me that the bird feels a little
confused, or not quite easy, in consequence. It has
such a feeling, I feel sure, which, though slight,
yet just marks its consciousness of having deviated
from a routine. Possibly the feeling is stronger
than I am imagining, for on one occasion, at least,
I have seen a bird that had got the wrong side of
a twig palisade, so to speak, in approaching its nest,
turn back and pass it, on the right side. The nest,
in this instance also, was in one of those fine, open
hedges, made of the branches of the Scotch fir—
planted and growing—which are common in this
part of Suffolk, and through these there was a
regular ‘“‘approach’”’ to the house, not straight, but
in a crescent, as though for a carriage to drive up—
the ‘‘sweep”’ of the days of Jane Austen—and the
birds always went up and down it like dear little
orthodox things as they are. During the later
stages of construction, the hole in the side of the
nest becomes so small and tight, that even these
petite little creatures have, often, to struggle quite
violently, in order to force themselves through it;
and this, I think, also, is evidence that the door is
not due to design—that the bird never has the
thought in its mind, ‘‘There must be a door to
get in and out by.” Instead of that, it keeps
getting in and out, and this, of necessity, makes the
door. These tits, when building, seem to rest, for
a little, in the nest, before leaving it, and sometimes
one will sit, for some minutes, quite still, with its
head projecting through the aperture, looking like
a cleverly-painted miniature in a round frame. At
other times the tail projects, and that, though not

204 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

quite such a picture, has still a charm of its own.
Nothing can look prettier than these soft, little
pinky, feathery things, as they creep, mousily,
into their soft little purse of a nest: nothing can
look prettier than they do, as they sit inside it,
pulling, pushing, ramming, patting, and arranging :
finally, nothing can look prettier than they look, as
they again creep out of it, and fly away. It is a joy
to watch them building, and their perpetual feat of
turning in a way which ought to dislocate their tail,
without dislocating it, is an ever-recurring miracle.
Charming in and about the nest, they are; charming,
too, in the way they approach it. They come up
so softly and quietly, creeping from one tree or
bush to another, seeming almost to steal through
the air. They have a pretty, soft note, too, a low
little ‘“‘chit, chit,” which they utter, at intervals,
and which often tells you they are there, before
you catch sight of them. To hear that soft chittery
note, and then to catch a soft pinkiness, with it, are
two very pleasant sensations. Another is to see
the one bird working in the nest, and to hear the
other chittering in the neighbourhood, whilst it waits
for it to come out.

In the absence of both the owners from the nest
they were building, I have seen a wren creep very
quietly into it, and, after remaining there for a little,
creep as quietly out again. He carried nothing
away with him, that I could see, so that pillage may
not have been his object, though I know not what
else it could have been. Perhaps it was simple
curiosity, or, again, it may have been but a part of
his routine work. Such a nest, with its hole of

STOLEN MATERIALS 205

entrance, may have seemed to him like any other
chink or cavity, which he would have been prepared
to enter on general principles of investigation.
Nests, however, in process of building by one bird,
are looked at by others as useful supplies of
material for their own—little depots scattered over
the country. I have seen a pair of hedge-sparrows
fly straight to a blackbird’s, and then on, with grass
in their bills. Another blackbird’s nest, the build-
ing of which I was watching, supplied a blue tit
with moss, whilst, in the very same tree, a pair of
golden-crested wrens had theirs entirely demolished
by an unfeeling hen chaffinch.

In my own experience it is the hen chaffinch, alone,
that builds the nest, and I have even seen her driving
away a cock bird, which I took to be her mate.
After putting him to flight, this particular hen made
fifteen visits to the nest, at intervals of about ten
minutes, bringing something in her beak each time,
and worked at it, singly, with great fervour and
energy. To the actions which I have been describ-
ing in the long-tailed tits—viz. pressing herself down
in it, ramming forward with her breast, kicking out
with her feet, behind, and so on—actions, I suppose,
common to most nest-building birds—she added
that one of clasping the rim tightly with her tail,
bent strongly down for the purpose, which I have
referred to, before, in the blackbird. I could not,
however, repeat the comments which I have made
when describing it in her case. Whatever may
have been the origin of the habit, it has become,
in the chaffinch, a mere business-like affair—purely
utilitarian, doubtless, in its inception and object.

206 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

Though upon this and other occasions of the nest-
building, the hen chaffinch, alone, has seemed to be
the architect, it by no means follows that this is
always the case. A process of transition is, as I
believe, taking place in this respect with the males
of various birds. With the long-tailed tits, for
instance, we have just seen how prettily husband
and wife can work together; and that they do so in
the great majority of instances, 1 have little doubt.
Yet the first time that I ever watched these birds
building, it was only one of the pair who did any-
thing; the other—doubtless the male—though he
came each time with his mate, never brought any-
thing with him, and did not once enter the nest.
He did not even go very near it, but merely stayed
about, in the neighbourhood, till the worker came
out, on which the two flew off together. This has
been exactly the behaviour of the cock blackbird
during nidification, in such cases as have fallen under
my observation ; and here I have been a very close
watcher, for hours at a time, and for several days in
succession. Yet I have, myself, seen the cock flying
off with grass, from a field, whilst Mr. Dewar has
seen him fly up with some into the ivy on a wall,
where a nest was known to be in construction.
The cock nightingale attends the hen, when building,
in just the same way that the cock blackbird does,
but I have not yet seen him take a part in its con-
struction. Now to take the blackbird—since here
we have a clear case of individual difference—is it a
process of transition from one state of things to
another, that we see, or has the transition been made,
and are the exceptional instances due to reversion

——

A PROCESS OF TRANSITION — 207

merely? But then, which are the exceptional in-
stances, or in which direction is the change proceed-
ing? Is the male becoming, or was he once, a
builder or a non-builder? For myself, I incline to
the transitional view, and inasmuch as the lapse of
such a habit as nest-building must be consequent
upon a loss of interest in it—which would mean a
decay of the instinct—this does not seem to me
consistent with the extremely attentive manner in
which the cock follows the hen about, and the
manifest interest which he takes in all she does. It
seems to me more likely, therefore, that he is
learning the art than losing it. Still, as an instinct
might weaken very gradually, it is impossible to
do more than conjecture which way the stream is
running, if we look only at a single species. The
true way would be to take all the species of the
genus to which the one in question belongs, and find
out the habits of the majority, in regard to this special
point. If both the male and female of the genus
Turdide help, as a rule, in building the nest, then
this, no doubt, was the ancient state of things, and
Vice Versa.

One might suppose—it would seem likely on a
primé facie view of it—that where the cock bird
took no part in the building of the nest, he would
take none, either, in incubating the eggs. This isso
with the blackbird—at least I have never come
upon the male sitting, and whenever I have watched
a nest where eggs were being incubated, there has
never been any change upon it; the birds, that is to
say, have never relieved one another, but the hen,
having gone off, has always returned, the nest being

208 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

empty in the interval. But if the suppression, in
the male bird, of these two activities—of nest-
building and incubation—are related, by a parity
of reasoning one would suppose that he would
take no part in the feeding of the young. This,
however, with the blackbird, is by no means the
case, for the cock is as active, here, and interested
as the hen—or nearly so. At least he recognises a
duty, and performs it to the best of his ability. It
is the same with the wagtail, and, no doubt, with
numbers of other birds—a fact which seems to
suggest that the instinct of incubation, and that
of parental love, are differentiated, the second not
making its appearance till after the eggs are hatched.
This, at first sight, seems likely, and then—if one
considers it a little—unlikely, or, perhaps, im-
possible. It is from birth that the maternal love,
the sropy7, dates, and birth, here, is represented by
the egg. True, there is a second birth when the
egg is hatched, which makes it possible that the
true otopy? has waited for this. Yet the mother
continues to brood upon the young in the same way
that she has been doing on her eggs, and, except for
the feeding, which does not commence immediately,
the whole pretty picture looks so much the same
that it is difficult to think a new element has been
projected into it. No one, whilst the young are
still tiny, could tell whether they or the eggs were
being brooded over by the parent bird. An interest-
ing point occurs here. When incubation is shared
by the two sexes, the hatching of the eggs must
frequently, one would think, take place whilst the
male bird is sitting. What, then, are his feelings

CURIOUS QUESTIONS 209

when this happens? By what, if any, instinct is he
swayed? If we suppose that the true cropyi dates,
in the mother’s breast, from the hatching of the egg,
and the appearance of the formed young, does, now,
a similar feeling take possession of the male? Does
he too feel the cropy, seeing that the young have
been born from the egg, under his breast? If so,
we could understand his subsequent devotion to the
young, as shown by his feeding them with the same
assiduity as the mother. But what, then, of the
mother? She has been away at this second birth,
so that if her psychology would have been affected,
in any way, by the act—if it can be called an act—of
hatching out the eggs, it ought not to be so affected
now ; she should be less a mother, in fact, than the
cock. This, however—unless the eggs always are
hatched out under the hen—is contradicted by facts,
so that it seems plain that whatever special tie there
may be between the female bird, as distinct from
the male, and the young, must date from the laying
of the eggs. But if this be so—and it seems the
plain way of nature—what is it that makes the cock
bird incubate? Is he moved by a feeling of the
same nature, if weaker, as that which animates the
hen, or has he, merely, caught the habit from her?
The fact that some male birds leave the whole duty
of incubation to the hen, and yet help to feed the
young, seems to point in the latter direction,
since imitation might well have acted capriciously,
whereas one would suppose that feelings analogous,
in their nature, in the two sexes, would show them-
selves at the same time. It would, however, be a
stronger evidence for imitation, as the cause of the
N

210 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

parental activities of the male, were he to take
his part in incubation, but leave the young to the
female. I do not know if there is any species of
bird, where the cock acts in this way. Perhaps it
may be impossible to answer these, or similar, ques-
tions, but light might, conceivably, be thrown upon
them by a more extensive knowledge of the relative
parts played by the male and female bird in nidifica-
tion, incubation, and the rearing of the young,
throughout a large number of species. These,
however, are not the questions with which ornitho-
logists busy themselves. By turning to a natural
history of British birds, one can always find how
many eggs are laid by any species, their coloration—
often illustrated by costly plates—and when and
where the laying takes place; but in regard to the
matters above-mentioned—or, indeed, most other
matters—little or no information is forthcoming.
One might think that such works were written for
the assistance of bird-nesters only, and whether they
are or not, that is the end which they, principally,
fulfil. I believe, myself, that if the habits—
especially the breeding habits—of but one species in
every group or genus had been thoroughly studied,
so that we knew, not only what it did, but how it
did it, the result would make an infinitely more
valuable work, even in regard to British birds only,
than any now in existence, though all the other
species were left out of it, and little or nothing was
said about the number of eggs, their coloration, and
the time at which they were laid.

If the male bird has only caught the habit of
feeding the young from the female, we can the better

BIRDS AND KISSING zr’

understand why, in so many species, the cock feeds
the hen, and this without any reference to whether
she is able or unable to feed herself. As the young
birds grow up in the nest, they resemble their parents
more and more, and it would be easier for the male
to confuse them with the female, and thus take to
feeding her too, or to transfer the habit from the
one to the other, than it would be for the female,
with a maternal instinct to guide her, to do the
same by the male. Yet this, too, would be possible,
and if, in any species, the female is accustomed to feed
the male also, I would account for it in a similar way.
This habit, on the part of the cock bird, has become,
in some cases, a part of his ordinary courting atten-
tions to the hen; and here, I believe, we have the
true meaning of that billing, or ‘‘ nebbing,” as it is
called, which so many birds indulge in at this season.
This habit, with its grotesque resemblance to kissing,
has always struck me as both curious and interesting,
but one seldom, in works of ornithology, meets with
a reference to it, much less with any attempt to
explain its philosophy. Where birds, now, merely,
bill, they once, in my opinion, fed each other—or
the male fed the female—but pleasure came to be
experienced in the contact alone, and the passage
of food, which was never necessary, gradually became
obsolete. I think it by no means improbable that
our own kissing may have originated in much the
same way; and that birds, when thus billing, expe-
rience the same sort of pleasure that we do, when we
kiss, must be obvious to any one who has watched
them. With pigeons, to go no further, the act is
simply an impassioned one. It would be strong

212 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

evidence of the origin of this habit having been as I
suppose, if we only found it amongst birds the
young of which are fed by their parents. As far as
I know, I believe this to be the case, but my know-
ledge does not enable me to speak decidedly, nor
have I been able to add to it, in this particular, by
consulting the standard works. Birds whose young
are not fed from the bill, by their parents, are, as I
think—for I am not certain in regard to all—the
gallinaceous or game birds, the rapacious ones (acci-
pitres), the plovers and stilt-walkers, the bustards,
the ostriches, &c. In none of these, so far as I
know, do the male and female either feed or “‘ neb”
one another—there is neither the thing, nor the form,
or symbol, of it. Birds where there is either the one
or the other, or both, belong, amongst others, to
the crow, parrot, gull, puffin, tit or finch tribes, and
all these feed the young. In the grebe family, too,
the two customs obtain, but whether they are com-
bined in any one species of it, I cannot with certainty
say. It would not, of course, follow that a bird
which fed its young, should, also, feed its mate, or
that the pair, when caressing, should seize each other’s
bills; but is there any species belonging to those
orders where the chick shifts for itself, as soon as it
is hatched, or, at the least, does not receive food
from the parent’s beak or crop, which does either,
or both, of these things? In conclusion, I can only
wonder that a habit so salient, and which, to me,
seems so curious—especially in the case of the caress
merely, for a caress it certainly is—should not, ap-
parently, have been thought worth consideration—
hardly, even, worth notice. Of all beings, man,

ALTERNATING JOYS 213

alone, is supposed to kiss. Birds, I assert, do, in the
proper and true meaning of the word, kiss, also, and
I believe that the origin of the custom has been the
same, or approximately’ the same, in each instance.
To take food from one’s mouth, and put it into
some one else’s, is an act of attention, I believe,
amongst some savage tribes.

I am not quite sure, now I come to think of it,
that the hen wagtail does do all the incubation—as
I said, some lines back, she did—but I think that
this is the case, as when I watched a pair I never
saw the two birds together, either at or near the
nest, and only once in the neighbourhood of it,
all the time the eggs were being hatched. The
nest, in this case, had been built, very prettily,
in the last year’s one of a thrush, which it quite
filled, and which made a splendid cup for it.
It was interesting to see the hen bird at work.
Each time, after flying down from the ivied wall of
my garden, in which the nest was situated, she would
feed, a little, making little runs over the lawn, after
insects, with often a little fly, but just above the
grass, at the end of the little run, the tail still flirting
up and down. Then she would fly off for more
materials, appear on the lawn, again, ina few minutes,
with some in her bill, run, with them, to under the
wall, fly up into the ivy, and, upon coming out, go
through it all again. Thus, the wagtail makes build-
ing and eating alternate with one another, unlike
the house-martins, which build, says White, ‘‘ only
in the morning, and dedicate the rest of the

1 Something, that is to say, of a u¢z/étartan nature. One should
watch monkeys also.

214 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

day to food and amusement.” The yellow, widely-
gaping bills of the fledgling wagtails, as they hold
their four heads straight up, in the nest, together,
look just like delicate little vases of Venetian glass,
made by Salviati; or, treating them all as one, they
resemble an artistic central table-ornament, of the
same manufacture. It is the inside that one sees.
Just round the edge, is a thin rim of light, bright
yellow, whilst all the rest is a deep, shining gamboge
—not as it looks when painted on anything, but
the colour of a cake of it—‘“‘all transfigured with
celestial light.” No prettier design than this could
be found, I am sure, for a beaker. Wagtails—I am
speaking, always, of the water-wagtail—collect a
number of flies, or other insects, as they run about,
over the grass, before swallowing them, or flying,
with them, to feed their young—that pretty office,
which has been dwelt upon only from one point of
view. Marry! whena tigress carries off a man to her
cubs, and watches them play with him—an account
of which, I believe a true one, I have read—vwe see
it from another, such shallow, partial twitterers as we
are. There is as much of beneficence in the one thing,
I suppose, as the other—the flies, at least, would
think so, creatures that, but a moment ago, were as
bright, happy, and ethereal as the bird itself —
their tiger.

«¢Oh yet we trust that, somehow, good
Will be the final goal of ill.”

Why, yes, one must go on trusting, I suppose
(nothing else for it), but meanwhile one of this
pair of wagtails has a good-sized something in

A BUNDLE OF FLIES 215

his bill, to which he keeps adding, and as he
sometimes, also, drops a portion of it, and again
picks it up, it must be composed of a number of
different entities. This living bundle he deposits,
after a time, on the lawn, and then eats it piecemeal,
after which he runs over the grass, making little
darts, and eating at once, onsecural. Shortly after-
wards, however, I see him, again, with such another
fardel, and with this he keeps walking about, or
standing still, for quite a long time, without swallow-
ing it—indeed, he has now stood still for so long
that Iam tired of watching him. This is interesting,
I think, for as I have never seen birds collect insects,
like this, except when young were in the nest, J
have no doubt this wagtail’s idea is to feed his.
But, first, his own appetite prevents him from doing
so, and, then, it is as though there were a conflict
between the two impulses, producing a sort of
paralysis, by which nothing is done. I make sure
that this is the male bird; but now appears the
other—the female, ‘‘ for a ducat ’’—carrying what I
can make out, with the glasses, to be a bundle of
flies, to which she keeps adding, and, shortly, she re-
pairs, with them, to the nest. The male now comes
again, and runs about, collecting a similar packet ;
and I can notice how, sometimes, he is embarrassed to
pick up one fly more, without losing any he has, and
how he secures it, sometimes, sideways in the beak,
when he would, otherwise, have made a straight-
forward peck atit. Not only this, but, with his beak
full of booty, he will—I have just seen him—pursue
insects in the air. Whether he secures them, under
these circumstances, I cannot, with assurance, say, but

216 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

he turns and zigzags about, as does a fly-catcher, and
certainly seems to be doing so. There isthe attempt,
at least, and would he attempt what he was not equal
to? Ihave no doubt, myself, that he performs this
feat, and yet what a wonderful feat it is! Both
birds now feed the young—for the female has been
collecting, for some time, again. Now, instead of, or
besides, flies, each bird has in its bill a number of
long, slender, white things, which hang down on each
side of it, and must, I think, be grubs of some sort,
though I do not know what. But stay—beneficence
again !—are they—not flies in their entirety indeed,
but—oh optimism and general satisfactoriness !—fly
entrails, protruding, bursting, hanging, forced out by
the cruel beak? Yes, that is it, it 1s plain now—too
plain—and some of the flies are moving. I have
seen a wasp tear open and devour a bluebottle—a
savage sight—and it looked something the same.
But all hail, maternal affection !—and appetite! to
bring inthe wasp. ‘‘Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!”

I believe that most birds that feed their young
with insects brought in the bill, collect them in this
way. Indeed the habit is common throughout the
bird-world, and may be observed, equally, in the
blackbird or thrush, with worms, and in the puffin,
with fish—in this last case, perhaps, we see the feat
in its perfection. The smallest of our woodpeckers
I have watched bringing cargo after cargo of live,
struggling things to his hole, but the green wood-
pecker, for a reason which, for aught I know, I
shall be the first to make known, does not do this.
From behind some bushes which quite hid me, and
which commanded the nest, I have watched the

rs

LUXURIOUS OBSERVATIONS 217

domestic economy of two pairs of these birds as
closely as, in such a species, it well can be watched.
The glasses, turned full upon the hole, I fixed on a
little stick platform, just on a level with my eyes, as
Isat. Thus no time was lost in getting them to
bear, but the instant one of the birds flew in, I had
it, as it were, almost upon the platform in front of
me. In this luxurious manner | have seen scores
and scores of visits made to the nest, but never once,
before the bird made its entry, through the hole, have
I been able to detect anything held by it in the
beak, which was always fast closed. Had anything
in the shape of an insect projected from it, I must
certainly have seen it, but this was never the case,
and I can, therefore, say with confidence, that the
green woodpecker does not feed its young by bringing
them insects in its bill, as does the lesser spotted,
and, no doubt, the greater spotted one also—all the
woodpeckers, probably, that have not changed their
habits, in relation to their food and manner of feeding.
I am the more sure of this, because, as the little
woodpecker collected a number of insects, each
time, there can be little doubt that the green one
would do this, likewise, were he accustomed to feed
the young in the same way. How, then, does he
feed them? I give the answer from my notes.
“At 12.10 the male woodpecker flies to the hole,
and, almost immediately, enters. In a few minutes
he looks out, cautiously, turning his head from side
to side. I can make out nothing in the bill, but I
notice that he works the mandibles, just a very little.
Then he draws in his head, but projecting it, again,
almost immediately, something is now evident,

218 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

protruding from the mandibles, on both sides. It
is white, brilliantly white, and looks like a mash of
something. It reminds me of what I have seen
oozing or flowing from the bills of rooks, as they
left the nest after feeding their young—but even
whiter, it seemed, as the sun shone on it. Insects it
does not in the least resemble, except, by possibility, _
a pulp of their white interiors. If so, however, it
must represent multitudes of them. But where are
the wings, legs, and crushed bodies? It is formless,
and seems to well out of the bill.” Ona subsequent
occasion, I saw the same outflow—‘‘a thick, milky
fluid,’ I this time describe it as—from the bill of
the female; so that, principally through this, but,
also, because of many other little indications, such as
that working by the bird of its mandibles—as before
noticed—in leaving the nest, and an occasional little
gulp or less pronounced motion of the throatal
muscles, as though it were swallowing something
down, the head being at the same time raised, I
came to the conclusion that these woodpeckers feed
their young by some process of regurgitation. This
confirms an opinion which has long been gaining
ground with me, viz. that the green woodpecker is
now almost wholly an ant-eater. Here, at least,
where the country is open and sandy, and where, till
lately, there has been a great and happy dearth of
posts and palings, I believe that this is the case. [
have often watched the bird, in trees, and have seen
it give, now and again, a spear with the bill against
the trunk; but this has never been continued for
long, and that eager and absorbed manner which a
bird has when actively feeding, has never, in my

A BIRD ANT-EATER 219

experience, gone along with it. I doubt, myself,
whether insects are really secured on these occasions,
for there is something so nonchalant and lazy in the
way the stabs are delivered, that they have more the
appearance of a mere habit than of a means to an
end. Sometimes there is a little more animation,
but it soon flags, and the bird desists and sits idle.
Very different are its actions, and its whole look and
appearance, when feeding on the ground. Now its
interest—its keenness—is manifest, whilst a certain
careful,systematic, and methodical way of proceeding,
shows it to be occupied in the main daily business of
life. There are four clearly marked stages in the
process by which a green woodpecker extracts ants
from the nest. First there is a preliminary probing
of the ground, the beak being inserted—always, I
think, in the same place—gently, and with great
delicacy—tenderly as it were, and as Walton would
recommend ; next comesa sharp, quick hammering,
or pickaxing, with the beak, into the soil, after which
the bird throws the loosened earth from side to side,
with so quick a motion that the head seems almost
to move inacircle. Finally, there is the quiet and
satisfied insertion of the bill, many times in succes-
sion, into the excavation that has been made, followed,
each time, by its leisurely withdrawal. At each of
these withdrawals the head is thrown up, and the
bird seems to swallow down, and enjoy, what it has
just been filling its beak with—as no doubt is the
case.

The greater part of both the morning and after-
noon seems to be spent by these woodpeckers in
thus depopulating ants’ nests, so that the negligent

220 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

and desultory nature of any further foraging opera-
tions, which they may carry on amongst the trees, 1s
amply accounted for. The bird is full of ants,
which it has been swallowing wholesale, without any
effort of searching. It cannot still be hungry, and,
when it is, it will repair to those Elysian fields again.
The tree, in fact, is now used more as a resting-place
than for any other purpose, except that of breeding ;
and thus this species, with its marvellous tongue,
specially adapted for extracting insects from chinks
in the bark of trees, is on the road to becoming as
salient an instance of changed habits, as is Darwin’s
ground-feeding woodpecker, in the open plains of
La Plata. Sure I am that here, at any rate, the green
woodpecker feeds, almost wholly, upon ants, but if
there be a doubt on the matter, ought not the
contents of the excrements to decide it? I have
examined numbers of these, which were picked up
by me both in the open and at the foot of trees, and,
in every case, the long narrow sac, of which the outer
part consists, was filled, entirely, with the remains
of ants. These I have turned out upon a sheet of
white paper, and examined under a magnifying
glass, but I have never been able to find the smallest
part or particle of any other insect. This has sur-
prised me, indeed, nor is it quite in accordance with
the contents of other excrements which I have
looked at in other parts of the country—for in-
stance in Dorsetshire. There, the shards of a small
beetle were sometimes mixed, in a small proportion,
with the remains of the ants, and, once or twice,
these formed the bulk of the excrement. These
shards, however, seemed to me to be those of a |

PARTNERS FOR LIFE 221
sround-going species of beetle. What I have called

the remains of the ants, contained in these excre-
ments, were, or seemed to be, almost the whole of
them—head, thorax, abdomen, legs, &c.—everything,
in fact, except the soft parts, and juices of the body.
Whether these, in the bird’s crop or stomach, would
help to make a white milky fluid I do not know,
but I think that they must do.

If the great staple of the green woodpecker’s
food has come, now, to consist of ants, as I am sure
is the case, the reason of its feeding its young, not
as do other woodpeckers—the lesser spotted one, for
instance—but by regurgitation, is at once apparent.
Ants are too minute to be carried in the beak, and
must, therefore, be brought up ez masse,if the young
are not to starve. We might, therefore, have sur-
mised that, if ants were the sole or chief diet, the
young must be fed in this way, and the fact that
they are fed in this way is evidence of the thing
which would account for it. In the green wood-
pecker we have an interesting example of a species
that has broken from the traditions of its family, and
is changing under our eyes; but it does not seem to
attract much attention—only the inevitable number
of the eggs, their colour, the time at which they are
laid, &c. &c.

These woodpeckers must mate, I think, for life—
as most birds, in my opinion, do—for they nest in
the same tree, year after year, and go in pairs during
the winter. It is very interesting, then, to see a pair
resting together, after they have had their fill of ant-
eating. First, one will fly into the nearest planta-
tion, or small clump of trees, on the trunk of one

222 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

of which it alights, and there clings, motionless.
Shortly afterwards, the other comes flying in, perhaps _
with the wild laugh, but, instead of settling on the
same tree, it chooses one close beside it, and there,
side by side, and each on its own, the two hang
motionless for a quarter of an hour, perhaps, or
twenty minutes. Then, suddenly, there is a green
and scarlet flash, as one flies off. The other stays, still
motionless, as though she cared not. ‘‘ Let him e’en
go ’’—but, all at once, there is another flash, and
she is gone, too, with equal suddenness—the dark
trees darker without them. Ihave, more than once,
seen a pair resting, like this, on two small birches, or
firs, near each other, each about the same height
from the ground, quite still, and seeming to doze.
It seems, therefore, to be their regular habit, as
though they did not care to sleep on the same tree,
but preferred adjoining rooms, so to speak. The
birds’ tails, when thus resting, are not fanned out,
and although they are, sometimes, pressed against the
tree, at other times they will not be touching it at
all, so that the whole weight is supported by the
claws, evidently with the greatest ease. I have
taken particular notice of this, and from the length
of time that a bird has sometimes remained, thus
hanging, and the restful state that it was, all the while,
in, I cannot think that the tail is of very much
value as a support, though stress is often laid upon
its being so. I do not know how it is, but a little
close observation in natural history will give the lie to
most of what one hears or reads, and has hitherto
taken for granted. It all looks very plausible in
books, but one book, when you ever do get hold of

FALSE ASPERSIONS 223

it, seems to disagree with all the other books, and
that one is the book of nature.

There is another point, in which the green wood-
pecker either differs from its family, or shows that
its family has not been sufficiently observed. I have
read, somewhere—I am not quite sure where, but
it was a good work, and one of authority—this
sentence: ‘Some birds, such as woodpeckers and
(I forget the other) are supposed never to fight.”’
I can understand how this idea has got about,
because thrushes, which are commoner birds than
woodpeckers, and easier to watch, are, also, thought
not to fight. Of the thrush, and his doughty deeds,
of an early morning, I shall have no space to speak in
this volume, but I here offer my evidence that the
green woodpecker, at any rate, is ‘‘a good fellow, and
will strike.”’ As, however, I shall have to quote,
at some length, from my notes, I will defer doing
so to the following chapter. Perhaps I shall be
saying a little too much about the green wood-
pecker, but let it be taken in excuse that, feeling all
his charm, and having made a special study of him, I
yet say less than I know.

GREEN WOODPECKER

6 a Nis lis hp Sgt?

Ir was on a 13th of April, that, having spent some
hours in the woods, to no purpose, I at length
climbed the hill, up which they ran, and came out
upon a smooth slope of turf, from which I had a
good view down amongst the trees, which did not
grow very thickly. As I emerged, I saw a wood-
pecker feeding on the grass, and shortly afterwards
two, pursuing each other, flew down upon it, from
the wood, but, seeing me, flew back again. It
instantly struck me that here was an ideal spot to
study the habits of these birds. A penetrable wocd
which was evidently haunted by them, to look down
into, an open down right against it, and good cover,
from which I had an equally good view of both.
I, therefore, ensconced myself, and soon had the
pleasure of making some observations new to myself,

224

A HOSTILE DEMONSTRATION 225

and, as far as | know, to ornithology. These two
same birds that I had startled pursued each other
about amidst the trees, for some time, uttering not
only their usual cry—unusually loud as I thought
—but another, of one note, quickly repeated, like
“too, too, too, too, too,” changing, at the end, or
becoming modulated, into “ too-i, too-i, too-i,
too-i, too-1.”” All at once two other ones flew out
from the enclosure, and, alighting together upon the
greensward, a curious play, which I took to be of a
nuptial character, commenced betweenthem. They
both half extended the wings, at the same time
drooping them on to the ground, and standing thus,
fronting each other, they swung not only their heads,
but the upper part of their bodies, strenuously from
side to side, in a very excited manner. If there was
any upshot to this, I did not see it, as the birds
shifted a little so as to become hidden by a ridge,
and the next I saw of them was when they flew
away. AQ little while after this, I saw either the
same or another pair of green woodpeckers, pursuing |
each other from tree to tree, and, all at once, they
closed together, in the air, as though in combat;
almost immediately, however, separating again and
flying to different trees. Soon they came down on to
the turf, and were probing it for ants, when one of
them, desisting from this occupation, went close up
to the other—they had been near before—and, again,
went through the action which I have just described.
Now, I saw that it was a hostile demonstration, but
the bird against whom it was directed seemed in no
hurry to respond to it, and merely went on feeding.
At length, however, he turned, and went through

226 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

with it also, and the two then fought, jumping and
pecking at one another. It was not, however, a very
bloody combat. It seemed, I thought, rather half-
hearted, and I particularly noted that the bird which
had been challenged soon left off, and began to feed
again, on which his opponent desisted also, making
no attempt to take him at a disadvantage, which, it
seemed, he could easily have done, any more than he
had in the first instance.

This chasing and coming down on to the grass, to
feed and skirmish, continued during the afternoon,
but there were two fights which were of a fiercer
and more interesting character. I have spoken,
before, of these woodpeckers’ upright attitude, when
they fronted each other, swinging their heads from
side to side. This, however, was not at all the case
here. Instead of standing upright, they sat crouched
—almost lay—on the ground, with their wings half-
spread out upon it, and in this position—beak to
beak—they jerked their heads in the most vivacious
manner, each one seeming to meditate a deadly
spear-thrust. Then there were some quick mutual
darts, of a very light and graceful nature, and, at last,
each seizing hold of the other’s beak, they pulled,
tugged, jumped, and dragged one another about,
with the greatest violence. One might suppose
that each bird sought to use his own beak as a
weapon of offence, in the usual manner, and seized
his adversary’s, as it were, to disarm him, and
that, then, each tried to disengage, but was held
by the other. In the second and still more vio-
lent encounter, however, I noticed a very curious

feature. After the first light fencing, the birds

FUNNY FIGHTERS 207

seemed to lock beaks gently, as though by a mutual
intention to do so, and, indeed, so markedly was this
the case that, for a moment, I thought I must have
been mistaken, and that, instead of two males, they
were male and female. ‘Then, the instant they had
interlocked them, they set to pulling, with a sud-
den violence, as though the real serious business
had now commenced. They pulled, tugged, and
struggled most mightily, and each bird was, several
times, half pulled and half thrown over the other’s
back, springing up into the air, at the same time,
but neither letting go, nor being let go of. There
was a good bout of this before they became
separated, after which some fierce pecks were
delivered.

As with some other actions, performed by various
birds, when fighting, so, here, with these woodpeckers,
I believe that the locking of the bills has been such
a constant result of the necessities of the case, that
it has now passed, or is passing, into a formal thing,
without which the duel could hardly be fought.
The birds lock them—-so it seems to me—almost
as we put on boxing-gloves, or take the foils, and,
after this, tug and pull, not so much with the object
of getting free, as because this has become their idea
of fighting. The fight, in fact, must proceed in a
formal routine, and without this, either combatant
is at a loss. How else is it that neither bird seems
able to begin the fight unless the other fronts him,
nor to take—as I have noticed in other cases—an
advantage of his adversary, by springing upon him,
unawares? In the first combat, for instance, the
one bird fed quietly, whilst the other moved his

O

228 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

head in the orthodox manner, just beside him, and
it was not till the feeding one responded, by doing
the same, that hostilities went further. Equally
apparent was it that the challenged bird felt himself
quite safe, as long as he didnot take the matter up,
by going through the established form. Again, this
throwing of the head from side to side, which seems
to represent the attempt of either combatant to
avoid the beak of his adversary, has, likewise, become
more or less stereotyped, for not only may the one
bird act in this way, whilst the other is feeding, as
we have just seen, but even when both do, as we
shall see directly, they may be at such a distance
from one another as to make the action a quite
useless one. On the other hand, when the two
stand beak to beak, and commence a spirited fight,
in this manner, the object and rationale of the
movement seems as obvious as it can be. We see,
here, the swords actually crossed, whilst, in the other
cases, the birds fence at a distance, or the one
without the other, and this is so obviously formal,
that, for myself, I doubt the motive of the same
movement, even where it seems most apparent.
What I last saw will, still further, illustrate these
points. A woodpecker that had been quietly feed-
ing by itself, at some distance from any other one,
began, all at once, to move its head about in this
way, in a very excited manner, and to utter a little,
sharp, twittering cry, being one note several times
repeated. [| then saw that another woodpecker was
advancing towards him, with precisely similar ges-
tures, though, as yet, he was a good way off. As he
came nearer, the threatened bird first retreated, and

ODD MOTIONS 229

then, again, returned, until the two stood fronting
one another, some two or three feet apart, continuing,
all the while, to swing and jerk—for it is a com-
bination of the two—their heads and bodies to this
side and that, as in every other instance. Thus
they continued, for some little time, neither increas-
ing nor decreasing the distance between them, after
which there were several half retreats, whereby the
one bird, passing the other obliquely, exposed itself
to a flank attack, its beak being turned away. This,
however, was never taken advantage of by the other,
and, finally, the more timid of the two made a low
flight over the grass, to some distance, thus declining
the combat. Some other odd motions and contor-
tions were exhibited by these birds, but they were
occasional, and, | think, unimportant, whereas the
main One was constant, and the keynote of all. In
this last instance, as at the first, both birds held
themselves upright, with their heads thrown up,
which gave them a half absurd, and wholly inde-
scribable appearance.

We see, in these cases, a certain fighting action,
which can only be of use when the birds are at the
closest quarters—in actual contact, that 1s to say—
performed, either by both of them, when at a con-
siderable distance one from another, or by one only,
when the other is paying no attention to, or does
not even see him. How shall we define such an
action, performed in such away? ‘To me it appears
to be a formal one—so much a necessity, that is to
say, under a certain mental stimulus, that its original
end and object is becoming merged in the satisfac-

tion felt by the bird in going through with it. It

230 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

is on the way to becoming an ultimate end, instead
of only a proximate one. Intelligence would lapse
in such a process, but it might revive again, as I
believe, under the influence of natural selection.
I should record, however, in connection with the
above remarks, that at the end of the most violent
fight the bills of the birds became disengaged. It
then became more of a rough and tumble—a wayxpa-
tiov—between them, and I noticed that one did,
then, dart upon and peck the other, from behind.
In other cases, too, I have remarked that when
fighting birds once close and grapple, formality is
at an end. What has struck me as peculiar, is the
way in which they will ot close, but seem content
to make, over and over again, certain movements
that have an oddly stereotyped and formal appear-
ance. Here, as it appears ‘to me, we see the
hardening of the surface of the lava-stream, above
the molten fluid beneath. Through this cooled
crust the latter must be reached; but the lava-
stream may become all crust, and the battle lose
itself in formality.

The time during which I watched from my bush,
and in which all these doings were included, was about
four hours—from 3, or thereabouts, to 7 namely—
and during the whole of it, woodpeckers, when not
thus fighting, fed quietly upon the greensward, prob-
ing and hammering it with their bills for the ants.
What a terrible calamity to fall upon thousands of
such little intellectual entities! Fancy the same
sort of thing happening to ourselves—a monster, of
landscape proportions, trundling down London, say,
or Pekin, and englutting everybody—philosophers

OPTIMISTIC REASONING ag

and cricketers, honest men and thieves, quiet peace-
able people and Cabinet Ministers—dozens at a
time! Would that change our ideas, at all, I
wonder? Would it modify popular conceptions of
the Deity? Would it make optimists less assured,
pessimists less “shallow”? Or would it do
nothing? Would Tennyson, till he was gobbled,
still go on “trusting ’’? and would the very thing
itself, that appeared so all wrong, be taken as evi-
dence that it was, really, all right? This last, I feel
sure, would be the case. How many a song has
been sung to that old, old tune, and what a mass
of such “‘evidence”’ there is! Historians are never
tired of it—the Hunnish invasion, the end of the
Peloponnesian war, the conquest of everybody by
Rome, and then, again, the conquest of Rome by
everybody: all right, all for the best, if you start
with being an optimist, that is to say, with a cheerful
constitution—a good thing, certainly, but mistaken
by many for a good argument. True it is that
disasters, almost, or even quite, as great as the above,
do sometimes overtake humanity, upon this earth
of ours; but they are, both, less frequent, as I sup-
pose, than with the ants, and the great difference is,
that, with us, there is no woodpecker, its part being
taken by inanimate nature, or by ourselves, to whom
we are partial. Yet I know not why a scheme that
is well for one, or for a few only, should be thought
a good scheme, all through, and the reason why we,
aS a species, are not as ants to woodpeckers, 1s not
that nature is too pitiful, but that we are too strong,
and woodpeckers not strong enough—which is not
a satisfactory reason.

132 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

An eminent naturalist and spiritualist thinks that
immortality (of one species only, apparently) with
eternal progress, would justify all, and turn seeming
wrong intoright. For myself, I cannot see how one
single pang, upon this earth, can ever be justified,
seeing that, on any adequate conception of a deity,
it both never need, and never ought to have been
felt. This very progress, too, with which we are
to comfort ourselves, must be accompanied with—
indeed is made dependent upon—great, almost in-
finite, suffering, lasting through enormous periods
of time. The sin-seared soul does, indeed, rise,
at last, and become purified—but through what?
Through the horrible tortures of remorse. That,
no doubt, is better than another view. It is the
best, perhaps, that can be conceived of, things being
as we know them to be. It makes the best of a
bad job—but there is still the bad job. The eternal
stumbling-block of evi] and misery remains. If
these need not have been, where is all-goodness,
seeing that they are? If they need, where, then, is
infinite power, and where, without it, is justice?
I do not say that these questions cannot be satis-
factorily answered (though I think they never will
be by us, here), but I say that the spiritualistic
doctrine does not answer them. Numbers of
other difficulties, more graspable by our reason,
appear to me to attend the conception of spiritual
progress, and especially of spiritual suffering, in
a future state, as taught by many spiritualists—
say by the late Stainton- Moses; but perhaps a
discussion of these does not, strictly speaking, fall
within the province of field natural history.

ABERRANT HABITS on

\

Revenons a nos moutons, therefore. The green
woodpecker, we have now seen, both fights and has
a marked manner of doing so, which seems better
adapted to the ground than to trees, where one
would, primd facie, have expected its combats to
take place. The birds stand directly fronting one
another, but to do this upon a tree-trunk, or a branch
that sloped at all steeply, they would have to stand,
or rather cling, sideways, since they never—that is
to say, I have never seen them—descend head down-
wards, though they do backwards, or backward-side-
ways, with ease. Such duels, therefore, as I have
here described, would have to be fought upon a
horizontal branch, but neither would this, perhaps,
be very convenient, or much in accordance with
the bird’s habits. The ground alone—especially
the greensward—would seem quite suitable for
such tourneys, and since they are sometimes held
there, the probability, to my mind, is that they
always, or nearly always, are. Nor is this all, for
the nuptial rite itself is performed by these wood-
peckers upon the ground—a strange thing, surely,
in a bird belonging to so arboreal a family. Here,
again, I will describe what I have seen, for, the next
day, I came to watch in the same place, getting there
about 7 in the morning, from before which time—
for they were there when I came—up to 8.30, when
I left, three or four birds—the same ones doubtless—
fed quietly on the green. In the afternoon I came
again, and whilst watching one that was still feeding
busily, another flew down, some way off it, and after
considering the ways of the ant, for a little, and being
wise in regard to them, came up in a series of rapid

234 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

hops and short pauses, till just in front of the feed-
ing bird—a male—when she crouched down, and
pairing took place. It was accompanied—at least
I think so—by a peculiar guttural note, uttered
either by one or both the birds. Some time
afterwards I again saw this. [I am not sure whether
it was the same pair of birds as before, but the
actions and relative parts played by the male and
female were the same. In either case the male was
the more indifferent of the two, and had to be
courted, or rather solicited, by the female—a fact
which I have noted in various birds, and which does
not appear to me to accord very well with that uni-
versal law of nature, as laid down by Hunter and
endorsed by Darwin, that the male is more eager,
and has stronger passions than, the female. No
doubt this is the rule, but the exceptions or quali-
fications of it do not seem to me to have received
sufficient attention. These woodpeckers could not
have been long mated—except that in my opinion
they mate for life—since the males were fighting
desperately only the day before.

Let the fighting of male birds be ever so strong
evidence of their sexual desires, yet the actual solici-
tation of either sex by the other must, surely, be a
stronger one, and this, as we have just seen, is not
always on the side of the male. Darwin gives
several instances of female birds courting the male,
contrary to the general rule in the species to which
they belonged, and many more might be collected.
Amongst pigeons it is not an unknown thing for
married happiness to be disturbed by the machinations
of a wanton hen: the male gull is often quite

JUST POSSIBLE 235

pestered by the affectionate behaviour of the female:
and at the very same time that the male eider-
ducks are constantly fighting, and often quite mob
the females, one may see one of these females go
through quite frantic actions, on the water, first
before one male, and then another, which actions,
though they seem to point all in one direction, yet
meet with no response. Yet the eider-duck is one
of those birds the male of which is highly adorned,
and the female quite plain. There is, I think, a
strong tendency to ignore or forget things which
are not in harmony with what seems a plain, straight-
forward law, that one has never thought of doubting.
But every fact ought to be noted and its proper
value accorded it. The sexual relations of birds
are, I think, full of interest, and it is, particularly, in
regard to those species, the sexes of which are alike,
or nearly so, that these ought to be studied. There
is a distinct reason, as it appears to me, why, in the
contrary case, the males should be the more eager,
which reason does not exist in the other, and it is
just in this other, where one cannot, as a rule, in field
observation, tell the male from the female, that it is
most difficult to know what really goes on. Fight-
ing amongst male birds, in whatever fact—physical
or psychological—it may have originated, is, in itself,
distinct from the sexual passion, and in it, moreover,
a large amount of energy is expended. It seems just
possible, therefore, that some male birds, as they have
become more and more habitual fighters, have, owing
to that very cause, lost, rather than gained, in the
strength of the primary sexual impulse, whereas the
female, having nothing to divert her from this, may

236 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

be, really, more amorous, and more the wooer, some-
times, than one thinks. No doubt this would, in
time, lead to fighting amongst the females too, and
I have seen two hen blackbirds fight most desperately,
on account of a cock that stood by. Rival women,
however, do not fight, and the same general principle
might show itself amongst birds, the hens contend-
ing, rather, with enticements, allurings, and general
assiduity, which, again, need not pass into a formal
display. Eagerness, in fact, might show itself in a
way more consonant with the feminine constitution,
and therefore less easy to observe.

Be all this as it may, the female woodpecker, in
the above two instances, was certainly the agente
provocatrice. I saw no more fighting, either on this
day, or afterwards. It seemed as though I had been
just in time to see the birds’ mating arrangements
settled. But since these woodpeckers go in pairs,
during the winter, and build, each year, in the same
tree, they must, I think, be assumed to mate for
life. Why, therefore, should the males fight, each
spring ?—and the same question may be asked in
regard to hundreds of other birds. Does not this,
in itself, go to show that such fighting may not
always stand in such direct relation to the sexual
passions as one is accustomed to think that it does?
But to leave questions and come to facts, the habits
of our green woodpecker are, already, very different,
in several by no means unimportant respects, from
those of the family to which it belongs. Its general
—and in some parts of the country, as I believe, its
almost exclusive—diet is, now, ants, which it pro-
cures on the ground, by digging into their nests.

UNSATISFIED LONGINGS Bg

As the ants are too small for it to hold in its bill,
it is obliged to swallow them, and this has led to its
feeding the young by a process of regurgitation, as
does the nightjar, owing, I believe, to a similar
reason. In the breeding season the males become
pugnacious, and fight in a specialised manner, also
on the ground, and here, too, the marriage rite 1s
consummated. From this to laying the eggs in a
hole, or depression, of the earth—a rabbit-burrow,
for instance, as does the stockdove, though still
sometimes building in trees, as it, no doubt, once
always did—does not appear to me to be a very far
cry, and I believe that, if trees were to disappear
in our island, the green woodpecker, instead of dis-
appearing with them, would stay on, as a ground-
living species, entirely. On one point of the bird’s
habits I have not yet satisfied myself. Does it pass
the entire night, clinging, perpendicularly, to the
trunk of a tree—sleeping like this? From what I
have seen, I believe it does, and this, sometimes,
without the support of its tail. But I am not
sure, and should like to make sure. How I should
love to watch a pair of green woodpeckers, settled,
for the night, on their two trees—as I have seen
them resting —till darkness made it no longer
possible to do so, and then to creep silently away,
and come as silently again, before daylight, on the
following morning! How sweet to steal, thus
innocently, upon their “secure hour”: to see
them commence the day: to watch their first
movements: to hear their first cries to each other:
to sit and see the darkness slowly leave them, till
a grey something grew into a bird, and then

238 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

another, both clinging there in the very same
place and position you had left them in over-
night! Then to watch them off; and returning,
Once more, on the same afternoon, well in time, to
see if they came back to the same trees, or not!
To be able to do this—and a few other things of
this sort—without a world of cares to distract one—

«* Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely! ”

MARTINS BUILDING NEST

CELARTER : Xx

SHAKESPEARE 'S “guest of summer, the temple-
haunting martlet,’ makes “his pendent bed and
procreant cradle,” year after year, on the flint walls
of my house in Icklingham, thus offering me every
facility for a full observation of its domestic habits.
For long I have been intending to make these a
study, but the very proximity which seemed to be
such an advantage, has proved a hindrance; for it is
one thing to steal silently into a lonely plantation,
or lie, at full length, on the wild waste of the
warrens, and another to sit in a chair, in one’s own
garden, or look out of a window in one’s own house.
So, though the martins were always most interest-
ing, I never could keep long near them; yet some
very inadequate notings, forming a scrappy and

widely-sundered journal, I have made, and will
239

240 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

here give in their entirety, since they concern a
bird so loved. |

““May 25, 1900.—This morning I watched a
pair of martlets building their nest against the
wall of my house.

“* ¢.55.—Both birds fly to the nest, and one, that
is much the handsomer and more purple of the two,
makes several pecks at the other, in a manner half
playful, half authoritative. I take this one to be
the male, and the other, who is greyer, the female.
She, in return for her husband’s friendly pecking,
cossets him, a little, with her beak, nibbling his head.
Neither of the two are working at the nest. The
throat of the male seems very much swelled, yet he
deposits nothing, and, in a little while, flies off,
leaving the female, who, however, soon follows him.
The male, as I believe him to be, now comes and
goes, several times. Each time, he just touches the
edge of the nest with his bill, flying off almost
immediately afterwards, nor can I discover that he
adds to the mud of it, on any one occasion.

‘*6.10.—Now, however, he has put—is still
putting—a little piece there. Bending down over
the nest’s edge, which he just touches with his bill,
he communicates a little quivering motion to his
head, during which, as it would seem, something 1s
pushed out of the beak. I cannot make out the
process, but now that he is gone, I see a little wet-
looking area, which may be either fresh mud that
has just been brought, or a moistened bit of the
old. I think, however, it is the first. Now, again,
he comes as before, flies off and returns, and
thus continues, never bringing anything in the

SLOW BUILDERS 241

bill that I can see, but, each time, giving himself a
little press down in the nest, and, simultaneously,
stretching his neck outwards, and a little up, so
that the rounded, swollen-looking throat just
touches its edge. After doing this twice or thrice,
he makes a dip down, out of the nest, and flies off.
I can never make out that he either brings or
deposits anything. The other bird comes, also, two
or three times, to the nest, but neither does she seem
to do anything, except sit in it and just touch its
edge with her bill. One bird, coming whilst the
other is thus sitting in the little mud cradle, hangs,
fluttering, outside it, for awhile, with a little chirrupy
screaming, and then darts off. There must have
been, by now, a dozen visits, yet the birds, appa-
rently, bring nothing, and do little, or nothing, each
time. Another visit of this sort, the bird just
touching the rim with its swollen throat—not the
beak—and then dropping off—a light little Ariel.
And now another: and, this time, the partner bird
hovers, chirruping, in front of the nest, as the
first one lies in it—but nothing is brought, and
nothing done that I can see. Jt now seems plain
that, for some time during the nest-building—or
what one would think was the nest-building—the
birds visit the nest, either by turns, or together, yet
do nothing, or next to nothing, to it. Two more
of these make-believes, but now, at last, mud is
plainly deposited by the visiting bird; but I cannot
quite make out if it is carried in the bill, or dis-
gorged out of the throat.

‘“*6.50.—Both birds to the nest. One has a piece
of mud in the bill, which it keeps working about.

242 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

Yet it is half in the throat, too, it would seem, and
often as though on the point of being swallowed.
At last, however, it is dropped on the rim—that
part of it so often touched. Then the bird begins
to feel and touch this mud, and I see a gleam of
something white between the mandibles, which, I
think, is the tongue feeling, perhaps shaping, it.
The other bird now flies off, and I see this one,
quite plainly, pick up a pellet of mud and swallow
it. This, with the swollen and globular-looking
throat, which I have kept remarking, seems to make
it likely that the mud used in building is swallowed
and disgorged. Another visit, now, but I cannot
quite make things out. I see a bit of mud held
in the beak, and after, if not before, this, the bird
has made actions as though trying to bring up
something out of its throat. However, I cannot
sit longer against the wall of my own house.
“*26th.—At 6 a.M. one of the martlets comes to
the nest, and, as he settles down upon it, he utters
notes that are like a little song, and very pretty to
hear. Lying, thus, in the nest, he just touches the
edge of it with the beak, but, though the throat
looks quite globular, no mud, that I can see, is
deposited. He shifts, then, so as to lie the opposite
way, and, soon after, flies off, making his pretty little
parachute drop from the brink, as usual. Soon he
returns—for I watch him circling—and stays a very
short time, during which no mud is deposited. The
nest, too, I notice, seems to have advanced very little
since I left it yesterday, though this was no later
than 7 a.M. Another musical meeting, now, and
the arriving bird, finding the musician on the nest,

MUSICAL MEETINGS 243

clings against it, and there is a sort of twittering,
loving expostulation, before she leaves him in pos-
session. This second bird is not nearly so handsome,
the back not purple like that of the other, and the
white throat is stained and dirty-looking. It is this
one that swallowed the mud yesterday, and, I think,
does the greater part of the work—the hen, I feel
pretty sure. During another visit, the bird applies its
bill, very delicately, to the mud-work of the nest—
always its edge or parapet—and there is that quick,
vibratory motion of the whole head, which I have
before mentioned. It appears to me that, during
this, mud must be deposited, but in such a thin,
small stream, that I can see nothing of it. Sparrows
—out on them !—-have taken possession of the first-
built of my martins’ nests, and the dispossessed birds
—if they are, indeed, the same ones—have com-
menced another, close beside it. But I must go.”’
Gilbert White, in his classic, alludes to the slow
rate at which house-martins build, and also gives
a reason for it. He says: ‘“‘ About half an inch
seems to be a sufficient layer for a day.” Tome
it seems that, at some stage of the construction, they
must build even slower than this, and the curious
thing is, that, at the proper building-time, and when,
to casual observation, the birds seem actively build-
ing, they come and come and come again, and yet
do nothing, each time. Well, ‘‘ tempora mutantiur, et
nos mutamur in illis,” but it is pleasant to think that
all this was going on in White’s days, on the walls
of his house, no doubt, as of mine now. When
everything else has been swept away, yet in nature
we still have some link with past times. ‘These

244 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

martins, the rooks, a robin, any of the familiar
homy birds, can be fitted into any home, with any
person about it. Yet that is not much—or rather
it is too difficult. Let any one try, and see how far
he gets with it.

‘““ May 17, 1901.—These birds may have inter-
communal marriages—or something a little ousré.
There are the nests of two, under the eaves of one
wall of my house, and their owners go, constantly,
from one of them to another, entering both. When
I say ‘constantly,’ I mean that I have seen it several
times. There was always another bird in the nest
from which the one flew, and sometimes, if not
always, in the one to which he went. ‘Thus there
are three birds to the two nests, for I cannot make
out a fourth. Also there is entire amicableness, for
the same bird, when it enters each nest, in turn, is
received with a glad twitter by the one inside.
What, then, is the meaning of this? Are two hens
mated with one male bird, and has each made a
nest, at which he has helped, in turn? Or is there
a second male, not yet flown in, but who will resent
the intrusion of the other, when he does? Nous
verrons. It is one of these two nests that is in
process of being taken possession of by the spar-
rows; for the deed is not done all at once—‘ memo
repente fuit turpissimus. A martin is in this one,
now, when the hen sparrow flies up, and, as she
clings to the entrance, out he flies. She fastens
upon him, and keeps her hold, for some time, in the
air. The martin, as far as I can see, makes no
attempt to retaliate, but only flies and struggles to
be loose. When he is, his powers of flight soon

NATURE’S IRONY 245

carry him out of the sparrow’s danger, though the
latter, at first, attempts a pursuit, which, however,
she soon gives up.

‘“‘18¢h,—At 6.30 a.M. there is a pair of martins
in each of the nests, and the sparrows do not seem
to have prevailed. These two pairs of birds, then,
must, I suppose, have entered one another’s nests,
and they appear to be on the friendliest terms, a
friendly twitter from the one nest being, often,
answered by a friendly twitter from the other. At
least it sounds friendly, and there have been these
double entries. During the time that the sparrow |
was besieging the martin’s nest, she had all the
appearance of real proprietorship. A true griev-
ance, a just indignation, was in her every look and
motion. She felt so, no doubt, and therein lies the
irony of it. Nature is full of irony.

‘© 9ond.—One or other of the two martins has,
more than once, entered the nest usurped by the
sparrows, so that I begin to doubt if the latter have
really succeeded. As against this, however, I see
both the sparrows, on the roof near, and the cock
bird has twigs and grass in his bill. Yet, as long as
I see them, they do not come to the nest. Never-
theless, another nest is now being begun, about a
foot from the one they have invaded, and the birds
building this, must, I feel sure, be the owners of the
latter.

“93rd.—At 7 this morning the building of the
new nest is going rapidly forward, but the hen
sparrow, with a sinister look, sits near, in the gutter
running round the roof. She has a little grass in
her bill, and with this, after a while, she flies to the

P

246 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

abandoned nest. She clings outside it, for a little,
then, all at once, instead of entering, attacks the two
martins building their new one, flying at each, in
turn, and pecking them venomously. ‘The martins
do not resist, and soon take to flight, but once again
the sparrow attacks them, with the grass still in her
bill, before entering the old nest with it, as finally
she does. Undeterred by these two attacks, the
martins continue to ply backwards and forwards,
ever building their nest. ‘The hen sparrow soon
flies out of her ill-gotten one, and away, and, shortly
afterwards, the cock comes and sits on the piping,
with a small tuft of moss and grass in his bill. For
a most inordinate time he sits there, with these
materials, and then, time and time again, he flies
into a neighbouring tree, and returns with them,
going off, still holding them, at last, without once
having been to the nest. Meanwhile the hen has
returned with a much more considerable supply,
which she takes into the nest, at once. Afterwards
she comes with more, but again her anger is aroused
by the sight of the two poor martins, always build-
ing, and she flies at them, laden as she is, just as
before. ‘They take flight, as usual, but soon return,
and continue industriously to build. Both are now
doing so in the prettiest manner, lying side by side,
but turned in opposite directions, so that each works
at a different part of the nest. Then one of them
flies eight times (if not more) to the nest, and away
again, with a large piece of black mud protruding,
all the while, from his bill, which is forced consider-
ably open by it. He seems, each time, unable to
bring it out, but, on the ninth return, succeeds in

Tr

A PRETTY SIGHT 247

doing so—if, indeed, this is the explanation. When
he flies in, this last time, it does not look such a
bulk in the mouth as before. It may be—and this,
perhaps, is more probable—that it had not before
been sufficiently worked up with the salivary secre-
tions, and that the bird was doing this, all the time,
though making its little visits as a matter of custom.
During the earlier ones he had the nest to himself,
but, on the last, his partner was there, and he almost
pushed her out of it, with a little haste-pleading
twittering, seeming to say, ‘Mine is the greater
need.’ Both the sparrows have been, several times,
in and out of the old nest, during this, and some-
times sitting in it together. The hen is building in
good, workmanlike fashion, whereas the cock con-
tributes but little. The mud which these martins
used to build with, was brought, by them, from a
little puddle in the village street, till this became
dry, after which I did not see where they went. I
have seen quite a number of them, including some
swallows, collecting it at a pond in a village near
here. A very pretty sight it was, to see them all so
busy, and doing something dirty so cleanly—for,
after all, swallowing mud is dirty if looked at in
a commonplace kind of way, though not at all
so, really, if we consider the end to which it is
done.

** 30th.—Two more martlets are beginning a nest
just above my bedroom window, and on the very
mud-stains of their last one. Others seem choosing
a site, for two pairs of them hang upon certain
spots, twittering together, in a most talking manner,
flying away, then, and returning to talk again, as if

248 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

they were—not house-, but foundation-hunting. I
notice that these birds, when they fly from the pro-
posed or contemplated site, will often, after making
a circle round, wheel in to the nest nearest to it, and,
poised in the air, beneath the portal, take, as it were, a
little friendly peep in. Yet it is not all friendly, for I
have just seen a bird struggling for entrance, and
expelled by the proprietor of the nest—by the one
proprietor, I think, but both were at home, and my
impression is that if only one had been, the visitor
might have been well received, as, indeed, I have
seen and recorded. Now, too, I have seen a fight
in the air between two martins, @ propos of an in-
tended entrance on the part of one of them. House-
martins, therefore, fight amongst themselves—as do
sand-martins, very violently—and this makes their
apparent total inability to defend themselves against
the attacks of sparrows, the more remarkable. No
doubt the sparrow is a stronger bird, but the martins,
with their superior powers of flight, might annoy it
incessantly when in the vicinity of the nest, to the
extent, perhaps, of driving it away. That they
should all combine for this purpose is, perhaps, too
much to expect, but when one sparrow, only, attacks
a pair of them, one might think that both would
retaliate. As we have seen, however, a pair of
martins, when attacked in this way upon three occa-
sions quite failed to do so. Probably the period of
fighting and striving has long ago been passed
through, and the sparrow, having come the victor
out of it, is now recognised as an inevitability.
It is better for any pair of house-martins—and
consequently for the race—to give up and build

CONTRADICTIONS 249

another nest, than to waste their time in efforts
which, even if at last successful, would make them
the parents of fewer offspring.

“Fyne 1st.—The nest above my window has been
built at a great rate, and is now almost finished.
Compare this with the very slow building of some
martins last year, and with Gilbert White’s general
statement. ‘There is no finality in natural history,
and any one observation may be contradicted by any
other. This nest, the day before yesterday, was
only just beginning, and now it is almost finished.
A layer of half an inch a day, therefore, is quite in-
adequate to the result, and so the supposed reason
for the slow rate of advance, when the nest is built
slowly, falls to the ground.’ Late in the year, the
nests do, sometimes, drop—by which I have made
acquaintance with the grown young, and the curious
parasitic fly upon them—but this, I think, belongs
to the chapter of accidents, and is not to be avoided
by any art or foresight of the bird. Other nests
have now been begun, and these, like all the rest,
as far as I can be sure of it, are on the exact sites of
so many old ones. What interests me, however, is
that, on two of these sites, nests, for some reason,
were not built last year, though they were the year
before. Possibly they were begun there last year,
but destroyed without my knowledge (women and
gardeners would do away with birds, between them),
in which case no further attempt was made to build
there. But this I do not think was the case. The

1 As, were it the true one, this nest should have done—but did
not, as I remember. Instead, it stood firm through the time of
sitting and rearing.

250 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

birds, therefore—supposing them to be the same
ones—missed a year, and then built in the same
place as two years ago. There were only the stains
of the old structures left, but these were covered by
the fresh mud, as a head is by a skull-cap. These
martins, therefore, assuming them to have been the
same, must either not have built, last year, or, having
had to build somewhere else, they must yet have re-
membered their old place of the year before, and
come back to it.

‘‘ 5¢h.—This evening I watched my martins from
the landing window, at only a few yards’ distance.
Two had made nests on a wall that stood, at an
angle, just outside, and in either one or both of
these nests, one of the two birds was usually sitting.
Thus, either two or three more, as the case might
be, were wanted to make up the two pairs that
owned the two nests. But instead of two or three,
often six or eight, at a time, would be fluttering
under the nests, and a still greater number circled
round about, from which these came, at intervals,
to flutter there. That every one of these birds
was interested, in some way and to some degree,
in the two nests, was quite obvious. They seemed,
often, on the point of clinging to one, with a view
to entering it, and to be stopped, only, by the bird
inside giving, each time, a funny little bubbling
twitter, which seemed, by its effect, to mean,
‘No, not you; you’re not the right one.’ But
whenever a bird did enter one of the nests, he
flew straight at it, and was in, in a moment, being
received—if the other one was at home—with a
shriller and louder note, something like a scream.

A FALSE EXPLANATION 251

The harsher sound meant welcome, and the softer
one, unwillingness.

“That there is some interest taken by the martins
of a neighbourhood —or, at least, of any little
colony—in the nests built by their fellows, seems
clear, and I have recorded, both the friendly
entries of one bird into two nests, each of which
was occupied by another, and the struggles of two,
to enter one, where, also, the partner bird, either
of one or the other, was sitting. All these facts
together seem best explained by supposing that the
female house-martin is something of a light-o’-love,
and that when she builds her nest, more than one
male holds himself entitled to claim both it and her,
as his own. If, for some reasons, we feel unable to
adopt this view, we may fall back upon that of a
social or communistic feeling, as yet imperfectly
developed, and wavering, sometimes, between friend-
liness and hostility. Be it as it may, the facts which
I have noted appear to me to be of interest. In
regard to the last-mentioned one —the interest,
namely, manifested by several birds, in nests not
their own—White of Selborne says: ‘The young
of this species do not quit their abodes all together ;
but the more forward birds get abroad some days
before the rest. These, approaching the eaves of
buildings, and playing about before them, make
people think that several old ones attend one nest.’
How does this apply here? ‘Nohow,’ I reply
(with Tweedledee), for no young birds could possibly
have left the nests, at this date (June 5). I doubt,
indeed, whether any eggs had been hatched. White,

living in a southern county, says elsewhere (Letter

252 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES
LV.): ‘About the middle of May, if the weather

be fine, the martin begins to think in earnest of
providing a mansion for its family.’ This is my
experience too, and in East Anglia, at any rate,
where May 1s generally like a bad March, and often
colder, J am sure he never thinks about it sooner.
Neither in Dorsetshire, too, when I was last there,
did any martins begin building, in a village where
they build all down the street, before about the
middle of May, as White says, and when I inquired
for them, a week or ten days sooner, the cottage
people, who must know their habits in this respect,
told me it was too early for them yet. Elsewhere,
tis true, we read that the martin ‘sets about build-
ing very soon after its return, which may be about
the middle of April,’ though I never remember
them here before May. This is not my experience,
nor was it White’s, who says—and, I believe, with
great correctness—‘For some time after they
appear, the Azrundines in general pay no attention to
the business of nidification, but play and sport about,
either to recruit from the fatigue of their journey,
or, &c. &c. (Letter LV.) (the rest of the sen-
tence is historically interesting). However, let some
young martins, in some places, be as precocious as
they like, this I know, that none were abroad in
Icklingham, in the year 1901, upon the sth of June.
The several birds, therefore, that attended one nest
in the wayI have described, were old, and not young,
birds, and I connect their conduct with those other
cases I have mentioned, which point towards a
socialistic tendency in this species.
“‘24th.—Watching from the landing window, this

A TWITTERING CHORUS 253

morning, I saw a house-martin attacked by another
one, whilst entering its nest with some feathers. I
called to our Hannah to bring my son’s fishing-rod,
and never took my eyes off the nest, whilst she was
coming with it. Meanwhile, one martin had come
out, and, on my touching the nest with the rod, a
second did, also. One of a pair, therefore, had,
by making its nest, excited the anger of a third
bird, and this I have seen more than once. Is the
angry bird, in such cases, a mere stranger, or
is it a rival, in some way? If the last—and the
other seems unlikely—does one hen consort with
two or more cocks, or vice versa? J have noticed,
however, with more than one kind of bird, that the
hens seem jealous of each other collecting materials
for the nest.’

“ August 3rd.—It is customary for two of the
young martins to sit with their heads looking
out at the door of the nest—very pretty they
look—and ever and anon one of the parent
birds will fly in to them, as she circles round,
and hanging there, just for a moment, there 1s
a little twittering chorus -- mostly I think from the
chicks—and off she flies again. It is difficult to
be quite sure whether, in these short flying visits, the
chicks are really fed. Sometimes they are so short
that this seems hardly possible. At others some-
thing does seem to pass, and the mouth of one of
the chicks may be seen opened, just after the parent
flies off. Yet it hardly seems like serious feeding.
But at this very moment a bird has, thus, flown in to
the young, and one of them, I am sure, was, this time,

1 “ Bird Watching,” pp. 104, 105.

254 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES
fed. This has happened again—and yet again—but

now, this last time, the parent bird has entered the
nest. ‘The time before, whilst the one parent was
hanging there, and, I think, giving the chick some-
thing, the other flew in to the wall, and clung there,
about six inches off, seeming to watch the scene
with pleased attention. Yet, though food does, as
I now feel sure, sometimes pass in these visits, at
others, as it seems to me, only remarks do. At
this stage of the argument, one of the young
birds projects its tail through the entrance-hole, and
voids its excrement. Under this nest and another
one, about two feet from it, there is a heap of
excrement on the slanting roof of the greenhouse
below; an interesting thing to see, and cleanly if
rightly considered, yet unsightly I must confess—
that part of it, alone, exists for the feminine eye.
Out comes another tail, now, and the heap is in-
creased. In this pretty way the nest is kept pure and
wholesome.

‘* Now I have had a fine view of the feeding, having
moved into a better position. The parent bird
clung to the nest, and one of the chicks, thrusting
out its head from the aperture, opened its mouth,
so that it looked like a little round funnel. Into
this the parent bird thrust not only her bill, but the
upper part of her head as well, and the chick’s mouth
closing upon it, there instantly began, on the part of
both, those motions which accompany the process of
regurgitation, as it may be witnessed with pigeons,
and as I have witnessed it with nightjars. ‘These
becoming more and more violent, the parent bird
was, at last, drawn by the chick, who kept pulling

4 Se

POLYANDRY OR POLYGAMY? 255

back upon her, into the nest—that, at least, was the
appearance presented. For some moments only the
posterior part of the dam’s body could be seen pro-
jecting through the aperture, and this continued to
work violently, in the manner indicated. Then she
disappeared altogether. A few minutes afterwards,
another and much more lengthy visit is paid, by one
of the old birds, to the nest, but, this time, though
a young one looks out with open mouth, no feeding
takes place.

‘<7 have now to record that a bird about to enter
the next nest to this, from which another, whose
snowy throat proclaims it to be full-grown, has
just looked out, is attacked, as it clings to the
mud, and driven off, by a third bird. In the course
of some few minutes this occurs twice again, the
attack, each time, being very fierce, and the struggle
more prolonged. And now, but shortly afterwards,
the same two birds (as I make no doubt) fly, to-
gether, on to the nest, and both enter it, shouldering
and pushing one another. They are in it some
time, during which I can make nothing out clearly.
Then one emerges, and IJ can see that the other has
hold of him with the beak, detaining him slightly,
as he fliesaway. This other, in a moment, flies out
too, and then the head of a third—the one, no doubt,
that has been in the nest, all the time—appears at
the entrance, as before. Now this nest, though so
late in the season, has the appearance of being a new
one. It even seems not yet entirely finished, though
nearly so. Perhaps it has been repaired, but, in any
case, there are no young birds in it, nor do I think
the old ones are sitting again, yet—for probably

256 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

there have been earlier broods. If we assume this,
and that two out of the three birds are the mated
pair, then we must suppose either that, all the while,
a rival male has continued to fight for the pos-
session of the nest and the female, or that two
females lay claim to the nest, and have, perhaps,
helped to build it. If this latter be the case, we
may, perhaps, see in it an extension of that spirit of
jealousy or rivalry which I have often observed in
female birds, whilst collecting materials for their
respective nests. Is it possible that such feelings
may have led to that habit which the females of
some birds have (or are supposed to have) of laying
their eggs in one common nest? But I do not
suppose so. In this case, as before, it appears that
one of the rival birds—male or female—is preferred
by the bird in the nest, for this one, now, as the pre-
vailing party flies in and clings on the parapet, breaks
into a perfect jubilee of twitterings, and fuller, crood-
ling notes, that may almost be called song—very
pretty indeed, and extremely pleasing to hear.
Evidently either two males have fought for access
to a female—or two females to a male—in a nest
which one, or both, or all three have helped to make ;
but the difficulty in distinguishing the sexes prevents
one from saying which of these two it is. Mean-
while the parent bird has, for long, clung to the
other nest, without feeding the young.

‘* ¢th,— A young martlet has just been fed, leaning
its head far out of the nest. The process was quick,
this time. Still, it must, I- think, have been a re-
gurgitatory one. Two chicks, looking out from
their nest, have been, for some time, uttering

TINY CRATERS 257

a little piping twitter. Suddenly, with a few
louder, more excited tweets, they stretch out
both their heads, and their two widely-opened
mouths look like little perfectly round craters,
as the dam flies up and pops her head—as it
were—as far as it will go, right into one of
them. Almost instantly she is away again. Still,
from what I have seen before, and from never catch-
ing anything projecting from the parent’s beak, I
think the food must have been brought up from the
crop, or at least from somewhere inside—for I am
not writing as a physiologist. The first case which
I have recorded should, I think, be conclusive,
and it was very carefully observed. There have
just been two visits in such quick succession
that I think it must have been the two parents.
No doubt they both feed the young, but it is
not so easy to actually see that they do. One of
them flies in again, now, plunging its bill instantly
right into the centre of the open mouth of the chick.
Withdrawing it, almost at once, nothing is seen in
the chick’s mouth, though it is evident it has swal-
lowed something. In another visit, a few minutes
afterwards, the finger-in-a-finger-stall appearance
of the parent’s and chick’s bills, and the motions
of the latter, as though sucking in something, are
much more apparent.

“Whether the dam always, or only sometimes,
disgorges food that it has swallowed, or partially
swallowed, or, at least, that it has brought inside
the mouth, I cannot be sure; but I believe that
the insects on which the young are fed, are never
just carried in the beak, in the way that a thrush,

258 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

robin, wagtail, &c., brings worms or flies to its
young. When one thinks of the bird’s building
habits and its swollen throat, bulged out with mud—
as I think it must be—one may surmise that it finds
it equally natural to hold a mash of insects in this
way. I believe that all the swallow tribe, as well as
nightjars, engulf their food in the way that a
whale does infusoria, instead of seizing it, first, with
the bill—at least that this is their more habitual
practice. Thus, I was watching some swallows, once,
flying close over the ground, when a large white
butterfly (the common cabbage one, I think) sud-
denly disappeared, entombed, as it were, in one of
them. Now, had a sparrow seized the butterfly the
effect would have been quite different, and so would
the process have been. It wou/d have seized it, in
fact, but the swallow must have opened its gape,
and, in spite of the size of the butterfly, it went down
so quickly that, to the eye, it looked as if it had been
at once enclosed. Possibly, on account of its size, it
was, perforce, held just for a moment, till another
gulp helped it down. But the process, as I say, was
very different to the more usual one, and I doubt if
an ordinary passerine bird could have swallowed a
butterfly on the wing, at all. It is rare, I think, for
anything so large as this to be hawked at by swallows
or martins. Small insects are their habitual food,
and of these the air is often full. That numbers
should be swallowed down which are too small to
hold in the bill, seems almost a necessity, and that
the house-martin, in particular, does this, and brings
them up again for the young, in the form of a mash
or pulp, I think likely from what I have seen,

UNFAIR TREATMENT 259

and, also, from the bird’s habit of swallowing and
disgorging mud. That they, also, sometimes bring
in insects in the bill may very well be the case,
but I have not yet seen them do so, and, especially, I
have missed that little collected bundle which, from
analogy, I should have expected to see. The most
interesting point, to me, however, about the domestic
life of these birds, is their social and sexual relations,
which I think are deserving of a more serious in-
vestigation than is contained in the scanty record
which I here offer.”

Another entry, which I cannot now find, referred
to the sudden late appearance of several sand-
martins, who ought—had they read their authorities
—to have known better. I cannot help thinking
that Gilbert White has been treated very unfairly
about that theory of his. If certain of the swallow
tribe are sometimes seen, on sunny days, in winter,
then that is an interesting circumstance, and one
which has to be accounted for. White, in drawing
attention to it, has done his duty asa field naturalist,
and the explanation which he has offered is one
which seems to meet the facts of the case. If a
swallow is here at Christmas, it cannot be in Africa,
and as it cannot feed here, and is not, as a rule, seen
about, it becomes highly probable that it is hiber-
nating. It is not the rule for swallows to do this—
nor do I understand White to say that it is—but
it is the exception, here, that should interest us,
especially at this time of day, when we know that
what is the exception, now, may become the rule
later on. ‘The whole interest, therefore, lies in the
question whether swifts, swallows, martins, &c.,

260 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

ever do stay with us during the winter, instead of
migrating, and, in regard to this, White offers some
evidence. What he deserves except praise for so
doing I cannot, for the life of me, see, but what
he gets—from a good many quarters, at any rate
—is a sort of dull, pompous, patronising taking to
task—‘‘ Good boy, but mustn’t do that.”

MoOoRHEN AND NEST

CHAPTER XI

Tue Lark, whichis our river here, and more
particularly the little stream that runs into it, are,
like most rivers and streams in England, much
haunted by moorhens and dabchicks, especially by
the former, though in winter I have seen as many as
eleven of the latter—the little dabchicks—-swimming,
dipping, and skimming over the water, together.
There is a fascination in making oneself acquainted
with the ways of these little birds. They are not so
easy to watch, and yet they are not so very very
difficult. They seem made for concealment and re-
tirement, which makes it all the more piquant when
they come, plainly, into view, and remain there, at
but a few yards’ distance, which, with patience, can
be brought about. The whole thing lies in sitting still
for an hour—or a few more hours—waiting for the

261

262 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

dabchick to come to you, for as to your trying to go
to him, that is no good whatever—“ that way mad-
ness lies.” In watching birds, though it may not
be quite true—certainly I have not found it so—that
‘all things come to him who knows how to wait,”
this at least may be said, that nothing, as a rule,
comes to him who does not know how to—least of
all a dabchick.

Long before one sees the little bird—tlong before
one could see it were it right in front of one, if one
comes at the proper time—one hears its curious
little note—accompanied, often, with scufflings and
other sounds that make one long to be there—
amongst the reeds and rushes, in the darkness.
This note—which, until one knows all about it, fills
one with a strange curiosity—is a thin chirrupy
chatter, high and reed-like, rapidly repeated, and
with a weak vibration in it. It is like no other bird-
cry that I am acquainted with, but it resembles, or
suggests, two things—first, the neigh or hinny of a
horse heard very faintly in the distance (for which I
have often mistaken it), and, again, if a tittering
young lady were to be changed, or modified, into
a grasshopper, but beg, as a favour, to be allowed
still to titter—as a grasshopper—this would be it.
Sometimes, too, when it comes, low and faint, in the
near distance, one might think the fairies were
laughing. This is the commonest of the dabchick’s
notes, and though it has some other ones, they are
uttered, for the most part, in combination with it,
and, especially, lead up to, and usher it in, so that it
becomes, through them, of more importance, as the
grande finale of all, in which the bird rises to its

DARBY AND JOAN 263

emotional apogee, and then stops, because anything
would be tame after that. Thus, when a pair of
dabchicks play about in each other’s company—
which they will do in December as well as in spring
—their note, at first, may be a quiet ‘‘Chu, chu,
eam” ““Queek, queck, queek,* or some: other
ineffective sound. Then, side by side, and with their
heads close together, they burst suddenly forth with
*Cheéélee, léélee, léélee, léélee, 1éélee, léélee ’——one
thought, and both of one mind—

«<A timely utterance gives that thought relief.”

It is as though they said, “‘Shall we? Well then—
Now then”—and started. Who that sees a pair
do this in the winter—in the very depth of it, only
a few days before Christmas—can doubt that the
birds are mated, and will be constant through life?
They are like an old couple by the fireside, now. As
the spring comes round their youth will be renewed,
and the same duet will express the warmer emotions.
Now it is the bird’s contentment note. You know
what it means, directly. It expresses satisfaction
with what has been, already, accomplished, present

- complacency, and a robust determination to continue,

for the future, to walk—or swim—in the combined
path of duty and pleasure. What a pretty little scene
it is!—and one may watch these little cool-dipping,
reed-haunting things, so dapper and circumspect, as
near as one’s vis-a-vis in a quadrille—nearer even—
and tear out the heart of their mystery, with not a

_ dabchick the wiser. No doubt about what they say

for the future, for when a most authoritative work
says “‘the note is a ‘whit, whit,’” and so passes on,

Q

264 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

it is time to bestir oneself. “Whit!” No. Ideny
it. Even when it ends there, when there is nothing
more than that in the bird’s mind, it is not “ whit,”
but ‘‘queek”’ that it says—‘“‘queek, queek, queek,
queek,”’ a quavering little note, with a sharp sound
—the long é—always. ‘‘ Queek,” then, ‘‘ pas ‘ whit,’
Monsieur Fleurant. Whit! Ah, Monsieur Fleurant,
Cest se moguer. Mettez, mettez ‘queek,’ sil vous
plait.” But what is this ‘“‘queek”—though re-
peated more than twice—compared with such a
jubilee as I have just described, and which the birds
are constantly making? Express it syllabically as
one may, it is something very uncommon and
striking—a little thin burst of rejoicing—and it lasts
for some time: not to be passed off as a mere
desultory remark or so, therefore—call it what one
will—which almost any bird might make.

Besides, it is not merely what a bird says, that
one would like to know, but what it means, and
how it says it. One would like a description,
where there is anything to describe, and no one, I
am sure, could see a pair of dabchicks put their
heads together and break out like this, and then
say, tout court—without comment, even, much less
enthusiasm, as though it exhausted the matter—
“the note is a whit, whit.” No, no one could be
so cold-blooded. Though an alphabet of letters
may follow his name, the dabchick is a sealed book
to any one who writes of it like that. So now,
coming again to the meaning of this little duet,
there can, as I say, be no doubt that it expresses
contentment, but this contentment is not of a quiet
kind. It is raised, for the moment, to a pitch of

A CAT’S INFLUENCE 265

exaltation that throws a sort of triumph into it. It
is an access, an overflowing, of happiness, and the
note of love, though, now, in winter, a little subdued,
must be there too, for, as I say, these birds mate for
life. So, at ies I fast sure, and so I believe it to
be with most other birds. Permanent union, with
recurrent incentive to unite, matrimony always and
courtship every spring—as one aerates, at intervals,
the water in an aquarium—that, I believe, is the
way of it; a good way, too—the next best plan to
changing the water is not to let it get stagnant.
Whenever I can catch at evidence in regard to
the sexual relations of birds, it always seems to point
in this direction. Take, for instance, that species
to which I now devote the rest of this chapter, the
moorhen, namely—Gallinula chloropus—for the dab-
chick has been an encroachment. A very small
pond in my orchard of some three half-dead fruit-
trees was tenanted by a single pair, who built their
nest there yearly. Had it not been for a cat, whose
influence and position in the family was fixed beyond
my power of shaking, I should have made, one year,
a very close study, indeed, of the dipeaeaie economy
of these two birds; but this tiresome creature, either
by the aid of a clump of rushes, amidst which it was
situated, or by jumping out boldly from the bank,
got at the nest, though it was at some distance,
and upset the eggs into the water. As a conse-
quence, the birds deserted both nest and pond, nor
did the lost opportunity ever return. A few points
of interest, however, I had been able to observe,
before the cat intervened. The year before, I had
noticed two slight nests in the pond, in neither of

266 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

which were any eggs laid, whilst the pond itself
remained always, as far as I could see, in possession
of this one pair of birds only. In the following
spring I again noted two moorhens’ nests, in ap-
proximately the same situations as before, and now
I observed further. During the greater part of the
day no moorhens were to be seen in the pond, but,
as evening began to fall, first one and then another
of these two birds would either steal silently into it,
through a little channel communicating with the
river, or else out of the clump of rushes where one
of these nests had been built. The other one was
amongst the half-submerged branches of a fallen
tree, the trunk of which arched a corner of the
pond. Over to here the birds would swim, and
one of them, ascending and running along the tree-
trunk, would enter the nest, and sit in it quietly, for
a little while. Then it would creep, quietly, out of
it, run down the trunk, again, into the water, and
swim over to this same clump of rushes, from which,
in some cases, it had come. Whether it then sat in
the nest there, also, I cannot so positively affirm, but
I have no doubt that it did, for I could see it, for
some time, through the glasses, a perfectly still, dark
object, somewhat raised above the surface of the
water. Assuming it to have been sitting in this
nest, then it had, certainly, just left the other cne,
and, moreover, there were the two nests, and only
the one pair of birds. For, as I say, I never saw
more than two moorhens, at a time, in this pond,
which, being very small, was, probably, considered
by these as their property. Intrusion on the part
of any other bird would, no doubt, have been

EVENING SCENES 267

resented, but I never saw or heard any brawling.
The pretty scene of peaceful, calm, loving pro-
prietorship, was not once disturbed

When the two birds were together, one swam,
commonly, but just behind the other, and kept
pressing against it in a series of little, soft impulses
—a quietly amorous manner, much for edification
to see. Each night, from a little before the darkness
closed in, one of these moorhens—lI believe always
the same one—would climb out on a particular
branch of the fallen tree, and standing there, just
on the edge of the black water, bathe and preen
itself till I could see it no longer. It never varied
from just this one place on the branch, which,
though a thin one, made there a sort of loop in
the water, where it could stand, or sit, very com-
fortably. The other of the two had, no doubt, a
tiring-place of its own—lI judge so, at least, because
it would, probably, have bathed and preened about
the same time, but, if so, it did so somewhere
where I could not see it. Moorhens have special
bathing-places, to which one may see several come,
one after the other. This is at various times of
the day, but I have noticed, too, this special last
bathe and preening, before retiring for the night;
and here I do not remember seeing two birds resort
to the same spot. There would seem, therefore, to
be a general bathing-place for the daytime, and a
private one for the evening.

Here, then, we have two nests built by one and
the same pair of moorhens, both of which were sat
in—whether as a matter of convenience, by both
parties, or by the female, only, in order to lay, I

268 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

cannot be sure—some days before the eggs appeared.
But, two days afterwards, I found two other nests, or
nest-like structures, at different points of the same
pond, and these, for the reasons before given, must
most certainly have been made by the same pair of
birds; for they were moorhens’ nests, and to imagine
that four pairs of moorhens had been building in
so confined an area, without my ever having seen
more than two birds together, within it, though
watching morning and evening, and for hours at
a time, is to pensar en lo imposible, as Don Quijote
is fond of saying. On the next day, I found the
first egg, in one of the two nests last noticed—not
in either of those, therefore, that I had seen the
bird sitting in. This was on the 5th of May, and
in as many days six more were added, making seven,
after which came the cat, and my record, which I
had hoped would be a very close and full one, came
toanend. During this time, however, I had remarked
yet a fifth nest, built against the trunk of a young
fir-tree, that had fallen into the same small clump
of rushes where the one with the eggs, and another,
were: and all these five had sprung up within
the last few weeks, for they had certainly not been
there before. The number of moorhens’ nests
along the little stream, here, had often struck me
with surprise, though knowing it to be much
haunted by these birds. After these observations,
I paid more particular attention, and found, in one
place, four nests so close together as to make it very
unlikely they could have been the work of different
birds; and, of these, all but one remained perma-
nently empty. Moreover, the three others, though

PLURALITY OF NESTS 269

obviously, as it seemed to me, the work of moorhens,
had a very unfinished appearance compared to the
one that fulfilled its legitimate purpose. Less
material had been used—though they varied in
regard to this—and they seemed to have been
formed, to a more exclusive extent, by the bending
over of the growing rushes. As IJ say, no eggs were
ever laid in these three nests, but in one of them I
once found the moorhen who had laid in the other,
sitting with her brood of young chicks. I have
little doubt but that she had made the four, and
was accustomed thus to sit inall of them. Whether
she had made the supernumerary ones with any
definite object of the sort, it is more difficult to say.
For myself, I doubt this; but, at any rate, the
moorhen would seem to stand prominent amongst
the birds which have this habit of over-building,
as one may call it—a much larger body, I believe,
than is generally supposed.

With the above habit, a much stranger one,
which, from a single observation, I believe this
species to have, is, perhaps, indirectly connected.
Moorhens, as a rule, lay a good many eggs—from
seven to eleven, if not, sometimes, more. I have,
however, upon various occasions, found them sitting
on a much smaller number—on four once, and once,
even, upon only three—notwithstanding that these
represented the first brood. The nest with only
three eggs I had watched for some days before the
hatching took place. It could hardly have been,
therefore, that others had been hatched out before,
and the chicks gone; nor had it ever occurred to me
that the original number might have been artificially

8976. 22+ CBI RD LINE * GLIifigers

diminished, by the birds themselves. One day, how-
ever, I happened to be watching a pair of moorhens,
by a lake in a certain park, when I noticed one of
them walking away from the nest—to which, though
it appeared quite built, they had both been adding
——with some large thing, of a rounded shape, in its
bill. Before I had time to make out what this
thing was, the bird, still carrying it, became hidden
behind some foliage, and this happened again on a
second occasion, much to my disappointment, since
my curiosity was now aroused. Resolved not to
miss another opportunity if I could help it, I kept
the glasses turned upon this bird whenever it was
visible, and very soon I saw it go again to the nest,
and, standing just outside it, with its head craned
over the rim, spear down suddenly into it, and then
walk away, with an egg transfixed on its bill. The
nest was on a mudbank in the midst of shallow
water, through which the bird waded to the shore,
and deposited the egg there, somewhere where I
could not see it. Twice, now, at short intervals, the
same bird returned to the nest, speared down with
its bill, withdrew it with an egg spitted on its point,
and walked away with it, as before. Instead of
landing with it, however, it, each of these times,
dropped it in the muddy water, and I saw as clearly
through the glasses as if I had been there, that the
egg, each time, sank. This shows that they were
fresh, for one can test eggs in this manner. Had
it been, not the whole egg, but only the greater part
of its shell that the bird was carrying, this would have
floated, a conspicuous object on the black, stagnant
water. That it was the whole egg, and transfixed,

AN INTERESTING OBSERVATION 271

as I say, not carried, I am quite certain, for I
caught, through the glasses, the full oval outline, and
could see, where the beak pierced it, a thin, trans-
parent streamer of the albumen depending from the
hole, and being blown about by the wind. As birds
remove the shells of their hatched eggs from the
nest, I took particular pains not to be mistaken on
this point, the result being absolute certainty as far
as my own mind is concerned. ‘The circumstances,
however, were not such as to allow me to verify
them by walking to the spot. Early on the follow-
ing morning I returned to my post of observation,
and now I at once saw, on using the glasses, the
empty egg-shell, as it appeared to be, floating on
the water just where I had seen it sink the day
before. No doubt the yelk-sac had been pierced
by the bill of the bird, so that the contents had
gradually escaped, and the shell risen to the surface as
a consequence. ‘This moorhen, then, had destroyed,
at the very least, as I now feel certain, five of its
own eggs, for that, on the first two occasions, it had
acted in the same way as on the last three, there can
be no reasonable doubt, nor is it wonderful that I
should not, then, have quite made out what it was
doing, considering its quick disappearance and the
hurried view of it that I got. Afterwards, I saw the
whole thing from the beginning, and had a very
good view throughout. At the nest, especially, the
bird was both nearer to me, and stood in a good
position for observation.

Here, then, we seem introduced to a new
possibility in bird life—parental prudence, or some-
thing analogous to it, purposely limiting the number

272 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

of offspring to be reared. I can conceive, myself,
how a habit of this sort might become developed
in a bird, for the number of eggs that can be com-
fortably sat upon must depend upon the size of
the nest; and this might tend to decrease, not at
all on account of a bird’s laziness, but owing to
that very habit of building supernumerary nests,
which appears to be so developed in the moorhen.
That a second nest should, through eagerness, be
begun before the first was finished, is what one
might expect, and also that the nest, under these
circumstances, would get gradually smaller—for
what the bird was always doing would soon seem
to it the right thing to do. Asa matter of fact,
the size of moorhens’ nests does vary very greatly,
some being thick, deep, and massive, with a large
circumference, whilst others are a mere shallow
shell that the bird, when sitting, almost covers.
Such a one was that which I have mentioned, as
containing only four eggs—for they quite filled the
nest, so that it would not have been easy for the
bird to have incubated a larger number. The one
from which the five eggs were carried, was, how-
ever, quite a bulky one. But whatever the ex-
planation may be, this particular moorhen that I
saw certainly did destroy five of its own eggs, carry-
ing them off, speared on its bill, in the way I have
described. Either it was an individual eccentricity
on the part of one bird, or others are accustomed
to do the same, which last, I think, is quite
possible, when we consider how rarely it is that
birds are seen removing the shells of the hatched
egos from their nests, which, however, they always

MOORHENS AND COW-BIRDS 273

do. Certain of the cow-birds of America have,
it seems, the habit of pecking holes both in their
own eggs and those of the bird in whose nest they
are laid.|. The cow-bird is a very prolific layer, and
it is possible that we may see, in this proceeding, the
survival of a means which it once employed to avoid
the discomfort attendant on the rearing of too largea
family, before it had hit upon a still better way out of
the difficulty. The way in which the moorhen carried
the eggs is interesting, since it is that employed by
ravens in the Shetlands, when they rob the sea-fowl.
It would seem, indeed, the only way in which a bird
could carry an egg of any size, without crushing it up.

As bearing on the strongly developed nest-
building instinct of the moorhen, leading it, some-
times, to make four or five when only one 1s
required, it is interesting to find that, in some cases,
the building is continued all the while the eggs are
being hatched, or even whilst the young are sitting
in the nest—in fact as long as the nest is in regular
occupation. The one bird swims up with reeds or
rushes in his bill—sometimes with a long flag that
trails far behind him on the water—and these are
received and put into position by the other, in the
nest. Thus the shape of the nest may vary, some-
thing, from day to day, and from a point where,
yesterday, the eggs, as one stood, were quite visible,
to-day they will be completely hidden by a sconce,
or parapet that has since been thrown up. It may
be thought, from this, that the birds have some
definite object in thus continuing their labours, but,
for myself, I believe that it is merely in deference

1 Hudson’s “ Argentine Ornithology,” vol. i., pp. 72-79.

274 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

to a blind impulse, which is its own pleasure and
reward. It is a pretty thing to see a pair of moor-
hens building. During the later stages they will run
about, together, on the land, their necks stretched
eagerly out, the whole body craned forward, search- ~
ing, examining, sometimes both seizing on some-
thing at the same time—the one a twig, the other
a brown leaf—and then running with them, cheek
by jowl, to the nest, on which both climb, and place
them, standing side by side. On their next going
forth, they may start in different directions, or become
separated, so that when one goes back to the nest
he may find the other already upon it. It is in-
teresting, then, to see him reach up, with whatever he
has brought, and present it to his partner’s bill, who —
takes it of him, and at once arranges it. The look,
the general appearance of interest and tender solici-
tude, which the bird, particularly, that presents his
offering, has, must be seen to be appreciated. Not that
the other is deficient in this respect—a gracious,
pleased acceptance, with an interest all as keen, speaks
in each feather, too. The expression of a bird is
given by its whole attitude—everything about it,
from beak to toe and tail—and, by dint of this, it
often appears to me to have as much as an intelligent
human being has, by the play of feature; in which,
of course, birds are deficient—at least to our eyes.
Certain I am that no dressed human being could
express more, in offering something to another, than a
bird sometimes does; and if it be said that we cannot
be sure of this, that it is mere inference based on
analogy, it may be answered that, equally, we cannot
be sure, in the other case—nor, indeed, in anything.

A TRIPLE SUCCESSION 275

When the male and female moorhen stand,
together, on the nest, it is impossible to distinguish
one from the other. The legs, which in the male,
alone, are gartered, are generally hidden, whilst the
splendid scarlet cere—making a little conflagration
amongst the rushes—and the coloration of the
plumage, are alike in both—at least for field
observation. In the early autumn, and onwards,
one sees numbers of moorhens that have a green
cere, instead of a red one, and the plumage of whose
back and wings is of a very plain, sober brown,
much lighter than we have known it hitherto.
These are the young birds of the preceding spring
-and summer, and everything in regard to their
different coloration would be simple enough, if it
were not for a curious fact—or one which seems to
me to be curious—viz. this, that the moorhen chicks
have, when first hatched, and for some time after-
wards, a red cere, as at maturity. It seems very
strange that, being born with what is, probably, a
sexual adornment, they should afterwards lose it,
to reacquire it, again, later on. Darwin explains the
difference between the young and the parent form,
upon the principle that “at whatever period of life
a peculiarity first appears, it tends to reappear in the
offspring, at a corresponding age, though sometimes
earlier.” Thus, in the plumage of the young and
female pheasant, or the young green woodpecker,
we may suppose ourselves to see the ancestral
unadorned states of these birds. But what should
we think if the young male pheasant was, at first, as
brilliant as the mature bird, then became plain, like
the female, and afterwards reassumed its original

276 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

brilliancy, or if the woodpecker of either sex were
first green, then brown, and then green again. If
the young moorhen, having exchanged its scarlet
cere for a much less showy one, kept this latter
through life, we should, I suppose, assume that the
first had been acquired long ago, and then lost for
some reason, possibly because change of habits, or
circumstances, had made it more of a disadvantage,
by being conspicuous, than it had remained an
advantage, by being attractive. Are we, now, to
think that, having acquired, and then lost, the
crimson, the bird has subsequently reacquired it?
If so, what has been the reason for this? Were
green ceres, for some time, preferred to scarlet ones ?
This hardly seems probable, since the green, in this
instance, is pale and dull. However, birds are but
birds, and even amongst ourselves anything may be
fashionable, even downright ugliness, as is almost
equally well seen in a milliner’s shop or a picture
gallery. As far as the mere loss of beauty is con-
cerned, a parallel example is offered by the coot,
which, in its young state, is all-glorious, about the
head, with orange and purple, which changes, later,
to a uniform, sooty black. But the coot stops there ;
it does not get back, later on, the colours it has lost.

Young moorhens are almost, if not quite, as
precocious as chickens. Out of three that were in
the egg, the day before, I found two, once, sitting in
the nest, from which the shells had already been
removed. The nest was on a snag in the midst of
a small pond, or, rather, pool, so that I could not
get to it; but, as I walked up to the water’s edge,
both the chicks evinced anxiety, though in varying

MOTHER AND CHICK 277

degrees. One kept where it was, at the bottom of
the nest, the other crawled to the edge and lay with
its head partly over it, as though ready to take the
water, which, no doubt, both would have done,
had I been able to come nearer. Yet, in all
probability, as the pool lay in a deep hollow,
seldom visited, I was the first human being they
had either of them ever seen. The third egg was,
as yet, unhatched ; but coming, again, on the follow-
ing day, the nest was entirely empty, and I now
found pieces of the egg-shells, lying high and dry
upon the bank of the pool, to which they had
evidently been carried by the parent birds. In the
same way, it will be remembered, the moorhen that
destroyed its eggs, walked with them through the
water, to the bank, on which it placed three out of
the five—two at some distance away.
_ Though so precocious, yet the young moorhens
are, for some time, fed by their dams. I have seen
them run to them, with their wings up, over a raft
of water-plants, and then crouch and lift their heads
to one of their parents, from whom they received
a modicum of weed. Or they will sit down beside
their mother, and look up in her face in a pretty,
beseeching way. When frightened or disturbed,
they utter a little wheezy, querulous note, like
‘‘kew-ee, kew-ee,” which has a wonderful volume
of sound in it, for such little things. The mother
soon appears, and gives a little purring croon, after
which the cries cease ; or she may answer them with
a cry something like that of a partridge. She calls
them to her with a clucking note, uttered two or
three times together, and repeated at longer or

278 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

shorter intervals. When one sees this, one would
never doubt but that here is the special call-note of
the mother to the chicks. Nevertheless, I have
heard her thus clucking, whilst sitting on a first
brood of eggs, and this shows how careful one
ought to be in attributing a special and definite
significance to any cry uttered by an animal.
Besides the one which I have mentioned, young
moorhens make a little shrilly sound that has some-
thing, almost, of a cackle init. There isalso a little
“‘chillip, chillip’’; nor does this exhaust their
repertory. In fact they have considerable variety
of expression, even at this early age. They swim
as “to the manner born,’ nid-nodding like their
parents, but cannot progress against a stream that
is at all swift. One paddling with all its might,
neither advancing nor receding, and uttering, all the
while, its little querulous cry, is a common sight.
Up a steep bank they can climb with ease, and
they have a manner of leaning forward, when run-
ning, to an extent which makes them seem always
on the point of overbalancing, that is very funny to
see. For some time, they are accustomed to return
to the nest, after leaving it, and sit there with one
of the parent birds. When surprised, under these
circumstances, the mother (presumably), utters a
short, sharp, shrilly note, which is instantly fol-
lowed by another, equally short and much lower.
As she utters them she retreats, and the chicks, with
this warning, are left to themselves—to stay or to
follow her, as best they can.

Having often disturbed birds under these or
similar conditions, I can say confidently that the

THE FIRST BEGINNING 279

moorhen employs no ruse, to divert attention from
its young. The following circumstance, therefore,
as bearing on my theory of the origin of such
stratagems, especially interested me. In this case I
came suddenly upon a point of the stream where
the bank was precipitous, on which a moorhen flew
out upon the water, with a loud clacking note,
and then, after some very disturbed motions, swam
to the opposite shore, giving constant, violent
flirts of the tail, the white feathers of which were,
each time, broadened out, as when two male birds
fight, or threaten one another. In this state she
went but slowly, though most birds in her posi-
tion would have flown right off. On my coming
closer to the edge of the bank, six or seven young
chicks started out, all in different directions, as
though from a central point where they had been
sitting together on the water, as, no doubt, they had
been, the mother with them, just as though upon
the nest. No one could have thought that this
moorhen had any idea of diverting attention from
her young to herself. Sudden alarm, producing, at
first, a nervous shock, and then distress and appre-
hension, seemed to me, clearly, the cause of her
actions, which yet bore a rude resemblance to highly
specialised ones, and had much the same effect.
From such beginnings, in my opinion, and not
from successive ‘‘small doses of reason,” have the
most elaborate “‘ruses”’ been evolved and perfected.

In one or two other instances—in a wood-pigeon,
for example, and a pheasant—I have noticed the
strange effect—amounting, for a few moments, to a
sort of paralysis—which a very sudden surprise may

R

280 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

produce in a bird, even when its young do not
come into question. Moorhens, too, are excitable,
even as birds. Their nerves, I think, are highly
strung. I have often noticed that the report of a
gun in the distance—even in the far distance—will
be followed by half-a-dozen clanging cries from as
many birds—in fact, from as many as are about.
Especially is the hen moorhen of a nervous and
sensitive temperament, open to ‘“‘ thick-coming
fancies,’ varying from minute to minute. How
often have I watched her pacing, like a bride, on
cold, winter mornings, along the banks of our little
stream. Easy, elastic steps; head nodding and tail
flirting in unison. She nestles, a moment, on the
frosted grass, then rises and paces, as before, stops
now, stands on one leg a little, puts the other down,
again makes a step or two, then another pause,
glances about, thinks she will preen herself, but
does not, nestles once more, gives a glance over
her shoulder, half spies a danger, rises and tip-toes
out of sight. What a little bundle of caprices and
apprehensions! But they all become her, “‘all her
acts are queens.” Some special savour lies in each
motion, in each frequent flirt of the tail. Though
this flirtation of the tail is very habitual with moor-
hens, though nine times out of ten, almost, when
you see them either on land or water, they are flirt-
ing it, still they do not always do so. ‘“* Nonnun-
quam dormitat bonus Homerus’—‘* Non semper tendtt
arcum Apollo.” It can be quite still, that tail. I
have seen it so—even twenty together, whose owners
were reposefully browsing. But let there be amy
kind of emotion, almost, and heavens! how it flirts!

A. SCENE FROM “THE RIVALS” 28%

Moorhens are pugnacious birds, even in the
winter. At any time, one amongst several browsing
over the meadow-land, may make a sudden, bull-
like rush—its head down and held straight out—at
another, and this, often, from a considerable dis-
tance. The bird thus suddenly attacked generally
takes flight, and afterwards, asa solace to its feelings,
runs at some other one, and drives it about, in its
turn. This second bird will do the same by a third,
and thus, in wild nature, we have a curious repro-
duction—much to the credit of Sheridan—of that
scene in “The Rivals”? where Sir Anthony bullies
his son, his son the servant, and the servant the
page. ‘‘It is still the sport” in natural history,
to see poor humanity aped. Such likenesses are
humiliating but humorous, and, by making us
less proud, may do good. But chases like this
are not in the grand style. There is nothing
stately about them, no “‘ pride, pomp, and circum-
stance of glorious war’’—little, perhaps, of its
true spirit. As the spring comes on it is differ-
ent. Then male birds that, at three yards apart,
have been quietly feeding, walk, if they come
a yard nearer, with wary, measured steps, in a
crouched attitude, holding their heads low, and
with their tails swelled out. On the water these
mannerisms are still more marked, and then it is
that the bird’s true beauty—for beauty it is, and of
no mean order—is displayed. Two will lie all
along, facing each other, with the neck stretched
out, and the head and bill, which are in one line
with it, pointing straight forward, like the ram of a
war-ship. Their tails, however, are turned straight

282 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

up, in bold contrast with all the rest of them, so
that, with the white feathers which this part bears,
and which are now finely displayed, they have a
most striking and handsome appearance. ‘There is
a little bunch of these feathers—the under tail-
coverts—on either side of the true tail, and each of
these is frilled and expanded outwards, to the utmost
possible extent, which gives it the shape and appear-
ance of one half, or almost half, of a palm-leaf
fan. The tail is the whole fan, so that, what with
its size, and the graceful form that it has now
assumed, and the pure white contrasting with the
rich brown in the centre, it has become quite beau-
tiful, more so, I think, than the fan of any fan-tail
pigeon. Indeed the whole bird seems to be dif-
ferent, and looks more than twice as handsome as
it does under ordinary circumstances. Its spirit,
which is now exalted and warlike, “‘shines through ”
it, and, with its rich crimson bill, it glows and
burns on the water, like Cleopatra’s barge. A
fierce and fiery little prow this bill makes, indeed,
and there is the poop, too, for the elevated tail,
with the part of the body adjoining, which has, also,
a bold upward curve, has very much that appear-
ance. ‘Thus, in this most salient of attitudes, with
tail erect, and with beak and throat laid, equally
with the whole body, along the water, with proud
and swelling port the birds make little impetuous
rushes at one another, driving, each, their little
ripple before them, from the vermilion prow-point.
They circle one about another, approach and then
glide away again, looking, for all the world, like two
miniature war-ships of proud opposing nations: for

A WATER EPIC 283

their pride seems more than belongs to individuals
—it is like a national pride. Yet even so, and just
as great deeds seem about to be achieved, the two
may turn and swim off in a stately manner, their
tails still fanned, their heads, now, proudly erect,
each scorning, yet, also, respecting the other, each
seeming to say, “Satan, I know thy strength, and
thou know’st mine.” Otherwise, however, as the
upshot of all this warlike pomp, they close in
fierce and doubtful conflict. This is extremely
interesting to see. After lying, for some time,
with the points of their beaks almost touching, both
the birds make a spring, and, in a moment, are
sitting upright in the water, on their tails, so to
speak, and clawing forwards and downwards with
their feet. The object of each bird seems to be to
drag his adversary down in the water, so as to
drown him, but what always happens is that the
long claws interlock, and then, holding and pulling,
both of them fall backwards from their previously
upright position, and would be soon lying right on
their backs, were it not that, to prevent this, they
spread their wings on the water, so that they act as
a prop and support, which, together with their hold
on one another, prevents their sinking farther.
Their heads are still directed as much as possible
forward, and in this singular attitude they glare at
each other, presenting an appearance which one
would never have thought it possible they could
do, from seeing them in their more usual, everyday
life. They may sit thus, leaning backwards, as
though in an arm-chair, and inactive from necessity,
for a time which sometimes seems like several

\

284 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

minutes, but which is, more probably, several seconds.
Then, at length, with violent strugglings, they get
loose, and either instantly grapple again, or, as 1s
more usual, float about with the same proud display
as before, each seeming to breathe out menace for
the future, with present indignation at what has
just taken place.

Moorhens fight in just the same manner as coots,
and seeing what a very curious and uncommon-
looking manner this is, it might be thought that
it was specially adapted to the aquatic habits of
the two species. It is not. It 1s related to their
terrestrial ancestry, and the terrestrial portion of
their own lives. One has only to see them fighting
on land to become, at once, aware that they are
doing so in exactly the same way as they do in the
water, and, also, that this way, on land, is by no
means peculiar, but very much that in which cocks,
pheasants, partridges, and, indeed, most birds, fight.
For, jumping up against one another, moorhens, like
these, strike down with the feet, but, having no
spurs, use their long claws and toes in the way most
natural to them. And this, no doubt, their fathers
did before them, in deeper and deeper water, as
from land-rails they passed into water-rails, until,
at last, they were doing it when bottom was not to
be touched, and they had only water to leap up
from. Even the falling back with the claws inter-
locked has nothing specially aquatic in it. I have
seen moorhens do so in the meadows, and they then
spread out their wings, tosupport themselves on the
ground, just as they do in the water. The con-
tinual leaping up from the water, as from the

A SUGGESTIVE RESEMBLANCE 285

ground, is extremely noticeable, especially in the
coot, and, in fact, the strange appearance presented
by the whole thing—its Jizarrerie, which is very
great—is entirely due to our seeing something
which belongs, essentially, to the land, carried on
in another element, for which it is not really fitted.
How differently do the grebes fight—by diving, and
using the beak under water! Yet they, like the
coot, are only fin-footed, whilst the coot is almost
as good a diver as themselves. No one, however,
comparing the structure and general habits of the
two families, can doubt that the one is much more
distantly separated from its land ancestry than the
other. In both the coot and the moorhen, indeed,
we see an interesting example of the early stages of
an evolution, but the coot has gone farther than
the moorhen, for besides that it dives much better,
and swims out farther from the shore, it bathes
floating on the water, whilst the moorhen does so
only where it is shallow enough to stand.

Readers of ‘‘ The Naturalist in La Plata,” may
remember the account there given of the curious
screaming-dances—social, not sexual—of the Ype-
caha rails. ‘‘ First one bird among the rushes emits
a powerful cry, thrice repeated ; and this is a note of
invitation, quickly responded to by other birds from
all sides, as they hurriedly repair to the usual place.
. . . While screaming, the birds rush from side to
side, as if possessed with madness, the wings spread
and vibrating, the long beak wide open and raised
vertically.” Do moorhens do anything analogous
to this, anything that might in time grow into it,
or into something like it? In my opinion they do,

286 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

for I think that I have seen a hint of it, on a few
occasions, and on one in particular, of which I made
a note. Two birds, in this case, had been floating,
for some time, quietly on the water, when one of
them, suddenly, threw up its wings, waved them
violently and excitedly, and scudded, thus, rather
than flew, along the surface, into a reed-bed not far
off. Before it had got there the other moorhen,
first making a quick turn or two in the water, threw
up its wings also, and scudded after its friend, in
just the same way. Then came from the reeds,
and was continued for a little time, that melan-
choly-sounding, wailing, clucking note that I have
so often listened to, wondering what it might mean,
and convinced that it meant something interesting.
But if, “the heart of man at. a) foot’s’ distance
is unknowable,” as a Chinese proverb says—and
doubtless rightly—that it is, so is the whole of a
moorhen, when it has got as far as that, amongst
reeds and rushes. Here, however—and I have seen
something very similar, which began on the land—
we have the sudden, contagious excitement, @ propos
de rien it would seem, the motion of the wings—
not so very common with moorhens, under ordinary
circumstances—and the darting to a certain spot,
with the cries immediately proceeding from it: all
which, together, bears a not inconsiderable resem-
blance to the more finished performance of the
Ypecaha rail, a bird belonging to the same family
as the moorhen.

It is a pity, I think, that our commoner birds,
when related to foreign ones in which some
strikingly peculiar habit has long been matter for

SOMETHING TO LOOK FOR _ 287

wonder, should not be more carefully and con-
tinuously observed, with a view to detecting some-
thing in their own daily routine, which might throw
light on the origin of such eccentricities—something
either just starting along, or already some way on
the road to, the wonderful house at which their kins-
folk have arrived. Unfortunately, whilst the end
arouses great interest, the beginnings, or, even, some-
thing more than the beginnings, either escape obser-
vation altogether, or are not observed properly.
When a thing, by its saliency, has been forced upon
our notice, it is comparatively easy to find out more
about it ; ~~ when it is not known whether there
is anything or motyi/ but: only: ‘that, if there)lis, it
cannot be very remarkable, the initial incentive to
investigation seems wanting. Yet the starting-place
and the half-way house are as interesting as the final
goal, and our efforts to find the former, in particular,
ought to be unremitting. In a previous chapter,
I have given my reasons for thinking that we might
learn something in regard to the origin of the
bower-building instinct—that crowning wonder, per-
haps, of all that is wonderful in birds—by making
a closer study of rooks. But for this proper obser-
vatories are needed, and whilst those who possess
both the means of making these and the rookeries
in which to make them, are not, as a rule, interested,
those who are have too often neither the one nor
the other—I, at least, stand in this predicament.

It may be thought that the above-described
sudden excitement and activity on the part of
these two moorhens was, more probably, of a nuptial
character; but I do not myself think so, for the

288 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

nuptial antics—or, rather, the nuptial pose—of the
bird, is of a quite different character, being slow and
stiff, a sort of solemn formality. It belongs to the
land and not the water, where, indeed, it could
hardly be carried out. In making it, the two birds
advance, for a little—one behind the other—-with a
certain something peculiar and highly strung in their
gait and general appearance. Then the foremost
one stops, and whilst a strange rigidity seems to
possess every part of him, he slowly bends the head
downwards, till the beak, almost touching the ground,
points inwards towards himself. Meantime the
other bird walks on, with an increasingly stilted, and,
withal, stealthy-looking step, and when a little way
in front of its companion, makes the same pose in
even an exaggerated manner, curving the bill so
much inwards, with the head held so low down, that
it may even overbalance and have to make a quick
step forward, or two, in order to recover itself. Here
we have another example—and there are many—of
a nuptial pose—between which and true sexual
display it is hard, even if it be possible, to fix a
line of demarcation—common to both the sexes;
and, just as with the peewit, it is seen to the greatest
advantage, not before, but immediately after, coition,
in the act, or, rather, the two acts of which, the male
and female play interchangeable parts. There is
hermaphroditism, in fact, which must be real,
emotionally, if not functionally—for what else is
its raison d’étre ?

Surely facts such as these deserve more attention
than they seem to have received. To me it appears
that not only must they have a most important

THE SUBLIMINAL SELVES 289

bearing on the question of the nature and origin of
sexual display, and whether there is or is not,
amongst certain birds, an intersexual selection, but
that some of those odd facts, such as dual or multi-
plex personality, which have been made too ex-
clusively the subject of psychical research—or rather
of psychical societies—may receive, through them,
a truer explanation than that suggested by the
hypothesis of the subliminal self, in that they
may help us to see the true nature of that part
of us to which this name has been applied. Surely
if both the male and the female bird act, in an
important office for the performance of which they
are structurally distinct, as though they were one
and the same, this proves that the nature of either
sex, though, for the most part, it may lie latent in
the opposite one, must yet reside equally in each.
Here, then, we have a subliminal element, but as this
can only have been passed on, through individuals in
the bird’s ancestral line, by the ordinary laws of
inheritance, is it not likely that other characteristics
which seldom, or perhaps never, emerge, have also
been passed on, in the same way, thus making many
subliminal se/ves, instead of one subliminal se/f,
merely? Of what, indeed, is any self—is any
personality—made up, but of those countless ones
which have gone before it, in the direct line of its
ancestry? What is any bird or beast but a blend
between its parents, their parents, and the parents
before those parents, going back to the beginnings of
life? But that much—more, probably, than nineteen
twentieths—of this complicated mosaic lies latent, 1s
an admitted fact both in physiology and psychology,

290 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

to justify which assertion the very naming of the
word “reversion” is sufficient. But if this be a
true explanation for the animal, what excuse have
we for disregarding it, and dragging in a trans-
cendental element, in our own case? None what-
ever that I can see; but by excluding from their
purview—to use their own favourite word—every
species except the human one, the Psychical Society,
in my opinion, are making a gigantic error, through
which all their conclusions suffer more or less, so
that the whole speculative structure, reared on too
narrow a basis of fact and observation, will, one day,
come tumbling to the ground.

Why should so much be postulated, on the
strength of mysterious faculties existing in our-
selves, when equally mysterious, though less
peagiaal ones, exist in various animals? Can we,
for instance, say that the sense of direction (and this
is common to savage man and animals)’ is less
extraordinary than what we call clairvoyance, or
that the one is essentially different from the other?
And what is more mysterious than this (which I
have on good authority), that a certain spot
should, year after year for some forty years, be
chosen as a nesting-site by a pair of sparrow-hawks,
although, during many of these years, not oe only
of the breeding birds, but doth of them, have been shot
by the oame-keepers ? What is it tells the new
pair, next year, that, somewhere or other in the wide
world, a certain spot is left vacant for them? Again,
I have brought forward evidence to show that the

1 The facts of migration should be studied in regard to this,
See Professor Newton’s “A Dictionary of Birds,” pp. 562-570.

CONCEITED ASSUMPTION 291

same thought or desire can communicate itself, in-
stantaneously, to a number of birds, in a way diffi-
cult to account for, other than on the hypothesis of
thought-transference, or, as I should prefer to call
it, collective thinking. Who can imagine, however
—or, rather, why should we imagine—that faculties
which, though we may not be able to understand
them, yet do exist in animals, have become
developed in them by other than the ordinary
earth-laws of heredity and natural selection? It is,
indeed, easy to imagine that the power of con-
veying and receiving impressions, otherwise than
through specialised sense-organs, may have been—
and still be—of great advantage to creatures not
possessing these; and how can such structures have
come into being, except in relation to a certain
generalised capacity which was there before them?
Darwin, for instance, in speculating on the origin of
the eye, has to presuppose a sensitiveness to light
in the, as yet, eyeless organism. Again, it does not
seem impossible that the hypnotic state—or some-
thing resembling it—may be the normal one in low
forms of life, and this would make ordinary sleep,
which occurs for the most part when the waking
faculties are not needed, a return to that early semi-
conscious condition out of which a waking conscious-
ness has been evolved. Be this as it may, we ought
surely to assume that any sense or capacity, however
mysterious, with which animals are endowed, was
acquired by them on the same principles that others
which we better understand were; and, moreover,
where all is mystery—for ultimately we can explain
nothing—why should one thing in nature be deemed

292 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

more mysterious than another? It seems foolish to
make a wonder out of our own ignorance; which,
however, we are always doing. But, now, if such
powers and faculties as we have been considering,
transmitted, in a more or less latent condition, through
millions of generations that no longer needed them,
had come, at last, to man, they could, it seems prob-
able, only manifest themselves in him, through and
in connection with his own higher psychology ; just,
in fact, as sexual love does, for this, of course, is
essentially the same in man and beast. Yet we
have our novels and our plays. Thus, such endow-
ments, answering no longer to the lowly needs which
had brought them into being, would present, when
wrought into the skein of our human mentality, a
far higher and more exalted appearance, well calcu-
lated to put us in love with ourselves—never a very
difficult business—to the tune of such lines as ‘‘ We
feel that we are greater than we know,” “Out of
the deep, my child, out of the deep,” and many
another d’este jaez, which, though they issue from
the lips of great poets, may be born, none the less,
of mere human pride and complacency. Yet, all
the time, animal reversion, as opposed to godlike
development, might be, as I believe it is, the vera
causa of what seems so high and so holy.

Were the late Mr. Myers’ conception of the
subliminal self—a part of us belonging, as far as one
can understand the idea, not to this earth but to a
spiritual state of things beyond and without it, and
bringing with it intuitive knowledge and enlarged
powers, from this outer sea, these extra-territorial
waters—were, I say, this conception a true one, it

INSPIRED LIMITATIONS 293

is dificult to see why such knowledge and such
powers should always have stood in an ordered
relation to the various culture-states through which
man—the terrestrial or supraliminal part of him,
that is to say—has passed, and to his earthly
advantages and means of acquiring knowledge. It
is difficult to see why the subliminal part of such a
gifted race as the Greeks, though proportionately
high, yet knew, apparently, so much less than this
same sleeping partner in the joint-firm, so to speak,
of far less gifted, but later-living peoples: why
genius, which is ‘‘a welling-up of the subliminal
into the supraliminal region,” should bear, always,
the impress of its age, race, and country: why it is
governed by the law of deviation from an average,
as laid down by Galton: why it should so often be
ignorant in matters which ought to be well known to
the subliminal ego, as thus conceived of: why it
asserts what is false as frequently as what is true,
and with the same inspired eloquence:* why ‘‘the
demon of Socrates” was either ignorant of its own
nature, or else deceived Socrates, who of all men,
surely, was fitted to know the truth: why Aristotle
perceived less than Darwin: why Pythagoras grasped
only imperfectly what Copernicus saw fully: why no
other Greek astronomer had an inkling of the same
truths: why Shakespeares and Newtons do not
spring out of low savage tribes: why the negro

1 Compare, for instance, with the “‘Out of the Deeps,” &c.,
these lines of Catullus—

“ Soles occidere, et redire possunt,
Nobis, cum semel occidit brevis lux
Nox est perpetua una dormenda.”

294. BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

race has produced no man higher than Toussaint
Ouverture, who to the giants of the Aryan stock
is as Ben Nevis to Mount Everest: and so on, and
so on—a multitude of difficulties, as it appears to
me, which the theory has neither answered, nor, as
far as I know, has yet been called upon to answer.

I really do wish that writers upon psychical
subjects would sometimes make an allusion to the
animal world—the very existence of which one
might, almost, suppose they had forgotten. The
perpetual ignoring of so vast a matter—as though
one were to go about, affecting not to breathe—is
not only irritating, but calculated to produce a bad
impression. Surely the originator or maintainer of
any view or doctrine of the nature and immortal
destinies of man, ought to be delighted to enforce
his arguments by showing that they are applicable,
not to man only, but to millions of animals, to
whom, as we all now very well know, he is more or
less closely related. When, therefore, we constantly
miss this most natural and necessary extension, it is
dificult not to think that some flaw, some weak
point in the hypothesis—and, if so, what a weak
one !—is being carefully avoided. It 1s amusing to
contrast the space which animals occupy in such a
work as Darwin’s ‘‘ Descent of Man” with that
allotted to them—to be counted not by pages, but
lines—in those two huge volumes of the late Mr.
Myers’ “Human Personality and its Survival of
Physical Death.” Yet, as clearly as man’s body, in
the former work, is shown to have been evolved out
of the bodies of animals, so clearly is his mind
demonstrated to have come to him through their

MEGALOMANNIA 295

minds. ‘That, mentally and corporeaily, we are no
more nor less than the chief animal in this world, is
now indeed, a proven and, scientifically speaking,
an admitted thing; and I think it is time that those
who, with scientific pretensions, seem yearning, more
and more, to spell man with a capital M, should be
called upon to state their views in regard to that
mighty assemblage of beings, but for which he (or
He) would never have appeared here at all, yet
which, notwithstanding, they seem determined to
ignore.

DABCHICKS AND NEST

CPAP LER al

ONE evening in June 1901—the 6th, to be precise
—I was walking near Tuddenham, where a big lane
crosses a little stream by a rustic bridge, and
stopped to lean against the palings on one side.
Looking along the water, I saw, but hardly noticed,
what looked like a snag or stump, round which
some weeds and débris had accumulated. All at
once, my eye caught something move on this, and,
turning the glasses upon it, I at once saw that a
dabchick was sitting on its nest. I watched it, for a
little, and as it had built within full view of the
roadside, so it was evident that it was not in the
smallest degree alarmed by my presence, though,
under other circumstances, it would certainly have
stolen away before I was within the distance. This

was about 7.15, and at 7.30 I saw another dabchick
296

A PAIR OF DABCHICKS 297

—the male, as I will assume, and which, I think, is
probable—swimming up to the nest. It brought
some weeds in its bill, which it gave to the sitting
bird, who took and laid them on the nest; and
now the male commenced diving, in a quick, active,
brisk little way, each time, upon coming up, bring-
ing a little more weed to the nest, which he some-
times placed himself, sometimes gave to the female.
Several times he passed right under the nest, from
side to side. I now made a slight detour, and
creeping up behind a hedge, found, when I raised
my head, that both the birds had disappeared. Yet
I was only a few paces nearer than the roadway,
which shows how much habit had to do with
making the birds feel secure. Walking, now, along
the bank of the stream, I examined the nest more
closely. It was built, I found, on the but just
emerging end of a water-logged branch, the butt of
which rested on the bottom. No eggs were visible,
but I could see, very well, where they had been
most efficiently covered over, according to the bird’s
usual, but by no means invariable, habit. Upon
my going back to the roadway, and standing
where I had been before, one of the birds almost
immediately reappeared, and swimming boldly up
to the nest, leapt on to it as does the great crested
erebe, but in a less lithe, and more dumpy manner.
Then, still standing, it removed, with its bill, the
weeds lately placed there, putting a bit here and
a bit there, with a quick side-to-side motion of the
head, and then sank down amongst them, evidently
on the eggs. I left at 8.15. There had been no
change on the nest, but I may have missed this, by
S

298 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

alarming the birds, nor can I be quite sure whether
it was the same bird that went back to it. The
nest of these dabchicks seemed to me to be a larger
structure, in proportion to their size, than those of
the crested grebes which I had watched last year.
It rose, I thought, higher above the water, and was
less flat, having more a gourd or cocoa-nut shape.
Towards the summit it narrowed, so that the bird
sat upon a round, blunt pinnacle.

At 7 next morning I found the bird—that is to
say, one of them—still upon the nest, and, shortly
afterwards, a boy drove some cows along a broad
margin of meadow, skirting the stream opposite to
where it was, so that he passed a good deal nearer
to it than I had crept up yesterday. It, however,
did not move, and was quite unnoticed by the boy.
Afterwards, I walked along the same margin, myself,
and sat down upon a willow stump, in full view of
the bird, in hopes to see it cover its eggs, should it
grow nervous and leave them. For a few minutes,
it sat still on the nest, and then, all at once, jumped
up and took the water, without arranging the
weeds at all, leaving the eggs, therefore, uncovered.
Instantly on entering the water, it dived, and I saw
nothing more of it whilst I remained seated on the
stump. But as soon as I went back to my place—
almost the moment I was there—up it came quite
close to the nest, dived again, emerged on the other
side, and then, swimming back to it, jumped on, and
reseated itself, without first removing any weeds—
thus confirming my previous observation. Shortly
afterwards the partner bird appeared, dipping up,

suddenly, not very far from the nest, and, for some

A LITTLE PENGUIN’ 299

little time, he dived and brought weeds to it, as he
did the other night. Then the female—who had,
probably, sat all night, and would not have left till
now, had I not disturbed her—came off, diving as
she entered the water, and disappearing from that
moment. The male, who was not far from the
nest, swam to it, and took her place, where I left
him, shortly afterwards, at 8.35. The eggs had
been left uncovered by the female when she went,
this last time, and this seems natural, as she, no
doubt, knew the male had come to relieve her.

_ Next morning I approached the stream from the
Herringswell direction, and crept up behind the
bushes, on the bank, without having once—so it
seemed to me—been in view of the bird, which I
had no doubt would be in its accustomed place.
However, as soon as, peeping through, I could see
the nest, I saw that it was empty. On going to the
gate and waiting for some ten minutes, the bird
appeared as before, and, jumping up, commenced
rapidly to remove the weeds from the eggs, standing
up like a penguin, and with the same hurried,
excited little manner that I had noticed on the first
occasion of its doing so. Not only had it seen me,
therefore, or become aware of my presence, but it
had had time to cover its eggs, and this very effi-
ciently, to judge by the amount of weed it threw
aside. After this I was nearly a week away, and, on
visiting the nest again, nothing fresh happened, ex-
cept that the two birds made, in the water, that
little rejoicing together which I have described in
the last chapter. The same note is uttered, there-
fore, and the same little scene enacted between

300 ~ BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

them, summer and winter, and in whatever occu-
pation they are engaged. Both on this and another
occasion, the sitting bird, when I walked down the
bank, went off the nest without covering the eggs,
the first time letting me get quite near, before going,
and, the next, taking alarm whilst I was still at some
distance. It seems odd that it did not, in either
instance, conceal the eggs and steal off without
waiting. To suppose that it thought itself ob-
served, and that, therefore, concealment was of no
use, would be to credit it with greater powers of
reflection than I feel inclined to do. I rather look
upon the habit as a fluctuating and unintelligent
one, and in the continuation of the building and
arranging of the nest, after incubation has begun,
we probably see its origin. As bearing upon this
view, it is, I think, worth recording that upon this
last occasion of their change on the nest, the bird
that relieved its partner—the male, as I fancy—
pulled about and arranged the weeds, after jumping
up, though the eggs had been left uncovered, the
female, as usual, going off suddenly, without the
smallest halt or pause. Once let the birds become
accustomed to pull about the weeds of the nest,
before leaving and settling down upon the eggs,
and natural selection would do the rest. The eggs
which were most often covered would have the best
chance of being hatched, and the uncovering them
would be a matter of necessity. Here, again, I can
see no room for those little steps or pinches of
intelligence, on which instincts, according to the
prevailing view, are supposed to have been built up.
The prevalence and strength of mere meaningless

A WEEDY MEAL 301

habits amongst animals, as well as amongst our-
selves, seems to me to have been too much over-
looked. That the additions made by the dabchick
——as well as the crested grebe—to the nest, during
incubation, and the frequent pulling of it about,
answer no real purpose, and might well be dispensed
with, I have, myself, no doubt.

On the last of these two visits, the male bird
jumped once upon the nest, whilst the female was
still sitting, and took his place as she went off.
Next day, I noticed something quite small move
upon the nest, against, and partly under, the sitting
bird. With the glasses I at once made this out to
be a chick, which was sitting beneath the rump and
between the wing-tips of the dam, with its head
looking the contrary way to hers. As the male,
now, swam up, the chick leaned forward and
stretched out its neck, whilst he, doing the same
upwards over the nest’s rim, the tips of their two
bills just touched, or seemed to me to do so. The
old bird had just been dipping for weeds, and may
have had a little in his bill, but I could not, actually,
see that any feeding took place. Possibly that was
not the idea. The male then swam out, and con-
tinued, for some time, to dip about for weed, and to
place it on the nest. Then, again, he stretched his
neck up—inquiringly, as it were—towards the little
chick, who leaned out and down to him, as before—-
but, this time, the bills did not touch. This was on
the 18th. On the 15th the eggs were still un-
hatched, as I had seen all four of them lying quite
exposed in the nest; but some may have been
hatched on the 17th, when the male, for the first

302 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

time that I had seen, jumped up on the nest whilst
the female was still there. On the 20th, coming
again at 8 in the evening, I find the bird on the
nest, but on going and sitting down on the willow-
stump I have mentioned, it takes the water and
dives. JI see no young ones on the water, and, on
going to the nest, find it empty, with the exception
of one uncovered egg. The shells of the others lie
at the bottom of the stream. Going to the gate,
again, the bird soon returns, dives, puts some weed
on the nest, then swims away, and, as a joyous little
hinny arises, I see the other swimming up, and it 1s,
instantly, apparent that the chicks are on this one’s
back, for it shows unnaturally big, and high above
the water. She comes to the nest, and, in leaping
on to it, shakes them off—three, as I think—into
the water, from which, after having paddled about, a
little, they climb up and join her. In a few minutes,
the partner bird swims up again, and stretching up its
neck, in the gentle little way that it has before done,
I feel sure that the chicks are being fed, though I
cannot actually see that they are, owing to their being
on the wrong side of their dam.

Next day I come at 4 in the morning, and it is
as though there had been no interval between this
and my last entry, for the one bird still sits on the
nest with the chicks, whilst the other goes to and
fro from it, feeding them. This time I see it do
sO, once, quite clearly. A little morsel of weed is
presented on the tip of the bill, which the chick
receives and eats, but just after this it goes off, with
the others, on the back of the mother. The latter
does not go far, but soon stops, and remains quite

A FAMILY SCENE 303

still on the weeds and water, as though upon the
nest—a thing which I have seen before. In about a
quarter of an hour, the other bird emerges from
some rushes, and then, the two swimming to meet
each other, there is a most joyous and long-lasting
little hinny between them—as pretty a little scene
of rejoicing as ever one saw. It is a family scene,
for the chicks are still on the back of the mother,
which they have not once left. Having fully ex-
pressed themselves, the two parents separate, and
the mother, swimming, still with her burden, to the
nest, springs up on it, and, in her usual quick and
active manner, goes through the weed-removing pro-
cess, during the whole of which the chicks still
cling to her, for they have not been flung off in her
violent ascent. There are two of them—perhaps
three—but of this I cannot be sure. The fourth
egg, at any rate, must be still unhatched, for from
what else can the weeds have just been removed?
At 5.20 the bird goes off, and, for a moment, the
two chicks are swimming by her. One of them
goes out to a tiny distance, but returns imme-
diately, as though drawn in by a string—quite a
curious appearance. ‘They then press to, and crawl
upon the mother, in an almost parasitical way, and,
when on, I cannot distinguish them from her,
though there is an unusual bigness and fluffiness at
the extremity of her back, where they both cling,
one at each side, projecting, I think, a little be-
yond her body. Now, too, I fancy I can detect a
third, higher up towards her neck. ‘The nest has
been left uncovered, and at 6, no bird having
come to it again, I go to look at it, and find, as

304 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

before, one brown egg lying in the cup, and per-
fectly exposed. All three chicks, therefore, must
have been on the back of the mother, who, it is
clear now, does not invariably cover the eggs, when
leaving them, even though she is quite at her ease,
and does not mean to return for some time. This
can have nothing to do with three out of the four
eggs having been hatched, for, as we have just seen,
the one egg was covered by the bird when she left
the nest the time before. I have settled it, I think,
now, by my observations, that, neither with the great
crested grebe nor the dabchick, is the covering of
the eggs, on leaving the nest, invariable. In walkin

up the stream, after this, I got a glimpse of both the
dabchicks, before they dived, one after the other.
If the chicks were still upon the back of one—as I
make no doubt they were—they must have been
taken down with it. Next day I watched the family
during the greater part of the morning, and was
fortunate in seeing one of the chicks fed from the
water, whilst sitting in the nest, on the back of its
other parent. This was a delightfully distinct view.
There was a small piece of light green weed at the
tip of the parent’s bill, and this the chick first
tasted, as it were, and then swallowed. ‘There were
several changes on the nest, and the birds, between
them, left it five times, but only covered the egg
twice. However, on two of the occasions when it
was left bare, the other bird quickly appeared and
mounted the nest, whilst, on the third, the bird
leaving remained close to it, till she went on again.
Always, or almost always, the chicks were on the
back of one or other of the birds, mostly that of one,

MATRIMONIAL DUETS 305

which I took to be the female. When she jumped
up, they had to do the best they could, and once,
whilst the one was flung off, the other kept its
place like a good rider leaping a horse, and did so
all the while the weeds were being cleared away, in
spite of the mother’s upright attitude—for, between
each jerk from side to side, she stood as straight as
a little penguin. I was unable to make out more
than two chicks. Though, mostly, on the parental
back, they sometimes swam for a little, and, once, I
saw the black little leg of one of them come out of
the water, and waggle in the air, in the way in which
the adult crested grebe is so fond of doing. When
the mother sat quite motionless in the water, with
her head thrown back, and her chicks upon her, she
looked exactly as when sitting on the nest, so that
one might have thought she was, and that it was
slightly submerged. The male, on these occasions,
would sometimes pay her a visit, and the chicks,
getting down, would swim up to him, and then
would come the little thin, pan-piping, joyous duet
between their two dams—a pretty, peaceful scene
this, whilst statesmen (save the mark!) are making
wars and devastating countries.

“Clanging fights and flaming towns, and sinking ships and

praying hands.”

How much good might be done in the world,
could such people, all at once, when about to
be mischievous, be turned into dabchicks!* Soon
after this the birds got away from the nest, leaving
the one egg in it unhatched, and my observations
came, in consequence, to an end. The one egg,

1 “Translated,” like Bottom—but more radically.

306 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

doubtless, was addled, and as I never could clearly
make out more than two chicks together, I suppose
this must have been the case with another of them,
too. Ifso, however, it seems strange that this one
should have disappeared, whilst the birds continued,
for some time, to sit on the other.

On the 18th of the following August I found
another nest, in which was one chick, together with
three eggs still unhatched. It lay but just off the
bank, and cover was afforded by some spreading
willow-bushes. It was only by standing amidst
these, however, that I could just see the nest,
beyond a thin fringe of reeds, which guarded it.
This was not very comfortable, so as the willows
were too thin and flexible to climb, and my house
was not very far off, I walked back, and came, again,
after dark, with a pair of Hatherley steps, which I
set up amongst the willows, where it remained for
the next three weeks, and made a capital tower of
observation, from which I could look right down
into the nest, at only a few yards distance. At
these very close quarters, and never once suspected,
I was witness, day by day, of such little scenes as I
have described, so that if I had been one of the
birds themselves, I could hardly have gained a more
intimate knowledge of them, as far as seeing was
concerned. My near horizon was, indeed, limited
almost to the nest itself, but by mounting the steps
higher, or by standing on them, I could get a very
good view, both up and down the stream, and was
yet so well concealed that once a flock of doves
flew into the bushes, just about me, and remained
there quite unsuspicious. These steps, indeed,

A GOOD OBSERVATORY 307

placed overnight, make a capital observatory, for, as
they stand upright, they do not need to be leant
against anything, and their thin, open wood-work is
indistinguishable amidst any growth that attains
their own height. They are, moreover, comfortable
either to sit or stand on.

Returning to the dabchicks, two out of the three
remaining eggs were hatched out in as many days,
but the last one, as in the case of the first nest I had
watched, remained as it was for several] days longer,
nor can I, from my notes, make out whether it was
finally hatched, or not." However, as I say that I
feel sure it was, it must, I suppose, have disappeared
from the nest, but I never saw more than three
chicks together, either with one or both of the old
birds. Later on, the parents became more separated,
and I then never saw more than two chicks with
either, which makes me think that, at this stage, they
divide the care of the young between them. They
had then, for some time, ceased to resort to the nest,
but as long as they continued to do so, they shared
their responsibilities in another way, for whilst one
of them, which I took to be the female, generally
sat in the nest with the chicks upon her back, the
other—the male—used to come to it and feed
them. This he did more assiduously than any bird
that I have ever seen discharge the office, for
between 6 and 7, one evening, he had fed them
forty times. After that I ceased to count, but he
continued his ministrations in the same eager
manner, for another three-quarters of an hour.
To get the weed, he generally dived, and, on

1 But see pp. 319, 320.

308 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

approaching the nest, with it, would make a little
‘peep, peeping” note, on which two or three little
red bills would be thrust out from under the
mother’s wings, followed by their respective heads
and bodies, as all, or some, of them came scrambling
down. The instant the weed had been given them,
they all scrambled up again, to disappear entirely
under the little tent of the wings. As this took ©
place, on an average, every minute and a half, and
often much more quickly, the animation and charm
of the scene may be imagined. The male showed
the greatest eagerness in performing this prime
duty, and if ever he was unable, as sometimes
happened, to reach any of the chicks over the
rounded bastion of the nest, he would get quite
excited, and make little darts up at it, stretching to
the utmost, and uttering his little « peep, peep

If this proved unsuccessful, he would go anxiously
round to another side of the nest, and feed them
from there. At other times the chicks were fed
in the water, on which the weed was sometimes
dropped for them, the parent having first helped
to soften it—as it seemed to me—by biting it about
in the end of his bill. Sometimes, too, the weed
was laid on the edge of the nest, but, as a rule, the
chick received it from the tip of the parent’s beak.
As I say, I never saw more than the three chicks,
and if the fourth was hatched, the birds must have
left the nest immediately afterwards, as is, I believe,
their custom. Of the three, two would generally
sit together, under the one wing of the mother, the ,
third being under the other, from which one may
be sure that she carries all four of them, two

“DEAREST CHUCK” 309

under each. It struck me, several times, that there
was a sort of natural cavity, or hollow, in the old
bird’s back, under each wing, with a corresponding
arch in the wing itself, making, as it were, a little
tent or domed chamber, for the chicks to sit in. Of
this, however, I cannot be quite sure, but it is such a
confirmed habit of the chicks to sit on the mother’s
back, beneath her wings, that there would be nothing,
I think, very surprising init. Never, one may almost
say—but, at any rate, “‘ hardly ever ’—do the chicks
sit beside the mother, in the nest in which they were
born (the limitation, as it will be seen later on, is a
necessary one). It is as proper to them to sit on
the mother as it is to her to sit on the nest.

When off duty—that is to say, when not feeding
the chicks—the male would sometimes make pretty
lengthy excursions up the stream, as would the
mother, too, when not sitting—up stream, I say,
because they never seemed to go far down it.
More often, however, he would stay about, in the
neighbourhood of the nest, and then the sitting
bird would sometimes call him up to it, by uttering
a very soft and low note. He would then appear,
stealing amongst the reeds with a look of gentle
inquiry, and, on gaining the nest, both birds to-
gether would make a curious little soft clucking, or
rather chucking, noise, expressive of love and con-
tent. ‘‘ Dearest chuck!” they always seemed to me
to say, and whether they did or not, that, I am
sure, is what they meant. Coming, every day, to my
little watch-tower, and sitting there, sometimes, for
hours together, I thought, at the end of a week,
that I had seen everything in connection with these

310 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

birds’ care of their young, but there was one matter
which I had yet to learn. I had, indeed, already
had a hint of it, with the last pair of birds, besides
that it seemed to me, on general principles, to be
likely, but the optical proof had been wanting.
One day, however, whilst walking quietly up the
stream, I met one of my pair of dabchicks—the
mother, as I think—swimming down it. She saw
me at the same time as I did her, and swam to
shelter, but she was not much alarmed, and bending
amongst the reeds till my face was only on a level
with their tops, I waited to see her again. Soon
she appeared, coming softly towards me, but seeming
to scrutinise the bank sharply, and, all at once, spying
me, down she went, with extraordinary force and
velocity, so that a little shower of spray—and,
indeed, more than spray—was flung quite high into
the air. I had not seen a sign of the chicks, and
it seemed hardly possible that they could be on her
back, all the time—but we shall see. Coming up,
after her dive, turned round the other way, she
swam steadily up the stream, and I soon lost her,
round a bend of it. In order to see her again, and
as a means of allaying her fears, I now climbed into
a willow-tree, and from here I saw her, resting, in a
pretty little pool of the stream. For ten minutes
or more, now, with the glasses full upon her, I could
see no sign of a chick, except, perhaps, that the
wings were a trifle raised—but nothing appeared
underneath them. All at once, however, I caught
something ; there was a motion, a struggling, and
then a little red bill and round black head appeared,
thrust out between the two wings, in the dip of the

FAMILY DIVING 311

neck. ‘Then a second head showed itself, and, at
last, with a peep here, and a scramble there, I made
out all three. I am not quite sure of this, however,
when the partner bird—the male, as I think him—
swims into the pool, and instantly, as he appears, a
chick tumbles down the mother, and comes swimming
towards him. It is fed on the water, and, directly,
afterwards the old bird dives several times in
succession, at the end of which he has a piece of
weed in his bill, which he reaches to the chick.
The chick is thus fed several times, and then climbs
on to his father’s back, who, almost before he is
under the wing, dives with him. On coming up,
again, he rises a little in the water, and shakes him-
self violently, but the chick is not thrown off—
he sits tight all the time. A second chick now
swims up from the mother, and is fed in just the
same way. ‘Then, as the male dives again, the first
chick becomes detached, and the two are on the
water together. Both are soon fed, the male diving
for them as he did before, and, whilst this is going
on, I see the third chick, looking out between the
Wings of its mother. All three, then, have been on
her back, and there, without the smallest doubt,
they were, when she dived down in that tremendously
sudden manner. It is a pity I had not seen them
get up, first, as in the case of the male, and, also, that
I lost sight of the female for a few moments, but
it is quite improbable that the chicks should have
been waiting, somewhere, for the mother, and taken
their seats during the one little break in the
continuity of my observations. At this early age
the chicks are hardly ever to be seen without

312 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

one of the parents, even in the nest—I doubt,
indeed, if I have ever seen them there alone.

The dabchick, therefore, is in the habit, not only
of swimming with all its family on its back, and
quite invisible, but of diving with them thus, too,
and so accustomed are the chicks to be carried, or to
sit, in this way, that during the early days of their
life they may almost be said to lead a parasitical
existence. Though they mount upon either parent,
yet it has seemed to me that they prefer one to the
other, and I think it more likely, on the whole, that
the one who sits habitually with them, thus perched,
in the nest, is the mother rather than the father,
though, if so, it is the latter who does most of the
feeding. It has appeared to me, too, though it
may be mere fancy, that the chicks not only prefer
the mother’s back, but that they find more difficulty
in getting upon the male’s. ‘Thus, upon the last
occasion mentioned, when two out of the three left
the mother, to go to the father, the first one to get
up on him only succeeded in doing so after a great
deal of exertion, whilst the last was struggling for
such a very long time that I began to think he
never would succeed, and when, at last, he did, he
lay, for a little, in full view, as though exhausted.
It is natural, of course, that the chicks should leave
either parent, to be fed by the other, but I remember,
once, when they happened to be sitting on the male’s
back, in the nest—which was unusual—at one soft
sound from the mother, they all flung themselves
off it, into the nest, and scrambled up with equal
haste on to hers, as soon as she had taken her place

there, which she did directly. Possibly they

RUDIMENTARY BUT VISIBLE = 313

thought they would be fed, and were hungry, but
they did not seem disappointed, though they were
not, nor had I ever seen so much enthusiasm shown
before. However, as I say, this may be mere fancy,
but whether they prefer it or not, they certainly do
seem to sit much more on one parent, than on the
other. It would be difficult to imagine a more com-
fortable seat than the back of either must be. It is like
a large, flat powder-puff—but a frightened powder-
puff, with its fluff standing all on end—whilst right
upon it, though, of course, far back, a tiny little
brush of a tail stands bolt upright. The wings,
as a rule, cover most of this, and it is under their
awning that the chicks, mostly, live. The chicks
are pretty little things. At first they look black
all over, but, on closer inspection, they are seen to
be striped longitudinally, like little tigers—black
and a soft, greyish yellow or buff—the beak being
a mahogany red. The young of the great crested
grebe are striped like this, also. Probably it is a
family pattern, and represents the ancestral colora-
tion, like the tartan of a Highlander, which, how-
ever, lasts through life—or used to.

On the 13th of August, after having watched
them from the 8th, I made a discovery in regard
to this pair of dabchicks, and thus, through them,
the species, similar to that I had made with the
moorhens, in my pond—similar, but not, I think,
quite the same—and when I say a discovery, I mean,
of course, that it was one for myself, which 1s, in-
deed, all Icare about. I had got to my watch-tower
before it was light, and could not, for some time,

make out the nest. At length, when I could see
©

ox Be BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

it, I saw the one white egg lying in it, which
showed me that the bird was not there. Shortly
afterwards, I heard both of them near the nest, and
thought they would soon appear. As they did not,
however, but seemed to keep in a spot which,
though only a few paces off, was yet invisible from
where I sat, I came down and climbed a willow-tree,
commanding a view of it. I then saw the female
(as I think) floating, or, rather, sitting, on the water,
and, after a while, the male came up, and one of the
chicks, going to him from off her back, was fed in
the usual way. The female then—owing, perhaps,
to the noise which I could not help making, for I
was most uncomfortably situated, and the willow,
though thin, was full of dead branches which kept
snapping—swam up the stream. ‘The male, how-
ever, remains, and, all at once, greatly to my
surprise and interest, jumps up upon what I now
see to be another nest, or nest-like structure,
though I have not noticed it there before. Hardly
is he on, when he jumps off again, and this he
does two or three times more, at short intervals, in
a restless, nervous sort of way. Having jumped
down for the last time, he swims a little out, and
appears, to my alarmed imagination, to keep
glancing up into the tree, where I now, however,
though it is very difficult to do so, keep perfectly
still, At length, losing his suspicions, he floats
again on the water, whilst the chick swims out
from him, and then climbs again on his back.
Then comes an interchange of ideas, or, at any
rate, feelings, between him and his mate. He
gives a little ‘‘ chook-a-chook-a-chook-a,” and this

A DISCOVERY rs

is answered, from the neighbourhood of the nest,
by a similar note. Pleased, he rejoins, is again
responded to, the ‘“‘ chook-a-chook-a” becomes
quicker, higher, shriller, and, all at once, both birds
—each at its separate place—break into that little
glad duet which I have mentioned so often, but
cannot help mentioning here again. Then, swim-
ming once more to the pseudo-nest, the male again
jumps up on to, or, rather, into it, and remains
sitting there, for some little time. The little
chick has swum beside him to it, and now makes
strenuous efforts to climb up after his dam, but he
does not quite succeed, though I think, in time, he
would have done, had not the latter come off, when
he, at once, follows him. The chicks, however,
had never had any difficulty in getting on to the
real nest. !

The discomfort of my position approaching, now,
to the dignity of torture, I was obliged to get out of
it, and, in doing so, made so much noise that the bird
swam off, up the stream. Upon this I came down
and examined the new nest, which was close to the
bank. It was quite different to the other, being
six or eight inches high, round the edge, with a
deep depression in the centre, and seemed made,
altogether, of the flags amongst which it was
situated, some of the growing ones being bent
inwards, so as to enter into its construction. But
this is a moorhen’s nest and not a dabchick’s, which
latter is formed of dank and rotten weeds, fished
up by the birds from the bottom of the water. It
is made flatter, moreover, and does not rise so high
above the surface of the stream, though in both

316 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

these points there is, no doubt, considerable variation.
Here, then, was something new in the domestic
life of the dabchick. For two days after this I was
too busy elsewhere to come to the stream, but on the
morning of the third I got there about 6.30, and
climbed into the same tree as before. I did not
see either of the dabchicks, but heard them dipping
about, some way lower down the stream, as | had
before, when they did not come to the nest. I
therefore came down and climbed another tree, and,
as soon as I had done so, I saw a little beyond
me-—about as far from the first pseudo-nest as
the latter was from the nest itself—-two other
structures, a few feet from each other, both of
which had more or less the look of a moorhen’s
nest. In one of these sat, with an air of absolute
proprietorship, a dabchick with one chick, and here
they remained till the partner bird swam up, a little
while afterwards, when they came off, and there
was the usual pretty scene. The chick had been
sitting, not, as it appeared to me, in the basket or
depression of the nest, but only just beyond the
edge of it, as though—and this I had noticed on
the former occasion—it had struggled up as high as
it could, and there remained.

From now till about a quarter to 9, when they
all went-off, and I came down, both the old birds
frequently ascended and sat in this nest, whilst
one or other of the chicks—for there were now
two, if not three—tried to do so too, but never
succeeded in getting quite over the edge of it,
though struggling to accomplish this feat. The
old birds, too, had necessarily to make a much

DABCHICKS IN MOORHEN’S NEST 317

more vigorous and higher jump than they were
accustomed to take when getting into their real
nest. All this seemed to point to its being a
moorhen’s and not a dabchick’s nest, and when I
came down and looked at it more closely—it being
only a few feet from the bank—that is what it
seemed to be. The other nest near it seemed, still
more obviously, a moorhen’s, but this only because
it was newly made, and had not yet been pressed
down. In both, the growing flags had been turned
down, to aid in the construction. Now, both these
nests were near to the one which I had been watch-
ing, and one of them was not more than a few
paces off. If we say a dozen—and I do not think
it could have been more—then the three lay along
a length of twenty-four paces of the stream, nor
was there anything in the configuration of the latter,
to cut off the owners of the one from those of the
others. It seems, indeed, quite impossible that in
this tiny little stream, which I was constantly
scanning, up and down, I should never have seen
more than one pair of dabchicks, at the same time,
had three, or even two, pairs of them built within
so limited an area. There was, indeed, one other
pair—and, I think, from having watched the place
through the winter, only one—in this lower part
of the stream, but in another reach of it, some little
way off, where they had a nest of their own. In
this nest I had seen one of them sitting with its
chick, which was about half-grown, and therefore
more than twice the size of the largest of my own
birds’ brood. I can, therefore, have no doubt that
the birds I saw in these two later-used extra nests,

318 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

were the same that I had watched hatching out
their eggs in the original one, nor did I ever see ~
them on the latter, after they had once left it for
the others.

It seems, then, either that the dabchick must make,
besides the true nest in which the eggs are laid, one
or more other ones of a different type, and which
are put to a different use; or else, that it habitually
uses those of the moorhen, for this purpose—to sit
in, namely, after leaving its own—thus taking
advantage of the latter bird’s habit of building
several nests. I believe, myself, that the two extra
nests, in which I saw my dabchicks, were moorhen’s
nests, for not only did they look like them, but once,
when their usurpers were away, I saw two large
moorhen chicks climb, first into one, and then the
other; and, on another occasion, they were driven
away from both of them by the mother dabchick,
who pursued them in fierce little rushes through the
water, with her family on her back. Some may
think that I have taken a long time to make out a
simple matter. What more natural than that a
mass of reeds and rushes—which is all a moorhen’s
nest is—should sometimes serve as a resting-place for
other reed-haunting birds? But there is a difference
between something casual and something habitual,
and everything I saw in the case of these two dab-
chicks suggested a regular practice. Parasitism in one
species of bird, in regard to the nest of another,
though not extending to the loss of the building or
incubatory instinct, is almost as interesting as if it
did, for we see in it a possible stage in a process by
which this might be reached.

THE ADDLED EGG 319
Why should the dabchick, after the hatching of its

eggs, leave its own nest, in which it has hitherto sat,
and sit in those of another bird ? I examined the nest
thus deserted, and found it to be sinking down in the
water, which was still more the case with some other
and older ones. This, I believe, is the answer to the
above question. The bird’s own nest is no longer
quite comfortable, and others are to hand which are
more so. Having stayed, therefore, as long as its
incubatory instinct prompts it to, it resorts to these,
and being no longer tied to one, uses several. But a
habit at one time of the year, might be extended to
another time, and if certain dabchicks were to take
to sitting in the nests of moorhens, before they had
made their own, some of these birds, whose nest-
building instinct was weaker than in most, or who,
finding themselves in a nest, imagined that they had
made it themselves—which, I think, is possible—
might conceivably lay their eggs there. It would
then, in my opinion, be more likely that the usurping
bird should remain, and hatch out, possibly, with its
own, some one or more eggs of the bird it had dis-
possessed, than that the contrary process should come
about. However, the first business of a field
naturalist (‘‘and such a one do I profess myself”’)
is to make out what does occur, and this I have
tried to do.

I think it curious that neither of the two pairs of
birds that 1 watched, hatched out, apparently, more
than three of their eggs. The first pair certainly did
not, and I saw the fourth egg in the nest of the
second, after the birds had left it for another one,

1 See ante, pp. 131, 132.

320 BIRD LIFE GLIMPSES

though my notes do not make it clear if it continued
to liethere ornot. I think it did not, but, at any rate,
I never could make out more than three chicks
together, with either one or both of the birds. It
struck me that, after the family had left the nest,
there was a tendency for the parents to divide, one
taking two chicks, and the other the remaining one,
since they could not take them two andtwo. It in-
terested me, therefore, to come, now and again, on one
of another pair of dabchicks, sitting in the nest—or
a nest—with one half-grown chick only. Whenever
I saw them, this dabchick and one chick were always
by themselves. The question arises whether it is
usual for only three out of the dabchick’s four eggs
to be hatched out. But whether this is possible, or
why, if it is, it should be so, I do not know.

INDEX

INDEX

ANIMALS, mysterious faculties
possessed by, 290, 291
Animal world, the, its existence
ignored by writers on
psychical subjects, 294

Antics, possible origin of some
kinds of, 184, 185, 191-193

Artists, leave the fenlands
alone, 3

Australian parrakeet (JZe/opszt-
tacus undulatus), roosting
habits of, 5, 6

Australian swan, nest-building
actions of the, 174

BIRDS, roosting habits of, 5, 6
Song of, at dawn, 74, 75
Chases @ frois of, 109, 110
Nuptial rite performed habitu-

ally on nest by some, 181
Some peculiarities in the
fighting of, 135
Mixture of pugnacity and
timidity in, 191

Their delight in _ nest-
building, 199, 200; false
ideas on this subject, 199,

200
Parental love in; from what
period does it date? 208,
209
Parental affection and instinct
of incubation; are they
distinct? 208

Birds (continued)—

Performanceof parental duties
by male; in what origi-
nating? 208-211

Male feeding female, remarks
on, 210, 211

Nebbing or billing, origin of
habit in, 211-213

More interesting questions in
regard to, avoided by
ornithologists, 210

Kiss in proper sense of the
word, 211-213

Collect insects, &c., to feed
young, 216

Sexual relations of, 234-236

Permanent unions of, 265

Power of expression in, 274

Cries of, definite significance
falsely attributed to, 278

Maternal ruses _ practised
by, 279; suggested origin
of these, 181, 279, 280

Our commoner ones related
to foreign species with
interesting habits should
be more closely observed,

286, 287
“Bird Watching,” referred to,
127, 128, 158, 75,3808,

253
Blackbirds, roosting note of, 4, 5
Variety of notes of, 4, 5
Alarm-note, so-called, of, 5

324

Blackbirds (continued )—
Strange actions of, in con-
struction of nest, 173, 174
Hen alone’ observed to
build by author, 206;
cock seen to, also, by Mr.
Dewar, 206; transition
process probable; _ but
which way? 206, 207 -
Cock does not incubate, 207
But helps feed the young, 208
Blue-Tit, movements of, com-
pared with those of long-
tailed tit, 17
Note of, 18
Steals materials from black-
bird’s nest, to build with,
205
Bower, the, may have grown
out of the nest, 70; or
out of the cleared space
where some birds meet to
court, &c., 70
Bower-Birds, possible origin of
bowers, &c., of, 64-70

CaT, effects of a, on author's
observations, 265, 268
Chaffinch, hen demolishes the

nest of golden-crested
wren, 205
Hen alone observed to make
nest, 205
Nest-building actions of hen,
205, 206
Cheerful constitution, a, a good
thing but not a_ good
argument, 231
Children, death of, in quantity
not affecting, 153
Cinnabar moth caterpillar,
pupating habits of, 15
Ignored by fowls, 15
May offer example of warn-
ing coloration, 15
Coal-Tit, feeds on spruce-buds,
16; and on larch-buds, 16

INDEX

Coal-Tit (continued)—
Note of, 16
Motions of, 16
Extracts seeds from fir-cones,
18, 19
Possible origin of name, 19, 20
Nesting habits of, 194-197
Flies directly into nest, 195,
196
Composition of nest of, 197
Size of nest of, 197
Commensalism, possible origin
of, 120, 121
Coot, change of coloration in
the, 276
Has become more aquatic
than moorhen, 285
Dives better than moorhen,
285
Bathes floating on water, 285
Cow-birds, their habit of de-
stroying their own, and
foster-parents’, eggs, 273
Cuckoo, comes late in April, 92
ie hit of, 93, 94, 97;
9
Nuptial and social sportings
of, 93-95
Various notes of, 95, 96
Does the male only say
“cuckoo” P96, | 102, “103 ;
difficulty of making sure

of this, 102, 103; some
evidence on the subject,
104, 105

Tune of, changed before June,
96; the old rhyme about,
not trustworthy, 96

Manner of feeding of, 98, 99

Becoming nocturnal, 99, 100

Persecuted by small birds,
100, IOI

Possible relations to, of small
birds, 100, IOI

Not confounded by small
birds with hawk, 101,
102

INDEX

DABCHICKS, haunt the river
Lark, 261

Eleven together seen on Lark
in winter, 261

Fascination in becoming ac-
quainted with, 261

Curious note of, 262-264 ; and
what it suggests, 262; is
not “whit” but ‘“queek,”
263, 264

Grande Finale of, 262, 263

Matrimonial duet of, 263,
299; 300, 393, 305, 314,
315; and what it ex-

presses, 263-265; is per-
formed summer and winter,
299, 300
Mate for life, 263, 265
Observations on a pair of, at
Tuddenham, 296-306
Domestic habits of, 296-320
Additions to nest by, after ap-
parent completion and dur-
ing incubation, 297-299, 301

Such additions seem unneces- |

sary, 301
Leap on to nest of, 297, 302
Removal of weed from eggs

by, 297, 299, 303
Nest of, described, 298
Close sitting of, on occasions,

298
Eggs sometimes left un-

covered by, 298, 299, 300,

303, 304
Change on the nest of the,

299, 301, 304
Difficulty in eluding observa-

tion of, 299
Habit of covering eggs of,

seems fluctuating and

unintelligent, 300; pro-
bable origin of the habit,

300

Chicks fed by parents with
weed, 301, 302, 304, 307,
308, 311

Ba

Dabchicks (continued )—

Chicks ride on parent’s back,
302, 303, 304

Jump up on to nest, with
young on back, 302, 303,
pw

Sit still in water as though
on nest, 303, 305

Family scenes, 303, 305, 311

Three chicks on parent’s back,
304

One egg out of the four laid
by, left unhatched, 305,
306, 307, 319, 320

Pair of, observed from pair of
Hatherley steps, 306

Chicks divided between
parents after leaving nest
for good, 307, 320

Subdivision of parental labour
In, 307

Assiduous feeding of chicks
by male, 307

“Peep, peep” of, whilst feed-
ing young, 308

Chicks sit under parent’s
wing, on back, 308, 309,
313

Natural hollow on back of,
for chicks to sit in, 308,
309 he

Chicks rarely sit in true nest
with parent except on
back, 309

** Dearest chuck,” note of, 309

Invisibility of chicks on
parent’s back, 310

Parent dives with three chicks
on back, 310-312

Chicks prefer mother’s back,
312, 3135) and) \mount
male’s with more difficulty,
312

Back of, as seat for young,

313
Chicks striped like tigers,
313

326

Dabchicks (continued )—
Discovery made in regard to,

I

** Chook-a, chook-a,” note of,
314

Moorhen’s nest used by, to
sit in with chicks, 314-
318; probable origin of

this habit, 319
Darwin, views of, as to origin of
music, 10, II; ignored by

the late Mr F.. W.. Hi.
Myers, 10

Attributes colours of tiger,
leopard, jaguar, &c., to

sexual selection, 44, 45
“* Taudetur et alget,” 45

FENLANDS, charm of the, 3

Fieldfare, scolding of, 4

Firs, planted near Icklingham
fifty years ago, 4

Frank Buckland, his
paper parcel, 85

His_ half-part edition of

White’s “ Selborne,” 85

brown

GILBERT WHITE on_ House-
Martins, 243, 249, 251, 252;
unfair treatment of, 259, 260

Great Crested Grebe, consum-
mates nuptial rite on the
nest, 68

Great Tit, movements of, com-
pared to those of long-
tailed tit, 17

Green Woodpecker, nest of,
often seized by the starling,
129; isnot much the worse
for this, 130, 131; possible
result of such deprivation,
131, 132

Feeds on ants, 31

Ants, how procured by, 219,
23

Young of, fed by regurgitation,
31, 217, 218

INDEX

Green Woodpecker (contd.)—

Does not bring insects in beak
to young, 216, 217

Almost wholly an ant eater,
218-221

Contents of excrements of,
220, 221

Almost as salient an instance
of changed habits as
Darwin’s La Plata wood-
pecker, 220

Ant diet of, related to regur-
gitation of food in feeding
young, 221

Must mate for life, 221

Conjugal habits in winter, 221,
222

Tail not required as support,
222

A fighter, though the con-
trary has been stated, 223

Spring tide activities of, ac-
count of, 224-238

Hostile demonstrations of,
225

Its method of fighting, 226-
230; 233) 237

Fighting actions of, have
become stereotyped, 227-
230

Sexual relations of, 233, 234,
236, 237

Divergence of habits of, from
those of the family, 236,

237 | F

Ant-eating habits of, 236,
237 ;

How does it roost ? 237

HATHERLEY steps make good
observatory for watching
birds, 306, 307

Heart of man, Chinese proverb
in regard to, 286

Hedge-Sparrow, steals building
material from blackbird’s
nest, 205

INDEX 327

Heron, cries, &c., uttered by,
72; 73) 75) 79, 775 79

Nuptial flight of, 73, 80, 81

Uncouth appearance of, 73,
74, 81, 82

Ordinary flight of, 74

Domestic habits of, 72-80

Change on the nest, the, 75-

Sits firm in a hurricane, 78, 79

A close sitter, 79

Watchfulness of, 79, 80

se aoe of pair on to nest,
fe)

Can rise with single flap, 82

Eats frogs, moles, mice,
shrews, &c., 82, 83

Its manner of catching and
eating fish, 83, 84, 119

Delicacy of beak, 34

Beak of, compared with human
hand, 84

Serratures in beak, 84

Serrated claw of, how used,
84-86

Management of large eel by,
85, 86

Supposed filament of, 86

Stalks his prey, 87

Settling on nest, 87, 88

Sometimes overbalances in
catching fish, &c., 33

Heronry, a, near Icklingham,

Vez
The awakening of the, 72, 73
Historians, their song to an old
tune, 231

Hooded-Crow, common in West

Suffolk during winter, 51
Called “ carrion crow” by the
people, 51
Feeding habits of, 51, 52, 55
Haunt open warren lands, 51
Mingle with rooks, 52, 58
Disagreements of, with rooks,
2-
Fighting methods of, 54

Hooded-Crow (continued )—

Rules of precedence of, when
feeding in company, 53

Gregarious instincts of, com-
pared with those of rooks,
+ a ed :

May sometimes roost with
rooks, 55

Eats thistle roots, 56

Mysterious relations of, with
rooks, 58-60

One seen flying with peewits,
127

House-Martin, domestic habits

of, 239-259

Nest building of, 240-243,
246-248

Musical meetings of, 242-244,
253, 256 |

Gilbert White’s reference to
slow rate of building of,
243, 249; his explanation of
this not the true one, 243,
249

Possible intercommunal mar-
riages of, 244, 245

Sexual relations of, 244, 245,
252, 253, 255, 256, 259

Oppressed by sparrows, 243-
246, 248

Quick building of nest of, 245,
249 d

Social and communistic re-
lations of, 248, 250, 251,
252, 259

Fighting of, 248

Apparent inability to resist
sparrows, 248

Suggested explanation of this,
248, 249

Builds nest on site of old one,
249; curious fact in re-
lation to this, 249, 250

Young, feeding of, 253-257

Young, fed by regurgitation,
254-258

Insects, how caught by, 258;

328

House- Martin (conténwed)—
and how brought to young,

257-259
ICKLINGHAM, where situated, 1,

3
The country about, I, 2, 4
Some seven miles from the
fenlands, 56
Incubation, is instinct of, differ-
entiated from parental love?
208
Instinct, may sometimes have
grown out of mere
mechanical movements,
179-180, 184, 185, 300,
301; evidence in regard
to this, 180, 181
Resulting from lapsed intelli-
gence, 185
“Intimations of immortality,”
supposed, 10

JACKDAWS, seem conscious of
their superiority when with
rooks, 54

Decorate their nests, 68

Jaguar, theory of protective
colouring in regard to,
questioned, 43, 44

KESTREL flying with peewits,
127
Kissing, origin of, in man pro-
bably utilitarian, 211-213
In relation to birds, 211-213

LANDSEER, false criticism of,
88, 89
Masterpiece of, removed from
the National Gallery, 89
Larks, various ways of mount-
ing and descending of,
107, 108
Individual variety in flight of,
108
Winter ways of, 108, 109

INDEX

| Larks (comtinued)—
Piping note in winter of, 109
Song in February of, 109
Chases @ ¢rois of, 109
Change locality according to
season, 110
Leopard, theory of protective
colouring in regard to,
questioned, 43, 44
Lesser Spotted Woodpecker
brings collection of in-
sects in beak to feed
young, 216
Lion, theory of protective colour-
ing in regard to, ques-
tioned, 43
Long-tailed Tit, roosting habits
of, 6
Movements of, 16-18; com-
pared with those of blue
tit, 17, 18
Aerial forced march of, 17
Note of, 18
Nest-building habits of, 198-
204
Origin of dome of nest of,
199; and of entrance to,
200, 201, 203
Uniform way of entering and
leaving nest of, 200
Contortionist powers of, 202,
204
Approaches and leaves nest
by one set path, 202, 203
The “sweep” up to nest of,
203

MAN, the chief animal in this
world only, 295

Maternal affection, beauty of,
214

All hail to, 216

Mellersh, Mr., letter of, to Stan-
dard about starlings re-
ferred to, 160

Migration, facts of, marginal
reference to, 290

INDEX 329

Missel-Thrush, harsh strident
note of, 4

Puts a peewit to flight, 123

Skirmishes of, with stone-
curlews, 123, 124

Retreats with honour, 124

Moorhen, haunts the river Lark,
261

Pair of, built yearly in author’s
pond, 265

Supernumerary nests made
by, 265-269

Sits in two or more nests,
266-269

Bathing habits of, 267

Special bathing - places of,
public and private, 267

Pronounced habit of over-
building of, 269

Destruction of its own eggs
by, 269-273; possible ex-
planation of this habit,
272, 273; May be com-
pared with that of the
cow-birds of America, 273

Continued building of nest by,
during incubation and rear-
ing of young, 273

Due, probably, to a blind im-
pulse, 273,274

Legs of, gartered in male
alone, 275

Triple successive coloration
of the cere in, 275

Difficulty of explaining this,
275, 276

Precocity of young, 276, 277

Fear of man in the newly-
hatched chick, 277

Carries shell of hatched egg
to shore, 277

Young, fed by dams, 277

Young, notes of, 277, 278

Maternal cries of, 277, 278

Clucking note of, to call
young, 277, 278; and for
other uses, 278

Moorhen (continued)—

Variety of expression in cries
of young, 278

Young, sit in nest with one
parent, 278

No maternal ruse employed
by, 181, 278, 279; mate-
rial for the evolution of
one possibly observed, 279

Nerves of, highly strung, 280

Effect of report of gun on,
280

Motions, actions, &c., of, 280

A bundle of caprices, 280

Habit of flirting tail of, 280

Pugnacity of, 281

Scene in “The Rivals” acted
by, 281

Warlike display of, 281-283

Method of fighting of, 283-
285; is essentially un-
aquatic, 284, 285

Pugnacity of, even in winter,
281

Bathes only in shallow water,
285

Analogy between some actions
of, and more developed
ones of Ypecaha rail, 285,
286

Nuptial antic or pose of, 287,
288

Emotional hermaphroditism
of, 288

Interchangeable performance
of nuptial rite in sexes
of, 288; bearing of this
on questions of nature
and origin of sexual dis-
play, and of inter-sexual
selection, 288, 289; as,
also, on the subliminal
self theory, 289

Myers, the late Mr. F. W. H.,

has ignored Darwin’s views
as to origin of musical
faculty in man, Io

U

aso". INDEX

NATURAL history, no finality in,
249
Nature, sometimes looks un-
natural, 88
Two voices of, I10
Full of irony, 245
Nest, false, of peewit, the, 166-
168 ; is the real nest, 168
Of birds, suggested origin of
the, 168-180
May have been originally a
thalamum more especially,
181, 182
Was once put to two uses
habitually, 181, 182; as it
still is in some instances,
182
Nest - building instinct, sug-
gested origin of, in birds,
168-184
Nightingale, hen alone seen to
build, 206

Nightjar, common about Ick- |

lingham, 21

Sits on extreme tip-top of
spruce or larch, 21

Its habit of clapping its
wings, 21-23; sometimes
a great many times con-
secutively, 22, 23

““ Quaw-ee,” note of, 21

Beauty of flight and aerial
mastery of, 22

A new sensation obtained by
seeing it, 22

Domestic habits of, 23-37

Change on the nest of, 24

Churring note uttered by both
sexes, 25

Expressive power of the churr,
26

Incubation shared by male
and female, 23, 24, 26

Sexes hard to distinguish,

2
Male less skilful in incubation
than female, 26

Nightjar (continued)—

Hen, the more assiduous

sitter, 26

Interesting scene observed,
26-29

Method of moving eggs

adopted by, 27

Mahomet and the mountain,
9
28

Both parents feed chicks, 29

Low querulous note of, whilst
in unharassed_ circum-
stances, 29

Chicks fed by regurgitation,
29-32, 34

Probable mode of catching
insects of, 30-33

Kind of insects, &c., mostly
eaten by, 31-33

An aerial whale, 33, 258

Difference in size between the
two chicks of, 35

Early quiescence and later
activity of chicks, 35,
36

Nesting site gradually de-
serted, 35

Chicks called up by parents,
35, 36

Maternal ruse practised by, 36

Anxiety of parents in regard
to chicks, 36, 37

Chicks walk or run easily,
37; as do also the grown
birds, 37

Nuptial rite may be performed
on the ground, 37

Variety of notes of, 37-39;
no special limited meaning
assignable to these, 37-39

Resemblance of, to piece of
fir-bark, 40, 41; possible
meaning of such resem-
blance, 41, 42

Generally protective colouring
in relation to incubative,

&c., habits of, 42, 43

INDEX

Nightjar (continued)—
Returns, each year, to same
locality, 50
Has favourite
branches, 50
Does not always nest in same
spot, 50
Nuptial antics, suggested origin
of, 180, 181

trees and

OPTIMISTS, as reasoners, 231
Ostrich, nesting habits of, as
described by Mr. Cron-
wright Schreiner, 176-178 ;
suggestions as to the mean-
ing and origin of these, 177-
179
Rolling of, in courtship, 178
Two kinds of, 178
Ornithologists, works of seem
written to assist bird-nesters,
210

PARASITIC instinct, in birds,
possible origin of, 132
Parental ruses, suggested origin
of, 180, 181
Partridges, curious chasings of
one another of, 188-191;
nature and suggested ex-
planation of, 189-192
Peewits, repair to fens towards
end of October for the
winter, 3, 116
Return in February, 116
Appearance, &c., of, 117
Their way of bathing, 117,
118 ; and of feeding, 119
Chased by missel-thrush, 124
Rolling and other strange
sexual antics of, 163-
foo, 1/174, 1755 nature of
such movements, 167, 168,
171-173; theory founded
upon them as to origin of
nest - building amongst
birds, 166-184

331

Peewits (continued )—
‘““False nests” of, 166-168 ;
not essentially differing from
the real nest, 168
“‘ Pesses,’ formerly used in
Icklingham church, 56
Pheasant, at roosting time, 5
Roosting habits of, 6
Trumpety note of, 7
Soft note of, at roosting, 7
Partial paralysis produced in,
by sudden fright, 279, 280
A cock, put to flight by stone-
curlew, 123
Philistines, the, bloodthirsty
shouts of, 156
False plea of the, 156, 157
Having no appreciation of

anything, can _ destroy
everything with impunity,
156, 157

Hypocritical pretence of, to
an zesthetic motive, 157
Poet, the, not a teacher, II
His aptitude to feel and ex-
press, 12
Protective coloration theory,
unsatisfactory in regard to
tiger, leopard, jaguar, &c.,
43-49
Inapplicable to animals that
hunt at night by scent, 47
Versus sexual selection, 43-50
Psychical Research Society,
great mistake made by,143-
145
Its man-worshipping attitude,
143-145
Its neglect of the comparative
method, 143-145
Indifferent to field natural
history, 145
Should let
church, 145
Conclusions of, reared on too
narrow a basis of fact and
observation, 290

the dogs into

332

RABBITS, the stamping of, with
hind legs may have vari-
ous meanings, 38

Theory in regard to white
tail of, unsubstantiated, 46,

47
Browse lichen, 92
One warming his paws at
camp fire, 93
Rhyme, old, about cuckoo
changing its tune in June
not trustworthy, 96
Truth sacrificed for sake of,
96, 97
So-called cockney, the, the
bugbear of pedants and
purists, 97
Fetters of, should be loosened,
not tightened, 97
River Lark, description of, 2
Rooks, feeding habits of, 52
Mingle with hooded crows,
52, 58
Disagreements of,with hooded
crows, 52-54
Rules of precedence of, when
feeding in company, 53
Fighting methods of, 54
Partial reversion of some, to
less social state, 55
Gregarious instinct of, some-
_ times in abeyance, 55, 56
Eat roots of thistles, 56
May sometimes roost singly,

57

Are more civilised than the
hooded crow, 57

Mysterious relations of, with
the hooded crow, 58-60

Visits of, to nesting-trees
during winter, 60-63;
reasons for, and suggested
origin of these visits, 63-
70

Compared to bower-birds, 64-
70

Often pair on nest, 68

INDEX

Rooks (continued)—
Are swayed by love in winter
as well as in summer, 70
Their round of life during
winter, 70, 71

SAND-MARTINS, fight violently,
248
Late appearance of several,
259
Schiller, his two great forces
“hunger and love,” 70
Has forgotten sleep, 71
Scott, his style not appreci-
ated by the inappreciative,
82
Sense of direction referred to,
290
Sexual selection, prejudice in
regard to theory of, 45;
the reason for this, 45
May account for white tail in
rabbit, 47
And for posterior markings,
colours, &c., generally, 47
Stripes and spots of tiger,
leopard, jaguar, zebra, &c.,
probably due to, 43-50
Shag, decorates its nest with
flowers, &c., 68
“She oaks,” characteristic of
country round Icklingham,

3, 4
Of the poplar tribe, 3
Their great size, 3
Are, fortunately, valueless, 3
Sleep, a third ruling power, for-
gotten by Schiller, 71
Snipe, one as part of picturesque
scene, 119
Their odd, stereotyped way
of fighting, 185-189; and
of pursuing one another,
188; suggested explana-
tion of these and similar
phenomena exhibited by
other birds, 190-193

INDEX

Song-Thrush, a fighter, though
said not to be, 223
5 game with a grievance, a,

245
Nest-building habits of, 245-
247
Oppression of house-martins
__by, 243-246, 248
Spiders, one answers query,
14
Hibernate under bark of trees,
14
Spiritualism, doctrine of, does
not answer certain ques-
tions, 232
Makes best of bad job, but
the bad job remains, 232
Presents many _ difficulties,
232
Spur-winged lapwing, antics,
a trois of, 110; suggested
origin of, 109, 110
Starlings, bathing, 119
Feeding over the land, 119
Enjoy company of peewits,
120
A single one flying with pee-
wits, 120
One welcomed back by an-
other, 120, 121
Have hearts even in winter,
127,122
Imitate note of peewit, 122
Relations of, with green wood-
pecker, 129-132; may
lead to one or other ac-
quiring parasitic instinct,
4315132
As architects, 133-136
Their nests in sand-pits, 133-

135

How made? 133-136

Social nesting habits of, 136-
138

Make morality seem a bore,

137. ;
Roosting habits of, 138-154

BAe

Starlings (continued )—

Flocking of, before roosting,
138,139

Susurrus, or sing-song of, 138

Erratic descent into trees
of, 139

Simultaneous aerial move-
ment amongst large bodies
of, 140,142,143; some form
of thought - transference
seems necessary to ex-
plain these, 143

Distinctive note uttered by,
whilst flying, 145, 146

Twitter whilst flying, 146

Varied entry of, into roosting

place, 146
Exodus of, from wood in
regiments, 147-152; back

regiments fly first, 150

Breaking back of, during exo-
dus, 150, 151

Increase altitude when pass-
ing hedges, &c., 152

Great flights of, a study for
Turner, 152

Poetry in numbers of, 152

Actions of, in the roosting
place, 153, 154; a dis-
seminating process ob-
servable, 153; slow dimi-
nution of the sing-song,
153; sudden flights and
scurryings, 153, 1543 Si-
lence not till long after
nightfall, 154

Morning flight out from
roosting - place, 154, 155;
takes place by successive
bands or regiments, 154,

155

Kind of bushes, &c., chosen
to roost in, 155, 156 ; pos-
sible explanation of this,
155, 156

Letter written to Dazly Tele-
graph about, 157-160

33%

Starlings (continued )—
Good done by, 160, 161
Harm done by, to fruit incon-
siderable, 160, 161
Small space occupied by, to
sleep in, 157-161
Do no harm to song-birds,
158, 159, 161, 162
Do not “infest,” but country
gentlemen do, 162
Statesmen, good that might be
done by “translation” of,
into dabchicks, 305
Stevenson, style of, preferred
by Stevenson to Scott’s,
82
But not by author, $2
Stock-dove, odd formalities in
combats of, 185; explana-
tion of these, 185
Stone-chat, his motions, &c.,
115, 116
An angry bird, 115
His tail flirted at you, 116;
his certain answer if ques-
tioned on the subject, 116
Variation in appearance of,
116
Stone-curlew, a special feature
of country round Ickling-
ham, 124
Often feeds with peewits, 122
A fighter, 122, 123
Puts a cock pheasant to flight,
123
Skirmishes of, with missel-
thrushes, 123, 124
Warlike display of rival
males, 123; not employed
when attacking another
species, 123; suggested
explanation of this, 123
Sad cry of, 124, 125
The clamour of, 125
Other notes of, 125, 126
Cry of, recalling piping of
oyster-catcher, 126

INDEX

Stone-curlew (continued)—
The gathering of theclans, 125
Pursued by.sparrow-hawk, 126
The Heimkehr of, in the early
morning, 127
Is at-nocturnal, 128
More active during the day
in spring, 128
Crouching habits of, 128
Evening dances of, in autumn,
128
Migration of, 128
Subliminal self, theory of the,
a criticism of, 289-294
Numerous objections to, 292-
294
Authors counter hypothesis
to, of innumerable ances-
tral subliminal selves, 289,
290
Swallow tribe, the, insects, how
caught and swallowed by,
258
Swan, nest-building actions of
the male, 174

“TEsT of time,” the, a mislead-
ing expression, 89-92
Tiger, protective coloration
theory in regard to, ques-
tioned, 43-45
Beauty of the, Darwin’s view
as to how acquired, 44-
46
Coloration of, in relation to
man, 47,48
Chinese proverb in regard to
Coreans and the, 48
Eye-witness’s account of the
stalking of a cow by a, 48,

49
Titlark, mounting and descent
of, 110, III
More like a lark than a
wagtail, 111, 112; resem-
bles a wagtail also, 113

INDEX

Tits, a feature of Icklingham,
194

Tree-pipit, voice of, like the
skylark’s, 112

Tuddenham, observations on
pair of dabchicks at, 296-
306

VOICE, importance of the, in
classification, 112, 113

WATER-WAGTAIL, courting ac-
tions of male, 113, 114;
similarity in, to those of
pheasant, 114

Nest of, in that of song-thrush,
253

_ Hen alone seems to incubate,

2i3

Alternates eating with build-
ing, 213, 214

Open bills of young, like
Venetian glass vases, 214

Collects a number of flies, &c.,
for young, 214

Beauty of maternal love as
exemplified by, 214

Skill of, in collecting flies,
75.216

Weather, the, and the cries of
birds, 6, 7

Wheatear, characteristic of the
steppes of Icklingham, 106

Arrival of first pair of, 106
Arrives in splendid plumage,
106

335

Wheatear (continwed)—
Ways of the male, 106, 107
Plumage of male, 114, 115
Courtship of male, 107, 114
Curious sexual actions of male,
175, 176
Wood-pigeons, cooing of, 8, 9
Roosting of, 9, 10, 12, 13
Emotions raised by rushing
sound of wings of, 9, 10;
remarks as to this, 10-12
Numbers of, in West Suffolk,
12, 33
Pigeon-trees made by, 13
Less characteristic coo of, 74,

75
Single one flying with star-
lings, 127
Partial paralysis produced in,
by sudden fright, 279,
280
Wordsworth, his “ intimations
of immortality” due to the
laws of inheritance, 10,
II
No evidence contained in the
famous ode of, 11, 12
Wren, house-hunting of, 13, 14
Food of, in winter, 14
Seen to enter long-tailed tit’s
nest in absence of owner,

204, 205

YPECAHA rails, screaming
dances of, referred to,
285

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Edinburgh & London

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