The naturalist in Siluria

NATURALIST:
1S SILURIA

'
Y
’

4

4)

D

Cornell University Library
Dthaca, Nem York

BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE

FISKE ENDOWMENT FUND

THE BEQUEST OF

WILLARD FISKE

LIBRARIAN OF THE UNIVERSITY 1868-1883
1905

win

1924 02 328 om

Cornell University

Library

The original of this book is in
the Cornell University Library.

There are no known copyright restrictions in
the United States on the use of the text.

http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924024784328

THE NATURALIST IN SILURIA,

CAPT. MAYNE REID’S WORKS.

Uniform.

THE CHILD WIFE.

NO QUARTER! of

THE FREE LANCES.

THE NATURALIST IN SILURIA.

GWEN WYNN.

FRONTISPIECE.

THE NATURALIST IN SILURIA

BY ‘ Yvd ‘S >
CAPTAIN MAYNE REID,

Author of “The Scalp Hunters,” ‘* The Death Shot,” eto,

TH MARTIN.

Lonvorret
SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO,,
PATERNOSTER SQUARE,
1889,

, Butler & Tanner, :
. The Selwood Printing, Works,
Frome, and London

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

4

Cuarrincy, THE . 3
CrossBitt, THE

Cuckoo, Tig .

Cuckoo anD WAGTAIL
GREEN WooprEcKER, THE
Group oF WaARBLERS
HeERons

Lone-TaILeD Firr~p Movusz
Maepriz, THE .

Martin, THE .

MisseL Turvusu, THE
Motz, THE.
Motz’s Patace
Noutuatce, Tre
NoutuatcH anp Jay, TnE
Razsit, Tur .

Rine anp Rock Doves .
SquirRreL, THE

WeastL, THE.

.

PAGER
Frontispiece

86

66

INTRODUCTORY.
A NATURALIST’S PARADISE.

I pwetu in a district of country remarkable for its rich-
ness in plant and animal life; I mean, of course, the wild
and indigenous. So varied and plentiful are the species
that in these respects I venture to believe there is no
other part of England, or, indeed, the United Kingdom,
which can at all compare with it. This profusion is
chiefly due to its peculiar geological features. As will be
easily understood, the geology of any particular part of
the earth’s surface affects the character of its botany so
much that the former may appropriately be termed the
parent of the latter; while, in turn, the plant-life may be
regarded as the creator and nursing-mother of all that
“lives, moves, and hath being.” If, for instance, some
grand upheaval—volcanic, plutonic, or by whatever name
called—have tossed to the surface a varied series of the
stratified rocks which form the earth’s crust, and left
their tilted edges exposed to the atmosphere, there will
spring up on them a varied vegetation, with animal life
in like manner diversified. And it will also be obvious
that the more abrupt the dip of the upheaved strata the
greater will be this variety within the limits of a given
district ; as, of course, the sharper the angle of elevation
the narrower the exposed surface of any particular stratum.

Now I am living in the immediate neighbourhood of

4 B

2 The Naturalist in Siluria.

more than one such upheaval; but one so remarkable
as to have a world-wide repute. For my resideuce is
in Siluria, contiguous to that singular and symmetrical
“valley of elevation’? known as Woolhope. From the
summit of a high wooded hill, Penyard, which rises ab-
ruptly in rear of my house, I can look over the whole
series of Upper Silurian rocks, from the northern edge of
their upcast at Mordiford, near the city of Hereford, to
their southern projection by Gorstley in Gloucestershire,
There they dip under the Devonian or Old Red Sandstone,
again to show upon the surface a little farther south, in
the smooth-rounded dome of May Hill, standing solitary,
with its crest of Scotch firs conspicuous from afar.
Looking to the right or east of the Woolhope district,
though still northward from my point of view on Penyard,
I have before my eyes, and at less than fifteen miles of
direct distance, the bold isolated chain of the Malverns,
an elevation geologically remarkable as that of Woolhope
itself. For while in its central axis we have all the
metamorphic rocks—schists, both micaceous and horn-
blende, with granite, syenite, gneiss, and felstone—as the
Laurentian, the oldest sedimentary formation known—
there also is the product of Plutonic action in Trappean
rocks, basalt brought to the surface in shafts and dykes—
volcanic too, the Raggedstone Hill at the southern ex-
tremity of the range being itself an ancient crater, Again,
on its western flank are the Silurian strata exposed by
upheaval, and the denudation of the Old Red; at the
same time that a corresponding downfall along its eastern
base—a fault of possibly many miles in vertical measure-
ment—shows us the more recent Triassic formation over-
spreading the beautiful plain or ‘ vale” of Worcester,
with a little farther off the overlying Lias, here and there

Introductory. 8

rising into isolated hills, capped by the yet more recent
Oolite.

Still nearer, however, to my point of observation aro
these secondary deposits, for their western edge approaches
the Paleeozoic rocks not far from the foot of May Hill—
from me little more than a league off.

Westward, and in fact all round me, extends the Old
Red Sandstone, the characteristic rock of Herefordshire,
as also the adjacent county of Monmouth. Its strata of
10,000 feet thickness—variously composed, and not all of
a red colour, as might be supposed by the misleading of
a name—in many places give evidence of the most violent
convulsion, their dip observable at angles of every degree.
Beyond doubt, throughout Herefordshire and Monmouth
the Old Red was once overlain by rocks of more recent
formation; certainly by the Carboniferous, whose seams
still cover it in the South Wales coalfield, the Clee Hills,
and Forest of Dean. Than this, to the geologist, there
is no more interesting district in England—I might say
in all the world. For within a remarkably limited circle
the view on one side embraces the whole of the upper and
lower Palzozoic rocks, with all the Mezozoic, excepting
the Cretaceous; and on the other the Trias, Lias, and
Oolite; while near by, on the west, lies the valley of the
Wye, rich in drifts of geological interest, and eastward
the wider and more extended valley of the Severn, itself
an ancient sea-bed.

Turning southward, I have the Forest of Dean before
my face, a tract of country singular as it is celebrated.
It is, in point of fact, an elevated table-land, several
hundred feet above the level of the plains around, here
and there intersected by deep ravines, but on all sides
presenting a facade, steep, almost precipitous. My

4 The Naturalist in Siluria.

dwelling is contiguous to its northern edge,—Penyard
Hill being but an out-lier of it,—and, though my house
and grounds are on the Old Red, a cannon fired from the
front door, with sufficient elevation of aim, would fling
its shot over the wooded brow of the Forest, into the
‘* lower coal measures.”’ But before it rolled to rest among
these, the ball, obliquing upwards, would first pass over
a bed of Red Conglomerate, mixed with marl and other
sandstones ; next cutting across a belt of yellow sands
with red. marlx, and sands of this same colour; then a
tract of Mountain Shale and Mountain (carbonifcrous)
Limestone; after this, a stratum of Millstone Grit, and
another of Upper Sandstone, with seams of clay and
marls; crossing the crest of this elevated plateau, and
passing on finally ‘to fall among the above-mentioned
“ coal measures ” ; which, quoting the words of an eminent
geologist, ‘‘are a relic of the most profuse vegetation the
world has ever beheld.”

It may seem strange that a section of country so sig-
nalized in the countless ages past should still possess a
character in correspondence, But it is even so, its flora
being abundant beyond any other I know of. Within a
circle of 20 miles radius around my louse, I find between
600 and 700 species of phanerogamons plants, while the
eryptogamia are alike plentiful. Ifthe theory advanced
be admitted, it would follow that the fina is proportion-
ately rich; and so, in reality, it is. As proot sufficient—
and, to me, rather more than satisfactory—the fox and
badger prey upon my poultry, assisted in their depreda-
tions by the pole-cat, weasel, and stoat; while hares and
rabbits crop the cabbages in my kitchen-garden. The
otter bathes its sleek body in a brook—an influent of the
Wye—which meanders through my ornamental grounds;

Introductory. 5

the water-vole (Arvicola amphibia) plunges in my fish-
pond, and honeycombs the banks of the self-same brook
that supplies it; while its congener of the land (4.
agrestis) breeds in myriads over the adjoining meadows,
hollowing out its nest just enough under the sward for
its hairless callow young to be clear of the dangerous
scythe-blade. Around the drier ditches the hedgehog
searches for snails, munching these crustacea, despite
their silicious shield—which is no protection against the
teeth of the urchin, who swallows armour and all. The
mole, “ mooting ” after earth worms, if not kept under
by continuous trapping, makes spoil of my pasture-land,
in places giving it the appearance of a ploughed field ;
while the squirrel, more agile, and less destructive, lends
animation to my groves and copses. Not so nice is the
near companionship of the rat,—he erroneously supposed
to be a native of Norway,—who ranges around my rick-
yard, occasionally seeking entrance into barn and corn-bin,
with a suspicion attached to him of not being content
with a menu purely vegetarian, but having also a tooth for
young chicks and ducklings. When I add to this list of
indigenous mammals the mouse, dormouse, and several
species of Sorex, the catalogue is pretty complete ; though
I have a sowpcon of a wild cat, which seems to have shown
itself in the neighbourhood some months ago. Jam in
search of this suspicious “Tom,” and if I can “ tree”
him will account it a triumph.

The reptile world around me is represented by the
usual British genera and species: two snakes and a
doubtful third, the “ slow-worm,’’ sometimes called
“ blind-worm ” (Anguwis fragilis), of which last I have
lately captured a specimen measuring eighteen inches in
length. Batrachians abound in the shape of toads, frogs,

6 The Naturalist in Siluria.

and newts, these last hideous creatures of at least two
distinct species, the common or “ smooth” (Triton pune-
tatus), an alligator in miniature, and the crested, or
“warty” (TL. eristatus), which more resembles the real
Nilotic crocodile, or its congener of the Senegal. Lizards,
too, are among our land reptiles, and with these most
modern naturalists class the slow-worm, which, though
having some affinities with the lizard family, is certainly
nearer to the serpent in habit, as it is in ‘personal ”
appearance,

Of fishes we have the usual freshwater species ; my
brook and pond, however, yielding only trout, eels, min-
nows, and the wicked little bullhead (Cottus gobio), which,
incautiously taken up in the hand, bites like a very shark.
But below, in the “ wandering Wye,” the salmon, king
of fish, holds court, having for his subjects a variety of
finny and scaly creatures, among them the famed lam-
prey, a delicate morsel, though it did prove indigestible
in the stomach of a king,

Insects? Ah! we have them in swarms, myriads ;
the Wye’s valley being a very garden of Eden for the
entomologist, who may here fling his net over butterflies
bright as summer flowers, and capture Scarabeans of
hues vivid as tropic sun ever shone upon. But he had
well beware when seeking them; for by the dry banks
“‘whereon the wild thyme grows ” are wasps and hornets;
and amid the lush vegetation of the moist Wyeside woods
sings and stings the mosquito (Culex pipiens), while the
“harvest bug” (Leptus autumnalis), a near relative of
the West Indian “jigger,” if not the veritable thing it-
self, though no larger than a particle of Cayenne pepper,
which it ludicrously resembles, inserts its tiny nippers
into the skin—the result an intolerable itching.

Introductory. 7

As the good host who reserved his choicest “bin” to
the close of the feast, so I have kept back my best and
greatest favourites—the birds. Of these, the now too
rare and stately heron cranes its long neck, and projects
its bayonet-like beak over the afore-mentioned fish-ponds
on the look-out for a speckled trout, or, it may be, a
slippery eel; while the kingfisher darts past lke an
arrow, showing its back of turquoise blue, the food of its
selection being the smaller fry of minnows and bull-
heads.

In the same water the pretty moor-hen disports her-
self, and with coquettish strut makes frequent prome-
nades upon my lawn, fearlessly coming on over the
carriage-sweep, and up to the steps of the door-porch.
Nor has she the smooth turf all to herself, for the ring-
dove, or cushat (Columba palumbus) also alights upon it,
to look after beech-mast and acorns, occasionally accom-
panied by its near congener, the stock-dove (C. enas) ;
while the more slender turtle (C. turtur) flies past, keeping
farther a-field. All three have their nests near, and their
cooing sounds pleasant to my ears, telling me aught but
a “ sorrowful tale.”

On the same verdant sward the noisy jay shows itself,
coming so close to the drawing-room windows that an
artist seated in one of them might take the portrait of
this beautiful bird; not with the dim, damaged lustre of
a stuffed specimen or caged captive, but in all the radi-
ant hues of life, liberty, and action. Quite as often the
green woodpecker (Picus viridis)—a bird of such brilliant
plumage as to have obtained the title of ‘ English
parrot ’’—drops down upon the lawn, to do me an essen-
tial service by delving its long beak into the ant-hills
which infest the sward, and destroying thousands of

8 The Naturalist in Siluria.

these too-industrious insects. In the woods I oceasion-
ally hear the tap-tapping of his two cousins, the great
and little-spotted woodpeckers (P. major and P. minor) ;
but these are much rarer in the neighbourhood. Not so
the magpie, here only too plentiful. He hops about
among the tall fir-trees where he has nested, or makes
descent upon the grass pastures, at intervals alighting on
the lawn to pick up some morsel that may there have
caught his eye. But the cunning chatterer remains only
a moment; for he has been guilty of “ fowl” play in the
poultry-yard, and, knowing it, dreads my gun. Out in
the fields the carrion crow (Corvus corone), also a foe to
the chirping chicks, stalks majestically, grubbing among
mole-heaps and the deposits of animal ordure, also gob-
bling up field-mice; while his cousins-german, the rook
and jackdaw, more satisfied with a vegetable dict, seek
it everywhere over the ploughed and pasture lands, in
concert, and consorting with, clouds of starlings.

Of birds more properly called predatory there is no
scarcity here. The sparrow-hawk courses low along the
hedges; while the kestrel, of bolder flight, hovers aloft,
as if suspended on an invisible string, at intervals chang-
ing his point of aériel observation, to hover again, or
swoop down upon the prey he has marked for a meal.
The buzzard (Fulco buteo) is not unfrequently seen soaring
over Penyard’s wooded hill, and also the peregrine falcon
(F. peregrinus), while the great kite: (F. milvus) is a less
frequent visitor. Nor are the little merlin (F. esalon), the
hobby (F. subbuteo), the hen-harrier (F. cyaneus), and
even the honey buzzard (F apivorous) unknown to our
neighbourhood.

The night birds of prey are here represented by the
tawny and barn owls (Striw stridula and 8, flammen),

Introductory 9

and others; while the night-jar, or goat-sucker (Oapri-
mulgus), on equally silent wing sweeps along the wood’s
edge, or lights beside the sheep in pen or pasture.

With singing birds I am blessed. Summer and winter
the blackbird delights me with his bold lay; the thrush
making music of a more scientific strain. The lark and
grey linnet also salute me throughout the diurnal hours,
mingling their notes in harmony with, those of the three
finches—chaff, bull, and gold—all of which nest in the
near trees and shrubberies. Among the humbler warb-
lers, I can detect the twitter of several species of tits, ag
the blue, long-tailed, cole, and marsh; but, though not
the grandest of bird melody, perhaps pleasantest to our
ear is the gentle trill of the robin, for he lets us hear it
throughout the chill winter-tide, when most of the more
ambitious songsters are silent. In spring, however, and
throughout the summer months, we have a wandering
minstrel, who pays us an annual visit; and while he is
with us, all our other feathered musicians, if not shamed
into silence, seem, at least, to feel their inferiority. For
he is primo-tenore, primo-basso, soprano, contralto—
everything! Need I say that this distinguished visitor
is the nightingale? Though he gives his concerts chiefly
during the hours of night, and notably between mid-
night and morning, yet oft are we favoured with them
during broad daylight. In the early part of last summer
I more than once heard his matchless strain—meant, no
doubt, for his mate, the “‘ prima donna,” sitting on her
nest, and for the time silent—heard it in the afternoon,
with a bright sun shining in the sky! Which gives
contradiction to the old song,—

“The nightingale, I’ve heard them say,
Sings but at night, and not by day.’

10 The Naturalist in Siluria.

THE GEOGRAPHICAL DISTRIBUTION OF BIRDS.

The purpose of this note is to point out the difficulty
of determining the boundary within which certain birds
may be found, especially the smaller sorts. The most
assiduous observer, ever on the watch, will now and then
discover a species in his immediate neighbourhood
whose existence there he had never before noted nor
suspected. Yet it did exist—may even have nested and
bred in his own grounds, within a hundred yards of his
house. Were it not for their song or call-note betraying
their presence, many of the migratory birds—our summer
visitants—would come and go without the ordinary
observer, and in some cases the ornithologist himself,
being the wiser of it. For these are with us only when
the trees are in full leaf, to screen them from curious eyes
—a screen most of them know the advantage of, and
take. You may hear the blackcap and garden warbler
giving out their dulcet notes every day, and hour after
hour, yet never get sight of either of these superb song-
sters, though perched upon a spray within less than a
rod’s length from the spot where you are standing. But
it is not alone with our summer visitants that there is
this difficulty of fixing the home and habitation. It also
exists, to a greater or less degree, as regards the winter
ones, and even our permanently resident species, who
have no tree foliage to hide hehind. I speak more par-
ticularly of the smaller kinds, from having lately met
several instances in point: by the discovery of species in
my own neighbourhood, whose existence in it T had long
doubted. Yet had they been there, as I now know, their
presence becoming ascertained almost by accident.

A bird of sparrow size, seen at a hundred, or even

Introductory. 11

fifty, yards distance, needs sharp eyes for its identifi-
cation; and as the rarer sorts are usually the more shy,
and keep farther off, all the more difficult is this, and,
as a consequence, determining the locale of such species.

z

THE LOCAL DISTRIBUTION OF PIRDS.

That certain species are found in particular localities—
I may say, spots—while absent from others near by, is a
fact well known and seemingly singular. The reason,
however, is obvious: the conditions of the places are not
the same, though apparently they may be so. In one
there is some sort of food—seed, berry, root, or insect—
which is wanting in the other; and, as almost every
species of bird has a predilection for some special diet,
where this exists not neither will the bird.

But food seems not the only attraction which deter-
mines the dwelling-place of birds. Some affect the
woodland shade, while others prefer the open; and still
others frequent spots of an intermediate character, neither
thickly overgrown with trees, nor yet altogether treeless.
Dryness, moistness, and water—stagnant or running—
are also influencing factors ; and so too the configuration
of the. ground, whether it be hilly or level, the altitude
of the hills, and the exposure of their slopes in relation
to the points of the compass. Certainly food is not the
only thing which influences birds in their choice of habi-
tat, as we have evidence in the preference shown by the
common house-sparrow. A pair, or at most two pairs,
of these noisy chatterers haunt around my house, and
breed by it; while at every farmstead in the neighbour-
hood a large flock may be seen at all times, both in sum-
mer and winter. Yet there is a farmyard attached to my

pe The Naturalist in Siluria.

establishment, with plenty of pickings for the fringillile.
No doubt the reason for the sparrows keeping away from
my premises is because the house, outbuildings and all,
is overshadowed by tall trees, and the passer domwsticus
prefers to perch on hawthorn bush or bare gable-end.

VEGETATION ON THE OLD RED.

The soil of the Old Red Sandstone seems wonderfully
congenial to certain plants of the order composite, At
least some strata of it are so, for in a system of rocks
10,000 feet thick, and deposited during countless ages,
there must be much variety in the nature of the deposited
substances.

There speak of strata high up in the system, close to
the Carboniferous, but under the shales and Conglomer-
ate of the Old Red itself. In my kitchen garden, whose
soil is over a seam of this kind, there grow Jerusalem
artichokes that remind me of the tropics, recalling a
brake of bamboo cane. A six-foot man standing on the
back of a sixteen-hands horse could not touch their tops
with his hand upraised to its highest ; an average stalk,
which I have submitted to measurement, proving to be 13
feet 3 inches—without reckoning the roots—and havin
a girth of 43 inches! Nota bad growth for temperate
zone vegetation, within a period of less than six months,

I believe that both the Jerusalem artichoke and its
near congener, the sunflower (Helianthus annuus), might
be profitably cultivated in this district; the former not
only for its tubers, but the stalks and Jeaves as an article
of fodder ; while the seeds of the litter are well known to
be nourishing food for poultry, fowls and turkeys being
alike fond of it.

Introductory. 13

In an orchard adjoining this garden, up against « dry
bank at the back, I some time ago observed a thistle of
such extraordinary dimensions that I placed myself along-
side its stalk, to make a rough estimate of its height. The
crown of my hat did not reach half-way to the top, nor
anything like it; while its stem by the base was nearly
as thick as my wrist. It was one of the sort which are
here commonly called “boar thistles’”?; but I took no
exact note of the species, determined on having it home
and submitting it to rule and tape. As ill luck would
have it, the discovery of this vegetable giant was made
on a Sunday, which caused the deferring of my intention
to the following day. Then revisiting the spot, with my
gardener and a grubbing tool, I had the mortification to
find it gone. A right-of-way path runs by, near the bank
where it grew, and some villanous trespasser, whom I
cannot help being angry at, had taken a fancy to this
gigantic carduus, torn it up by the roots, and carried it
clean away. As there is no Scotchman dwelling in the
immediate neighbourhood, I am puzzled about the motive
of the pilferer. It may have been botanical curiosity, or
only an idle freak; thoughI have heard that the bird-
catchers sometimes use these large thistles, limed, for the
taking of goldfinches—an explanation of the rape prob-
able enough. It was certainly as tall as any of my arti-
chokes, and the stalk near the base of much greater
thickuess.

Besides the composite, other plants grow luxuriantly
on thy Old Red, Inthe same garden carrots and par-
snips attain the dimensions of a man’s forearm; while
beet-root needs sowing late to keep it within bounds for
table use. Some of my “ Mexican” potatoes, planted in
it this year, threw up haulms so rank and high I had the

14 The Naturalist in Siluria

curiosity to measure one. It was over seven feet in
length, exclusive of tubers and rootlets, which would have
made it at least six inches more.

This same year, in the aforementioned orchard adjoin-
ing—of three acres area—was reaped a crop of oats that
threshed out over 200 bushels, or seventy to the acre;
this in damp soil, and under the shadow of six score apple
and pear trees, all old and umbrageous, and despite the
culms having been broken and “laid”? by heavy rain-
storms long ere the corn could ripen. When green and
standing erect, they look like a sedge of bulrush, A boy
scat in among them to search for a landrail’s nest was
buried above the head, and soon lost to my sight. Draw-
ing one, I laid it alongside the measuring-rule, to find it
5 feet 3 inches in length, and thicker than the quill of a
swan. So much for the fertility of the soil over the Old
Red.

From all which it’ may be deduced that a farmer
designing to take a new farm, or make the best usc of
his old one, should know something of geology.

HOW TOE YEARS VARY.

No one who keeps a diary of Nature’s doings can fail
being struck with how they are diversitied in the diferent
years. The variation is, of course, chiefly duc to atmos-
pheric influences, but the operation of these is the ques-
tion difficult to answer. As who can say why one winter
is of the mildest, snowless, almost without frost; whilst
another is of rigorous severity? Phenomena so marked
are noticed by all; but the naturalist alone takes note of
their effect on the world of living organisms, vegetable

Introductory. 1)

and animal; on dead matter, too, for that is also influenced ,
by them.

As illustrating this diversity, let us take a particular
district of country, as, for instance, that in which I myself
dwell. Being upon the Old Red Sandstone, it is much
affected by ants of several species; so much that they are
accounted a pest, the yellow ant (Formica flava) certainly
being this. In the summers of 1878-79-80 these insects
swarmed upon the pastures, throwing up their “ tumps,”
deleterious to the growth of nutritive grasses; while
during the summer of 81 only a few were observable.
This seems all the more strange from the previous sum-
mer being dry and warm, as one would suppose favour-
able to ant life, while those preceding were the reverse.
I have a somewhat similar record of the common house fly
(Musca carnaria), whose scarcity,for several years past has
been notable. But though appearing early in the spring,
in summer it seemed to have ceased existence, while a
species much resembling, and commonly mistaken for it,
the biting Stomowys calcitrans, was unusually abundant.

Again, wasps, that in several previous years did much
damage in our pear orchards, and were even a source of
annoyance to mowers and reapers, in the autumn of 1881
were little seen or heard of. In the spring also ‘ blight,”
caused by grubs of countless kinds, so abounded that
many trees—notably oaks—were entirely stripped of
their foliage, and stood with branches bare as in winter,
till the flowing of the midsummer sap gave them a fresh
livery of leaves. For years before there had been little
or nothing of this larval devastation.

Going underground to the earthworm (Lumbricus terres-
tris), I noticed that for several years past my lawn was
remarkably clear of their castings, yet in the autumn of

16 The Naturalist in Siluria.

1881 they reappeared thickly over the sward, and ever
since there has been a nightly renewal of them.

In the ornithological world these alternations are
equally observable. ‘The blackbird and song-thrush lead
an undisturbed life in my grounds, where for years past,
during their season of song, there was no day, scarce even
an hour, without the strain of one or the other being
heard. But, strange to say, throughout the spring and
summer of 1881 it was something unusual to hear the
note of either merle or mavis; all the stranger, from the
fact of both birds seeming to be about in even more than
their usual numbers.

The yellow-hammer is known to be a gregarious bird;
but, so far as I have observed, oftener consorting with
other species than exclusively with its own kind; even
then being in the minority, its lemon-coloured crest and
breast appearing in an assemblage of other fr/ngillide
but as one to five or six. In the autumn of 1881, how-
ever, and up till now, I have frequently observed flocks
of yellow-hammers, numbering two to three dozen indi-
viduals, in various places, and quite apart from birds of
other species, their abundance seeming to me as strange
as this segregation.

If we turn to the starlings, we find a like variation at
different periods of time. During the breeding season
of the years 1878-79-80, after the eggs had been hatched,
a glance cast skyward above my house and grounds was
almost sure of being rewarded by the sight of a starling
on return to its nest with a grub in its beak, or taking
departure therefrom in quest of another. Yet in 1881
these journeyings to and fro were so seldom witnessed
that it seemed asif this, one of our commonest birds, had
become a rura avis!

Introductory. 17

And, as most people know, the migratory birds are
more plenteous in one year than another, notably the
nightingales in summer, and the fieldfares and redwings
in winter. Their presence or absence, however, can be
accounted for by the temperature, with other climatic
changes; and, no doubt, these are the chief influencing
causes throughout all, though we are ignorant of the
modus operandi.

OUR WILD PIGEONS.

Or all our native birds, none seem to me invested with
more vivid interest than the wild pigeons. I cannot help
regarding them as the greatest ornament and truest
emblem of sylvan scenery; and I never see one sitting
upon a bough, or in bold, earnest flight through the air,
without a sense of exquisite pleasure—a feeling of thank-
fulness that my home is in the country.

RING AND ROCK DOVES.

In addition to the physical beauty of these birds, their
moraL character—if I be permitted so to speak—is un-
exceptionable. They are neither predatory nor poly-

gamous; for the first, contenting themselves with a
19

20 The Naturalist in Stluria.

simple vegetarian diet, while in their marital relations
they are models of constancy and affection. No lover
sues to his sweetheart in gentler or more pleading tone ;
and he were a good husband who will show half the
attention to his wife which the dove does to its mate.

Having made use of the word dove, I may here remark
that. all pigeons were formerly known as doves, even the
domestic variety being so called. Hence the origin of
the name “ dovecote,” the thing itself being in reality a
pigeon-house, which in past times was. an appanage of
every mansion and monastery in the land; one of such
importance, too, that statutes were enacted Tali their
number, even to the right of having them at all—just as
our Game Laws of the present day,

-* It was not for meré ornament or fancy, dovecotes were
kept, but with a view to the more substantial benefit
derived from them in supplying a choice article of food.
They took rank with the fish-pond; beside which they
often stood, at a time when the fishmonger and poulterer
had either no existence or dwelt at an inconvenient
distance.

When the name pigeon—an Anglicized form of the
Italian pigione—came into general use in this country is
not’ very clear, though now it is universally employed
when speaking of the larger species of the genus columba,
while the original designation of dove is still retained for
the smaller ones. Audubon has ventured on a distinc-
tion, giving the name pigeon to those that make their °
nests in large numbers on the same tree ; while the dove
is solitary in its nidification. The American naturalist,
not always accurate, was evidently misled by the habits
of the species which came under his observation—a very
limited number. The facts are all against his speculative

Our Wild Pigeons. 21

theory, most of the European species nesting apart, and
only gregarious when in search of food and the breeding
season is over.

I believe it is not generally understood, though of
course known to naturalists, that in Hngland we have
four distinct species of the genus Columba, three of which
are called pigeons, the fourth a dove. This is exclusive of
the tame or House pigeon, and its numerous varieties.

Of the wild sorts, the first in point of size, as the most
commonly distributed, is the Queest or Quest, also called
Cushat. It is the Ring-dove (Columba palumbus) of the
ornithologists, a name supposed to have originated in the
whitish blotch on both sides of its neck, bearing resem-
blance to aring. The similitude is very slight, and the
title altogether inappropriate. More correct is its com-
mon appellation “Quest,” evidently a derivation from the
Latin queestus, since it is of this species Henry Kirk
White speaks as oft warbling “its sorrowful tale.”

A noble bird it is,in symmetry of form far excelling
any of the domesticated breeds, while in size it is also
their superior. And as an article for the table, it not
only excels the tame sorts, but if put into the hands of a
cook who knows his or her business, in point of gové it
equals the very best of our game birds. Give it the same
treatment as a grouse, and if your palate be not regulated
by fashion or caprice, you will never after care to pay
7s. the brace for moor-cocks while you can buy cushats
at 2s. the pair. As for partridges, why they should sell,
pound for pound, at three times as much as wild pigeons,
is a question I leave to the game dealers. But one
which puzzles me yet more is, that a House pigeon, also
pound for pound, commands nearly double the price of
its wood-dwelling congener. As a thing to be eaten,

99) The Naturalist in Siluria.

there 1s no comparison between the two, the wild being
as much superior to the tame as a pheasant to a barn-
door fowl.

The quantity of food supply derived from this source
is deserving of serious consideration, It is difficult, per-
haps impossible, to estimate the exact amount ; but from
the numbers of these birds brought into the market, and
the hundreds of thousands besides that go to the table
without ever having appeared on a poulterer’s stall, some
idea may be deduced of their commercial value. And it is
worth remembering, that in this case the cost of produc-
tion is altogether disproportioned to the value produced,
compared with that of barn-door fowls, or even pigeons
of the domesticated kind. The Quest may do a little
damage at seed-time and among the summer tares and
peas, or, in a very severe winter, peck holes in the
turnips, and eat off their tops,—but the House pigeon
has to be credited with the same.

It has been said that the turnip diet renders the flesh
of the wild species so rancid as to be unpalatable. The
naturalist of Selborne first made this assertion, and it has
been repeated by other writers over and over again. I
have not found it correct; and during times of frost and
snow I have had an exccllent opportunity of testing its
accuracy. Never was there better, for, by the complete
failure of our usual berry crop, the wild pigeons have then
had no other provender than turnips; and although I
have eaten several that were shot in the very act of feed-
ing on these vegetables, I could perceive nothing of the
rancidity spoken of.

That the Quest is not the progenitor of our domestic
birds has been generally admitted. ‘The very different
modes of their nidification is, to a certain extent, proof

Our Wild Pigeons. 23

of this : the one nesting in trees, the other never. Three
years ago I would have added that only the one perched
upon trees, the other never. But I have of late had evi-
dence that this, though in accordance with the universal
belief, would be incorrect.

In my stable-yard there is a proper pigeon-house,
which for some time had been untenanted. Three years
ago I re-stocked it with some half-dozen pairs, among
which there were most of the sports or varieties of Fan-
tails, Tumblers, Carriers, and the like. The pigeon
quarters are in a loft over the coach-house, the entrance
to them being through a network of holes in the gable,
close to which grow several tall trees, beeches, limes,
chestnuts, and oaks. Some days after introducing the
pigeons to their new dwelling-place I was surprised to
observe them perching upon the trees; not only those
contiguous to the gable, but others full fifty yards off, in
the ornamental grounds. Nor did it seem a mere momen-
tary caprice, a dropping down upon the branches to fly
instantly up again. Instead, they sat contentedly there,
often for hours at a time. My servants, and all who saw
them thus roosted, were as astonished as myself, saying
they had never seen the like before. As several Quests
were moving about among the same trees, and occasionally
alighting upon them, I had hopes to see courtship and
marital connections established between the wild and the
tame, thus contradicting all past experience. But, no!
Beyond gazing at one another—the wild birds, no doubt,
the more astonished of the two, seeing their domain
thus intruded upon—the acquaintance went no farther.
Congeners and cousins though they were, no love, affinity,
or attachment sprang up between them,

Oddly enough, after the first few weeks the House

24, The Naturalist in Siluria.

pigeons ceased to perch upon the trees, confining them-
selves to tops of walls, roofs, and chimneys; and since I
have never seen one of them set foot upon a branch,

I need not here give a description of the Quest, its
mode cf zidification, nor its ordinary habits. All this, if
not already known, can be learnt from the encyclopedias,
I will only add, that in the valley of the Wye, well
wooded everywhere, it is one of our commonest birds.
In spring and summer I could not gaze out of my window
for twenty minutes at a time without seeing one or more
sitting motionless on the branch of a tree, winging their
way through the air, or it might be walking over the
ground, constantly bowing or ducking their heads; from
which habit they derive their Latin name columba, from
the Greek kolumban, to dive. It is also the origin of
their more correct appellation of dove.

The Stock-dove (Columba cenas) is not so common
upon the Wye, nor, I believe, anywhere in England, as
the Quest. It is, however, anything but rare; and, al-
though to a certain extent migratory, we have it in
Herefordshire all the year round, numbers breeding in
this neighbourhood. It is the species which so much
puzzled the naturalist of Selborne; and, by his account,
was altogether a bird of passage in that part of the
country. In speaking of it as not being the progenitor
of our House pigeons, he says :—“ It is manifestly larger
than the common house-dove, against the usual rule of
domestication, which generally enlarges the breed.”

The conclusion is not universally correct, as I can
show by a reference to the wild turkey and its tame
descendant. But in this case even the premises are in
default, for the Stock-dove, so far from being larger
than the House-dove, is rather less: The Ring-dove is

Our Wild Pigeons. 25

certainly of greater size, and to it the. above remarks
will appropriately apply. A Quest which I have just
submitted to the scales, in its feathers, as shot, weighs
1} lb.; while a Stock-dove put into the same, and under
like conditions, barely turns the beam at 12 oz.

In measurement the Quest is 18 inches in length, with
a wing spread of 2 feet 5 inches. The length of the
Stock-dove is 138 inches, its wings extending to nearly
2ft.3in. By this it appears that the wings of the latter
are longer in proportion to its body than those of the
former; just what might bo expected from its more
migratory habits, calling for greater and longer-sustained
flights.

Without taking the difference of size into account, the
two species, though often confounded by the incurious,
are easily distinguished. Though both are of a slate-blue
colour, in the Stock-dove the blue is more pronounced ;
hence one of its common appellations among the country
people, of “blue pigeon.” Nor does it show any white
markings, as the Quest, which has these both on the neck
and wings. The only variegation on the coat of the
Stock-dove—save the lighter and darker shades of slate-
blue—is from two or three black blotches (not bands) on
its wing-coverts, and the vinous iridescence around its
neck, much more brilliant than on the other species, and
from which it has its specific name nas (oinos, wine).
“Stock” it is supposed to have derived from its habit of
breeding in the old stocks of pollarded trees, while the
Ring-dove nests higher up among the branches. But
there is a more essential difference in their place of nidifi-
cation; for the Stock-dove does not always make its nest
in trees, but rather the opposite. Its hatching-place by
preference is certainly closer to the ground, even upon

26 The Naturalist in Siluria.

and in it, since it has been known. to breed in an aban-
doned rabbit-hole. But, above all, it prefers the ledge
of a cliff, where there is a niche or crevice roomy enough
for its purpose. Just such acliff is there on Peynard
Hill, behind my house, where the hard Cornstone overlies
a softer stratum of the Old Red; and there the Stock-
dove finds the breeding-place of its choice.

This predilection of the Columba enas for rocks has
led to its being confused with the real Rock-dove (C.
livia). Here, in Herefordshire, where the latter is rarer,
and of course less known, the Stock-dove is called Rock
pigeon, or rather “ Rocky,”—-when spoken of in the
plural number, “Rockies.” It is evident that this
erroneous nomenclature extended into Hampshire in the
days of Gilbert White, and that the “Rockiers”’ reported
to him by the almost octogenarian sportsmen were
Stock-doves.

Neither are these last the progenitors of our pigeons,
though by a gentle gradation they draw nearer to it.
One more link, and we arrive at the real ancestry of the
bird for which we provide home and nesting-place. Un-
questionably is it descended from the pigeon of the sea-
cliffs.

This, the Rock-dove (Colimba Iivic), is even smaller
than the Stock, and, of course, also the domestic variety ;
so that “the usual rule of domestication ”’ is not falsified
by its being taken as the forefather of the last. The fact
that it is so is established by many points of resemblance.
The Rock-dove, like the other two wild species, is of a
slate-blue colour; but it has the transverse bands upon
its wings—wanting in both of these, and always present in
blue House pigeons. A characteristic yet more infallible
thing shows affinity between the dove of the cliffs and

Our Wild Pigeons. 27

that of the cote—the whitish fleck over the rump, con-
spicuously seen on both as they spread their wings in
flight, but never observed in either Quest or Stock-dove.

But there is no need of this reference to colour for
proof of their identity as species. Gilbert White, grop-
ing in the darkness of a century and a half ago, found
light enough to point it out, when he said, speaking of
Sir Roger Mostyn’s House doves in Carnarvonshire—
“Though tempted by plenty of food and gentle treat-
ment they can never be prevailed on to inhabit their cote
for any time, but as soon as they begin to breed betake
themselves to the fastnesses of Ormshead, and deposit
their young in safety amidst the inaccessible caverns and
precipices of that stupendous promontory.”

Similar testimony is given by Edwards, the self-taught
naturalist of Scotland, who states that House pigeons near
the sea-coast in his neighbourhood not only betake them-
selves to the ciiffs, but there interbreed with the Rock-
doves, so that it is now impossible to procure one of the
latter of pure strain and natural colouring. We have
the Rock-dove in Herefordshire. Mr. W. Lloyd, a local
naturalist, reports it as breeding on the Stanner rocks,
a basaltic upheaval near the border line between the
counties of Hereford and Radnor. It has also a nesting-
place in the cliffs overhanging the Wye by the celebrated
Symond’s Yat, and all down through Monmouthshire,
to CaldyIsland. ‘here, a fortiori, they should be found,
since these cliffs are nearer to its known habitat on the
sea-coast.

The Rock-dove never makes its nest in trees, and is
not known ever to perch upon them, another point of
resemblance to the House pigeon confirmatory of the fact
of their having a common origin.

28 The Naturalist in Siluria.

This species also furnishes us with an illustration of
Nature adapting her creatures to the mode of life she
has designed for them. Its home on the beetling sea-
cliff, where it is exposed to the most furious storms,
renders it necessary that the bird should be provided with
the best means of flight. And just so it is, its wings
being longer in proportion to its bulk than even those of
the Stock-dove, while its tligkt is bolder, more arrow-like,
and swifter than any of the genus.

The fourth and last species of our native columbide,
the Turtle-dove (0, turtur), is also in the list of Wye
birds; but only as a summer visitor. This beautiful
little creature breeds with us; and its tur-tur, from
which it has its name, can be heard throughout all the
summer’s day,

One fact in connection with the Turtle-Gove is worth
recording. Here, in Herefordshire, its nest is protected
from spoliation by a singular sentiment, or rather, super-
stition; and nest-robbing boys, who will ruthlessly
plunder those of the Ring or Stock-dove, leave that of
the Turtle untouched! The reason for thus resisting the
temptation, is a belief that any one who robs the nest of
a Turtle-dove will—as a consequence, and by way of
punishment—soon after have a death in his family !

One day in March my gunman shot four wild pigeons
that were feeding on a field of beans recently sown.
They do little, if any, damage to the beans at such time .
unlike rooks and crows, not “ Stocking” them up, but
only taking those left uncovered, and so lost. It is not
about this, however, the present note is written; but to
say that, of the four birds killed, one was a Stock-dove
(Columba e@nas), the other three Ring-doves, or, as com-
monly called, Quests (0. palwmbus). They were all in

Our Wild Pigeons. 29

the same flock, which consisted of both species, showing
them to associate, at least during the winter, and when
after food. This, of course, is nothing new, and I only
speak of it to further say that in the Welsh bordering
shires the Stock-dove is far from rare, though scarce in
comparison with the Ring. In a flock of hundreds of
the latter, there may be tens of the former; and he who
shot the four abovementioned tells me there seemed
about this proportion among those feeding in the bean-
field.

Had the aforesaid field been some five miles farther
off, on the banks of the Wye, where it canons through
the carboniferous limestone at Symond’s Yat, the Rock-
dove (C. livia) would, doubtless, have been also in the
flock. For there all the three species come together, as
it were, on common ground ; a singular fact, and of rare
occurrence in apy other part of the kingdom. Like as
not, an odd Rock or two may have been among the
feeders in the bean-field, since they sometimes stray a
few miles inland from their roosting-place on the river
cliffs.

The Rock-dove, so far as I have reAd, is represented
as only inhabiting along the coast-line, nesting in caves
and on the ledges of precipices that overhang the sea.
I had long suspected that this choice of habitat was not
due to any preference for salt water, but merely because
the sea cliffs offer the birds better security; and if an
equally safe retreat were offered them inland they would
take to it. My conjecture has proved correct, and I am
now able to affirm that the Rock-dove dwells in the
riverine escarpments of the Wye, remote from any sea
shore. I have myself noted it as far inland as Hereford-
shire; but Mr. James W. Kloyd, of Kingston, an obser-

30 The Naturalist in Siluria.

vant ornithologist, records it as breeding in the Stanner
Rocks of Radnorshire, a trappean formation altogether
away from the sea. Yet Yarrell says: “ The Rock-dove,
as its name implies, is a species which in its natural and
wild state inhabits high rocks near the sea-coast, in the
cavities of which it lives the greater part of the year,
only venturing as far inland as may be necessary to visit
the nearest cornfields.”

Indeed, reviewing the whole literature of our native
columbide, I find it replete with error. To begin with
Bewick, his portrait of the Stock-dove is an excellent
likeness of the Rock, but not at all like the bird it was
designed to represent. Pennant confounded the two
species, saying: “The small sort that is frequent on
most of our cliffs is only a variety of the wild pigeon.”
By wild piyeou—a very indefinite titlek—he meant the
Stock-dove, further discoursing of it thus: “The tame
pigeon, and all its beautiful varieties, derive their origin
from one species—the Stock-dove; the English name
implying its being the stock or stem from which the other
domestic kinds sprung.” (!) All these assertions are
alike wide away from the truth; for, not only is the ‘ small
sort that is frequent on most of our cliffs” a distinct
species, and no mere variety, but from it, and likely it
alone, have descended all our tame breeds. Such, at
least, is the general belief at present existing among
ornithologists. And the name “ Stock” has nothing to
do with its being the progenitor of domestic pigeons,
but comes from its nesting in the stocks of old trees.

Tt is all the stranger that Pennant should have made
these mistakes, seeing that Gilbert White, from whom he
obtained most of his information, evidently knew there
was a specilic distinction between the Rock and Stock

Our Wild Pigeons. 31

doves. Still, the naturalist of Selborne has not spoken
with his usual perspicacity on this point; doubtless, be-
cause of the Rock-dove not being a denizen of his neigh-
bourhood—nor yet the Stock breeding there, as he
alleges—he had but slight acquaintance with either.
Montagu also supposed the two species to be the same,
though in the later edition of his ‘‘ Dictionary,” by
Newman, the separation is properly made.

No doubt one of the causes which has led to the two
species having been so often and long confounded is,
that in many parts of England the Stock-dove is called
by the country people Rock, or, rather, “ Rocky.” It is
so in the western shires, and I think I have discovered
the reason. Instead of nesting exclusively in the old
stocks of trees, as most ornithological writers assert, or
in disused rabbit burrows, as stated by others, it breeds
in cliffs too, on ledges overshadowed by bush or projec-
tion of rock. This I can affirm, from having frequently
seen the nest so placed and had the young birds out of
it. Now, as the Ring-dove (Quest), frequenting the same
neighbourhood, never breeds but among the branches of
trees, and the true Rock is usually unknown to them,
this cliff-nesting of the Stock, observed by country
people, would very naturally lead to their giving it the
name “ Rocky,” to distinguish it from the more common
species, the Quest—just as they have done. Yarrell’s
description of the Stock-dove (copied by Mr. Morris,
author of a “ History of British Birds,” with some slight
alteration of phraseology) is also misleading. He
speaks of its wing feathers, primaries, secondaries, and
tertiaries, being tipped with “leaden grey.” There is
not a shade of grey observable on them near the extremi-
ties; instead a dusky brown, at the tips approaching

32 The Naturalist in Silwria.

black. Again, he speaks of certain spots on the wing
coverts, and others on the tertiaries, as of this same
leaden grey. These spots are so near to being black
that no one not colour-blind would think them otherwise,
while those of them described as on the tertiaries are in
reality on the secondaries. As these markings have a
peculiar significance, 1 will be minute in my account of
them, transcribing from the bird before me—that shot in
the bean-field. There are seven of the secondary coverts
so distinguished; the spots being nearly perfect circles,
and confined to the outer web of the feathers, their edges
quite clear of the shaft. They are of different, indeed
graduated, sizes, and at unequal distances from the tips
of the feathers; else with the wing closed they would
form a “bar,” since then only the outer webs are visible.
The other dark markings on the secondaries themselves
—the three inner ones are rather “ blabs ” than rounded
spots—of indefinite outline—are less conspicuous than
those on the coverts. But between the two sets there is
an evident tendency towards that double oblique bar on
the wings, which makes the Rock-dove so easily identi-
fiable. This is why I speak of these markings as having
a peculiar significance, and in their application to all the
three species of our wild pigeons, It is the more strange,
taking into account their other points of distinction;
their respective sizes, almost in regular gradation from
the great Ring to the little Rock—the Ring without sign
of black mark on the wings, the Stock having them
spotted, almost barred, the Rock with the bars complete!
Besides, the upper tail coverts of the Ring are lead
colour, those of the Stock also, but of a lighter shade,
showing an approach to the white rump so characteristic
of the Rock.

House Pigeons Perching Upon Trees. 38

And noting the difference in their habits, we again
find a parallelism of gradation. The Ring makes its
nest upon the branches of trees, the Stock in the cavities
of their trunks, and, as we have seen, also on ledges,
while the Rock is exclusively a bird of the cliffs.

Though so near akin and so much alike, nature has
certainly adapted each of these birds to a different mode
of existence ; but stranger far is the graduated approxi-
mation in their habits, combined with that in size, colour,
and markings. It is indeed strikingly singular.

HOUSE PIGEONS PERCHING UPON TREES.

On one occasion, while out for a drive, I observed
several birds of large bulk perched upon the topmost
branches of a tallelm. ‘Their size, shape, and attitudes
proclaimed them pigeons, and I, of course, came to the
conclusion they were Quests; but as my carriage came
under the tree, which stood by the side of the road, and
the birds still kept to their perch, showing no shyness
nor sign of alarm, I scanned them more carefully. Wild
pigeons, whether Ring-doves or Stocks—Rocks they could
not be, roosting on a tree—would not stay such near
approach of man—certainly not in this, the winter season.

On scrutiny, they proved to be none of the wild
species, but simply House pigeons, that had taken a
fancy to curve their claws around a tree branch instead
of standing with them flattened out on ridge-tile or cope-
stone. There were about{a dozen of them, the tree on
which they were perched,—seeming perfectly at home

D

34 The Naturalist in Siluria.

upon it,—being close to a house and the cote to which
they belonged. Still, not so near but that their thus
roosting seemed somewhat strange. I had often seen
my own pigeons light upon trees, and, for a time, stay
on them; but the trees were in close proximity with
their cot, some of them shadowing the gable against
which it is fixed. Here it was quite different, the elm
being at least fifty yards distant from the walls of the
dwelling, and as much more from the outbuildings, where
the birds had their home.

This spectacle, so rare, leads to conjectural reflection.
Among ornithologists it is the almost universal belief
that the domestic pigeon, with all its varieties, is de-
scended from the Rock-dove (Columba livia). But this
species, so far as I know, never sets foot upon a tree ;
therefore, why should its tame progeny be doing so?
Possibly, and very probably, the answer should be, that
the Stock-dove (C. @ncs) has also had something to do
with the progenitorship, this species being in part a tree-
percher, but alike a rooster in cliffs; where, as I have
lately discovered, it also, and often, makes its nest.
Moreover, domesticated pigeons from such paternity
would not infringe upon the well-known rule of size-
aggrandizement by domestication. With the Ring-dove
(C. palumbus) it is different ; this, the largest of all,
having certainly had nothing to do with the procreation
of our tame breeds.

The Flocks of Wild Pigeons. 35

THE FLOCKS OF WILD PIGEONS.

Another characteristic feature of the Wye-side slopes,
at present writing, is the Quest, or Cushat, not as an indi-
vidual bird, but in grand congregations. The flocks are
now at their fullest, and I have never observed them in
larger numbers. One I saw this very day could not have
counted much less than a thousand. Just now the turnip
fields are their special foraging grounds; and scarce one

SS \
NUTHATCH.

but has its little group, if not large assemblage, of these
birds moving about among the green tops, which have
been prostrated by the late superstratum of snow. As the
leaves are rather withered and délabrées, the pigeons seem
to apply their beaks more to the roots, doing consider-
able injury to the crop, as the farmer too truly knows.
But he has his remedy, since he can recoup himself by
shooting them, the Quest not being protected by game

36 The Nutwralist in Siluria.

statutes, Indeed, the damage they do is far more than
made up by the value of their flesh as a food commodity.
It is to be remembered that they give some compensation
also by the destruction of the seeds and roots of noxious
weeds, which would otherwise infest the ground set apart
for cultivation.

With regard to the bitverness said. to be infused into
the flesh of the Quest when fed on turnips, I am still
inclined to believe the allegation an error. This very
day I have eaten of one in whose crop, when filled, there
was nothing but turnip tops, and I am quite sure these
had been its food for weeks past, yet I could not per-
ceive the slightest taint of that “ rancidity” spoken of
by Gilbert White (though not as his own experience),
and repeated in almost every ornithological work and
cyclopeedia written since his day.

The author of “ British Birds,” in a chapter devoted to
the Rock-dove, says: “I have observed in a flock of
tame pigeons feeding in a field the hind ones, every few
moments, flying over the rest and taking their places
in front, to have their turn of the best pickings, and
this in constant succession, as if the whole of the flock
admitted the right in each other, and claimed it indi-
vidually for themselves.” I think it likely that the Rock-
dove acts in a similar manner, but as regards the Ring-
dove or Quest, I have never observed it. These certainly
do not move so while feeding in the turnip fields, though
that is not a true test, since the food thus provided does
not call for much moving about. But when they do
change place, either walking or on the wing, it is with-
out any regularity of formation or‘direction. The de-
scription, however, if inapplicable to the Quest, is in
exact accordance with what I have myself witnessed in

The Flocks of Wild Pigeons. 37

the Passenger pigeon of America (Columba migratoria).
While shooting, or as there called “hunting,” these birds
in the State of Tennessee, where there are extensive
tracts of beech forests, I have seen “gangs” of them so
thick on the ground, gobbling up the mast, that not a spot
of bare earth has been visible between their bodies. Nay,
more, they sometimes crowded so close as to alight on one
another’s backs, as House pigeons may be often seen to do
in a farmyard when the food is thrown down to them in a
lump. Never stationary, however, these migratory birds
of America, With wonderful rapidity those in the ad-
vance clear off the fallen mast, licking it up, as it were,
in an instant, the cohort behind constantly taking wing,
and flying over to form the front rank, and so on alter-
nately, till the surface of the ground, or rather its plumed
occupants, seem a sea of slate-blue colour, stirred by
wavy undulations. I may add that I have discharged a
double-barrelled gun, loaded with No. 5 shot, right in the
face of such a flock advancing towards me, and at less than
forty yards distance, the result, simply to scare them off,
without killing a single pigeon. I was never sure about
the reason of this failure of the lead to take effect, nor
were others to whom the same circumstance had oft-times
occurred, the general belief being, that it was due to the
wind from the pigeons’ wings sending the shot astray.
More likely, the thick, close plumage on their gorgets
and breasts is the shield which protects them.

The Passenger pigeon is often observed in the northern
countries of Europe, and I think it likely breeds in
Siberia as well as in America. In the latter, its range
extends to the most northern portion of the Continent,
and the passage across Behring Straits would be but a
few minutes’ flight for it. Though having a place in the

38 The Naturalist in Siluria.

list of British birds, its claim to this is very slight, rest-
ing, I believe, on but a single specimen shot in Fifeshire,
Scotland, half a century ago, a waif, in all likehhood,
blown over from Russia or Norway.

THE WOODPECKER.

A traveller passing through the shires bordering South
Wales, if it be a wooded district, will, every now and
then, hear a loud call strangely intoned, ‘resembling, near
as may be, the syllables, “ glu-glu-glu-gluk,” uttered in
a sort of laughing giggle. If new to him, it will not fail
to excite his curiosity with a vivid desire to know what
kind of creature sends it forth. When told it is the call-
note of a bird, he will be loath to believe it so; or, if be-
lieving, and he has ever heard the cry of the white-headed
eagle, he will be half inclined to think it this. But the
first rustic met, and questioned about it, will undeceive
him, saying: “ It’s the heehul, sir.”

He may still fancy the interrogated man means
“eagle,” with a corrupt pronunciation ; and not without
further questioning, and some difficulty, will he learn
that the loudly-laughing bird is only a woodpecker, little
bigger than thrush or starling. Even while he is in
the act of inquiring about it, the glu-glu-glu-gluk will
again break abruptly on his ear; and if by the side of an
orchard, he may see the bird itself flitting from apple-
tree to apple-tree, in a pitching, laboured-like flight.
Nor does it alight on the branches, but upon the trunk,
low down near its base, with head upward, body vertical,

GREEN WOODPECKEER.

39

40 The Naturalist in Siluria.

and tail bent inward against the bark, as if to prop it in
its place.

Scrutinizing the bird carefully, as he has opportunity
now, the traveller will notice that it is of a yellowish
green colour all over the back, with a speckle of black
and white barring the outer edges of its wings and tail;
the crown of its head showing a large, well-defined disc
of deepest crimson. If he have visited tropical countries,
it will recall to his mind the birds of bright feather he
may have seen there. For it is the Green Woodpecker
(Picus viridis), in splendour of plumage excelling all our
native species ; perhaps the bee-eater, roller, and king-
fisher excepted.

Watching it awhile, after it has pitched against the
apple-tree, it will be seen to work upward, not creepingly,
but in bold, confident shoots, sometimes direct up the
trunk, and sometimes obliquely around it. Now and
then it will stop, delve its long, pickaxe-like beak into the
bark ; and keep delving, quicker than could carpenter or
nailer strike with their hammers ; its purpose, to lay open
the lair of the wood-louse, or insect larvae, concealed
underneath. At intervals, while thus engaged, it gives
utterance to its wild, weird cry, which has been likened,
and not without reason, to the laugh of a maniac. The
note, however, is not always sounded exactly the same:
there are times when it is less loud, and softer, and not
unfrequently monosyllabic—a single “chook,” as if
abruptly broken off at seizing or discovering prey.
When in full resonance it can be heard distinctly at a
mile’s distance.

Having ascended the tree to its top, or so far as the
bark shows fissures, with the likelihood of creepers
underneath, the bird flings off to another, as before,

The Woodpecker. 41

alighting near its base, to repeat every act of the per-
formance.

But the Green Woodpecker does not confine its foraging
to trees. Part of its provender it gets out of the ground,
ants especially, which I believe to be its favourite food.
The length and structure of its tongue would seem to in-
dicate an adaptation for this, the organ being of cylin-
drical shape, and capable of protrusion fully two inches
beyond the tip of the beak. The bird, moreover, has the
power of secreting a viscous substance from its throat
glands, which, coating the tongue, causes the insects to
adhere to it, till they are drawn in between the mandibles
and so transferred to the stomach. It is just so with the
ant-bears, or ant-eaters, of tropical America and Africa,
as also certain other species of birds, formed for feeding
on these insects.

While on the ground, the Green Woodpecker pro-
gresses in a fashion sui generis. Its movements from place
to place are made in a series of hops, the head held high,
the body erect, as when climbing the trunk of a tree, and
the tail slightly spread, touching the earth, not trailing,
but as if having a hold on it for the sake of steadiness.

I have had frequent and excellent opportunities of
observing this bird’s behaviour when after the formice,
and at all seasons, winter and summer. On my lawn, and
near the house, these insects abound, so much as to bea
troublesome pest, and there the Picus viridis often comes
in quest of them. In my note-book I find record of
several such visits, and during most months of the year ;
but one paid me in the early part of February, 1879, has
attached to it a detailed description of the modus operandi.
There was a pair of the birds, the Green Woodpecker
being of conjugal habits, and as the scene was not twenty

42 The Naturalist in Siluria.

paces from my window, using an opera-glass, I had a
good view of everything. The two were separately en-
gaged, each at an ant-heap of its own. In point of fact,
there was no “hill,” the roller having hindered that ;
but a slight swelling on the surface told of a colony of
ants underneath in winter quarters—the common yellow
species (Formica flava). The bird would plant itself
firmly, with tail hard pressed against the ground, as a
hand to hold by, then commence “ stocking,” its head
going up and down in rapid repetition, and a ludicrous
resemblance to that of “Punch” in the showman’s box.
Thus it would continue, till its beak was buried in the
earth up to the cere, and the head itself out of sight in
the short sward of grass. And while thus it would
pause at intervals, and remain for seconds at a time
without any visible motion, as if drinking! What it was
actually doing when thus stationary I can only give a
guess at. My conjecture is, that the tongue was extended
underneath, playing along the hollow passages which the
ants have, and licking up the insects, with their so-called
“ eggs ”’—these last being abundant at that time of year.
No doubt the tongue of the woodpecker is highly sensi-
tive, and its true organ of touch: for its hard, horny
beak cannot be, in this respect differing from the snipe
and other soft-billed grallatores.

Notwithstanding the commonness of the Picus viridis
in most wooded districts of our country, it is strange
how much of erroneous belief exists about its habits, even
standard ornithologists assigning to it ways it wots not
of, and doings it never did. In a further note I purpose
exposing some of these errors, while further illustrating
the life of this very interesting avis.

A Brood Under the Mistletoe Bough. 48

A BROOD UNDER THE MISTLETOE BOUGH.

In a note published some time ago, I spoke of having
discovered the nest of a Green Woodpecker by seeing a
litter of chips at the bottom of an apple-tree in my
orchard. The cavity in the trunk containing the nest
was about seven feet above the ground, and, oddly enough,
a fine bunch of mistletoe grew out above, partially over-
shadowing its orifice. Standing on tiptoe, and inserting
my hand into the hole, there came up out of it a chorus
of noises—a jarring and hissing as of goslings, seemingly
in anger, and loud enough to be heard full fifty yards off.
I say up out of it, for the hollow passage, on reaching the
heart of the tree, turned downward a foot or so, as I
could tell by the direction of the sounds. And that these
proceeded from a brood of young birds was equally evi-
dent, one of the parents seen near by flitting about among
the pear and apple-trees, excited and solicitous.

As the rounded hole was not of sufficient size to admit
my hand, I gave up hope of getting a look at the young
birds, and turned to note the behaviour of the old one—
no doubt the mother. She still kept in proximity to the
place, pitching from tree to tree, while every now and
then giving utterance to her strange call-note, though in
tone more subdued than is usual. And her solicitude
seemed less, or at least did not show itself in the fren-
zied, distracted way observable among magpies and some
other birds, under similar circumstances. Nor did she
at any time come very near. All of which I thought
strange, knowing the Green Woodpecker to be anything
but a shy bird—much less so than either jay or magpie.

Having satisfied myself with watching her movements,
T left the place, intending to revisit it on the following

44, The Naturalist in Siluria.

day, for further observation, which I did. But on once
more thrusting the end of my cane into the cavity, there
came forth no noise. All inside was silence, and the
birds flown.

Whether the parents had meanwhile carried them off,
anticipating my return, with the danger attendant, I am
unable to say. For, unluckily, there was another factor
in the account, a haymaking boy—we were mowing the
orchard grass—with fist smaller than mine, who, in my
absence, may possibly have abstracted the chicks. When
charged with the theft, however, he stoutly denied it, and
all inquiries failed to fix the thief, if such there was. But
more likely the young birds had been removed by the
mother, as from the time of year (June 29th), and the
loud noise they were able to make, they must have been
nearly fledged, and so easy of removal.

On having the nest itself drawn out, it proved no nest
at all, only some loose “ daddocks,” as pieces of decayed
wood are called by the country people.

A CURIOUS INSTANCE OF SCANSORIAL
INSTINCT.

One of the oddest and most interesting habits of the
woodpecker tribe is the training their young to climb
trees before they are able to fly. At best the woodpecker
is a bird of heavy, laboured flight, and often relies more
upon its scansorial powers for concealment or escape,
than on its wings. Nature has amply provided it with
the means for this in the conformation of its feet, claws,

A Curious Instance of Scansorial Instinct. 45

and tail, with the guiding instinct as well. But to the
latter the parents add instruction, taking the young birds
out of the tree cavity when nearly full fledged, and show-
ing them the way to get about. That they do this I have
had evidence enough; and a singular case confirmatory of
it has just been made known to me by Mr. W. Blake, of
Ross, an observant young naturalist, whose word I can
well rely on. Out for a walk in the woods, he noticed a
hole in one of the trees, some twelve or fifteen feet above
the ground, which, from certain indices, he suspected to
be the nesting-place of a bird. Climbing up to it, he
plunged his arm in to the shoulder, to find the cavity turn
downwards, and at its bottom felt feathers—a live bird,
which, on his clutching it, struggled violently to escape.
Drawing it forth, and too much occupied with his own
precarious footing, it got out of his grasp, and flew off
with a loud, laughing cry, as in mockery—the well-known
glu-glu-glu-gluk of the Green Woodpecker. But inside
the tree he heard other sounds—the “‘ churming,” as he
words it, of the young birds; and, re-inserting his hand,
he drew them forth one after another—in all five of them
nearly fledged. Placed upon the ground at some two or
three yards distance from the bottom of the tree, they
instantly ran back to it, and commenced climbing up the
trunk, They could make no use of their wings, alto-
gether relying on their claws and supporting tail; and
with these, doing their best, they soon ascended to the
height of six or seven feet—not by a single effort, but
several in succession, with pauses and rests between.
Undoubtedly, they would have returned to the hole from
which they had been taken, but Mr. Blake, having other
views, recaptured and carried them home with him.

Two strange facts are exhibited in this occurrence:

46 The Naturalist in Siluria.

first, the parent bird—the mother, of course—having re-
mained within the cavity till caught, a thing so unusual.
There seems no other way of accounting for it than by
the supposition that she was at the time in the act of
feeding her young, and the noise made by them hindered
her hearing and noting the approach of the enemy. That
were intelligible enough; but the still stranger fact of
the nestlings knowing their way back to the tree where
they had been hatched, would seem one of those instances
of instinct which the philosopher vainly struggles to ex-
plain. Unless it were pure instinct, the only explanation
probable is, that they had been out of the hole and down
upon the earth before, while being taught their first steps
in the art of cuimBine.

In the shires bordering central and South Wales, we
have all four of the accredited British species of Wood-
peckers: the Great Black (Picus martius), the Green
(P. viridis), the Great Spotted (P. major), and the Lesser
Spotted (P. minor). This might be expected from the
wooded character of many districts in the ancient border-
land of the “ Marches.”

Of course, the four species are far from being in like
numbers ; the Great Black is so rare that many ornitholo-
gists even doubt its existence in any part of England.
It has been observed, however, and in my own grounds
in South Herefordshire, myself the observer. In the
summer of 1880 a pair passed over my head, one flying
behind the other at an interval of a hundred yards or so.
They lit in a tall linden tree near the house, only to stay
in it for a few seconds; then continued their up-and-
down flight towards some hanging woods beyond, where
T lost sight of and never saw them again. Mr. Chapman
also, curator of the Free Library Museum in Hereford,

A Curious Instance of Scansorial Instinct. 47

records an observation of this species, a single specimen,
seen by him on an oak tree in the meadows of Belmont,
near the former town. He gives substantial verification
of it.

There can be no doubt, therefore, of the Great Black
Woodpecker occasionally visiting the Welsh bordering
shires, if it be not a permanent resident in them.
Against this there is the fact that although these shires
abound in woods few of them show timber of large
growth ; or where it is large the tracts of it are of limited
extent. And it is well known that this species specially
affects the heart and solitude of the thick forest, rarely
coming out into the open; while with the other three it
is different. In this retiring habit of the Great Black
Woodpecker I note a resemblance between it and the
two American species most nearly akin to it in size as in
colour, both being black. I mean the Ivory-billed (Picus
principalis) and the Black or “log-cock” (P. pileatus).
These always keep to the interior of the grand primeval
woods; their loud tapping —from which they have
derived the fanciful name of “carpenter birds,” in
Spanish America, carpinteros—and their still louder call-
note, oft startling the traveller, as he rides silently. along
some lone, shadowy aisle of the forest. And on the
other side of the Atlantic, just as on this, the smaller
and spotted, or mottled species—of which there are
several—more affect open woods, some of them frequent-
ing orchards, and nesting near the homestead.

Taking our English woodpeckers, not in the order of
size, but scarcity, one or other of the two so-called
“Spotted ” species claims attention next, though it is
difficult to determine which. Both may be pronounced .
rare birds, and are so compared with the Green Wood-

48 The Naturalist in Scluria.

pecker; in many districts one or the other altogether
wanting, and some where neither is known to exist.
From my own observation of them in Herefordshire, a
balance might be struck as to their abundance, some
“lays” of country seeming to have more of the Great
Spotted, others of the Lesser, just as in one place there
will be only tree pipits, while in another, near by, those
of the meadow species alone are seen. Perhaps as good
a guide as any to the comparative numbers of the Great
and Lesser Spotted Woodpeckers, taking them all over
the country, is to be found in the price lists of the
taxidermists. One I have before me gives the following
quotations :—Skin of the Great Spotted, 3s.; egg, 9d.
Skin of the Lesser Spotted, 3s. 6d.; egg, 2s.

By this it would appear that the Lesser Spotted is the
rarer bird, and its nest more difficult to find. Still, that
may arise from its more diminutive bulk, making it less
conspicuous and so less liable to be shot. Certainly in
my neighbourhood, and about my own grounds, it is the
more plentiful of the two, as also throughout the adjacent
Forest of Dean, where both species are met with in con-
siderable numbers, though still far from common.

The name “ Spotted” is for either much of a misnomer.
There is scarcely a spot on them, but instead several well-
defined bars of black and white, so that “ barred”? would
be a more appropriate appellation.

From my observation of the two species, their habits
appear to be much alike, while differing in many respects
from those of the Picus viridis. They keep more within
the woods and to timber trees than it—especially the
Great Spotted; while the Green is a forager in orchards,
and alights on pasture fields where ants, left long undis-
turbed, have thrown up their hundreds of hillocks, I

A Curious Instance of Scansorial Instinct. 49

have never seen either of the others “stocking” at them,
though the Green so engaged is an every-day sight.

About the “tapping ” of these birds, so much talked
of as to be the burden of many a song—notably that
sentimental lay of poor Henry Kirke White, who was
wrong in making it a beech tree—I believe this noise is
oftener made by the Nuthatch than any of the wood-
peckers. The Lesser Spotted certainly gives out such a
sound while searching for its food, but it more resembles
a “whirr” than tapping, as a piece of dry stick drawn
rapidly across a coarse-toothed comb. The other two
also “tap,” while splitting the bark to lay open the lair
of the woodlouse; but the sound made by them is not
perceptible at any very great distance.

The voices of the two Spotted species, so far as I have
heard them, are quite different from that of the Picus
viridis, differing also from one another. That of the
Great Spotted is a monosyllabic note, a “ chuck ” very
much like that the starling sometimes utters, repeated at
intervals of nearly a minute each; while the call-note of
the Lesser comes nearer to that of the Green Woodpecker,
only of fainter, feebler tone.

Of all the four British species, the Green Woodpecker is
the one of commonest occurrence, and so best known.
Still, its habits are less understood than might be sup-
posed, some of them even being incorrectly described
by ornithologists of greatest note. In a future chapter,
to be devoted to this interesting bird; I purpose rectify-
ing such of these errors as I have found the facts to
contradict.

50 The Naturalist in Stlurva.

SOME FALLACIES RELATING TO THE GREEN
WOODPECKER.

One among the many curious habits ascribed to this
bird, in common with our other species of Woodpecker, is,
that the jarring noise made by it on the bark of trees is
a signal of communication between the sexes! Singular
enough, were it true, which, in my opinion, it is not—
instead, only a tale worthy of the credulous Pliny, or the
romancing Buffon. Yet Montagu not only believed it
but of himself has absolutely affirmed its truth, as
follows:—“The jarring noise so frequently heard in
woods in the spring is occasioned by one or other of this
genus, which, from frequent observations, we have no
doubt is used as a call by both sexes to each other. It
is curious to observe them try every part of a dead limb
till they have discovered the most sonorous, and then the
strokes are reiterated with such velocity that thethead is
scarcely perceived to move, the sound of which may he
distinctly heard half a mile.”

Now, if Col. Montagu, while listening to this peculiar
noise, saw the bird which made it, why was he unable
to tell its exact species? The words I have italicized
clearly show his uncertainty in this respect; for to such
an accomplished ornithologist a glance should have been
enough to distinguish the Green Woodpecker from either
of the spotted kinds. If ignorant even of the bird’s
identity, it seems a stretch of imagination on his part to
endow it with a habit, or instinct, so extraordinary—
indeed, outside nature. Surely she provides for all her
creatures the means of communicating with one another
by their own organs, without the necessity of resorting
to extraneous instrumental aid. I cannot think of one

Fallacies Relating to the Green Woodpecker. 51

that does this; though there may be, and is, if the ticking
of the “ death-watch,” as entomologists assert, be a call-
note to its mate. But why should a Woodpecker, with
enough volume of voice to make itself heard to the
distance of a mile—why should it, of all others, employ a
bit of loose tree-bark as a sound-board in the utterance
of its amorous speeches ?

The truth seems to be, that the resonant bark, being
hollow underneath, affords shelter to the woodlouse, with
other prey of the Picide, these knowing that the noise
will start the insects out, and so spare them the labour
of hacking and splitting.

Col. Montagu further contradicts the statement of Dr.
Plot, that the tapping noise, usually attributed to Wood-
peckers, is produced by the Nuthatch. Yet the doctor
was in the main right, the colonel altogether wrong.

Yarrell, who, I believe, still stands at the head of
British ornithologists, has also made mistakes about the
habits of the Green Woodpecker. He says, “It is one of
the earliest birds that retire to rest in the afternoon ;”
whereas it is one of the very latest. Scores, hundreds of
times, have I heard its loud ‘“cackle,”? and seen the
bird itself flitting about my grounds till the last gloam-
ing of twilight.

Again Yarrell states, this time on hearsay authority,
that Green Woodpeckers “when excavating a hole ina
tree, for the purpose of incubation, will carry away the
chips to a distance, in order that they may not lead toa
discovery of their retreat.” Wise birds, were it so!
Which it is not; instead, the very reverse, as I have
ample evidence, the “ chips” often betraying the locale
of their retreat, or more properly speaking, their nest.
An instance in point once occurred to myself, when I

52 The Naturalist in Siluria.

discovered the nest of a Green Woodpecker by seeing a
quantity of whitish-coloured fragments scattered about
at the bottom of an apple tree in my orchard—in all, over
a quart of them. Divining their origin, I looked up the
trunk, to see, at about seven feet from the ground, a cavity
with circular orifice, unmistakably the nesting-place of
Picus viridis—which on examination proved to be the case.

Another fanciful belief about the Green Woodpecker,—
so common as to have earned for it one of its trivial
appellations,—is also mentioned by Yarrell, who says:
“They are said to be vociferous when rain is impending,
hence their name of rainbird.” He thinks this probable,
and offers scientific explanation of it, in the feathers of
birds being readily affected by electricity, and so fore-
warning them of changes in the weather. I have heard
the Green Woodpecker sounding its note throughout the
morning hours when there was neither cloud nor other
sion of rain in the sky; yet in the afternoon came a
downpour. Therefore I, too, might have believed there
was a connection between the bird’s call and the con-
dition of the atmosphere, but for hundreds of other
instances contradicting this idea. Many a time and
oft have I listened to it laughing its loudest, and for
days in succession, during which not a drop of rain fell
—at times, too, when this was much wanted. While the
rain is actually falling, then the bird is usually vociferous
enough; but that is not prediction; more likely delight
at thinking the deluge of water may drive out ants and
other insects from their places of concealment.

True, there is nothing very improbable in this bird, as
many others—beasts as well—being in some mysterious
way forewarned of approaching changes in the weather.
T only know that the warnings it is itself said to give,

Fallacies Relating to the Green Woodpecker. 53

by a call of especial loudness, are not to be relied on;
and when heard preceding a rainfall it seems simply
coincidence.

I think, then, the above beliefs have been shown to be
more or less fallacies, notwithstanding their having been
religiously copied by Mr. Morris in his “ History of
British Birds,” and by a host of other writers—in short,
they have run the rounds of most ornithological works,
including encyclopzedias, and are still running them.

Yet another of these fancies, though less worthy of
note, may be alluded to: that of the Woodpecker “ tap-
ping at the hollow beech tree,” a conceit, no doubt,
originating in the brain of Henry Kirke White, and
perpetuated by his gentle lay. It would be a rare sight
to see a Woodpecker on a beech tree, whether hollow or
sound, for the simple reason that the bark of these trees
is seldom otherwise than sound, affording no lodgment
to insects, besides being too smooth even for the claws of
the Scansores. The apple tree, knotty, corrugated, and
swarming with insect larvae, is the favourite habitat of
the Green Woodpecker; and, no doubt, the abundance of
this species in the “cider shires,’’—greater I believe than
elsewhere,—is owing to the orchards.

Elsewhere I said that the “tapping ” oft heard in
woods is more the work of the Nuthatch than of any of
the species of Picus; and I now find, on referring to
“White’s Natural History of Selborne,” that he pointed
out this fact more than a century ago. Indeed, the Green
Woodpecker, which, as the largest of the three common
species, and, armed with the most powerful beak, might be
expected to make the most noise in this way, scarce makes
such noise at all. Neither does the Greater Spotted ;
while the sound proceeding from the Lesser Spotted is

54 The Naturalist in Siluria.

unlike that produced by the Nuthatch, and nearer to the
“skirr 7” of a rattlesnake.

The ordinary note of the Nuthatch bears resemblance
to the twittering of swallows, but fuller in tone and
louder. What may be called its song, however, is a sort
of piping strain, rather sweet, but peculiar for the voice
of a bird, and bearing resemblance to the sounds pro-
duced by the little water-whistles known as “ nightin-
gales,”

THE NUTHATCH.

In one of his letters, bearing date April 18, the
naturalist of Selborne says :—* Now is the only time to
ascertain the short-winged summer birds; for when the
leaf is out there is no making any remarks on such a rest-
less tribe ; and when once the young begin to appear it is
all confusion—there is no distinction of genus, species, or
sex.” Taken literally, the above might lead to erroneous
inferences; but the meaning is, of course, clear, Mr. White
intending to point out the great difficulty encountered in
the observation of birds, and their habits, during the
time of year when the trees are in full leaf. He seems to
refer only to the birds which are our summer visitants ;
but his remarks will equally apply to many of the species
permanently resident ; such as during the winter are shy
and keep far afield, so giving less opportunity for observ-
ing them. Among these may be mentioned the Nuthatch
(Sitta Huropea), which in early spring more frequently
enters the orchard to forage after the flower buds of plum,
cherry, and other stone-fruit trees. Less shy at this sea-

: The Nuthatch. 55

son, it permits nearer approach, and so can be better seen
and its habits observed. I myself look upon the Nuthatch
as one of the most interesting of our native birds ; for it
is truly a native, not only nesting with us, but remaining
throughout the year. Part of the interest attaching to it
is the peculiar position it holds in our ornithological list, it

\s

ry vit, analy
4 la

Px

LS

NUTHATCH AND JAY.

being the only species of its genus which either inhabits
or visits the British Isles, while the genus itself is marked
by many peculiarities. Its rarity may be also said to con-
tribute to its attractiveness, as with almost everything
else. For although in wooded districts it cannot be
called uncommon, it is nowhere very numerous, and from
many neighbourhoods altogether absent. Independent

56 The Naturalist in Siluria.

of all the above, it is a remarkably handsome bird when
in perfect plumage, which, though neither so brilliant as
that of the Jay or Green Woodpecker, is nevertheless
aught but sombre. A specimen (stuffed) I have before
me, which was shot in my orchard last winter, shows the
back and upper parts of the body of a light slate blue,
the breast, belly, and under parts a bright though delicate
buff; while the under tail inverts, and feathers around the
vent, are a rich ferruginous red.

Still more interesting are the habits of the Nuthatch,
so widely differing from those of our other Aves. Its
being able to run up the trunk of a tree shows relation-
ship with the genera Yunz, Picus, and Certhia. But it
is a better climber than any of these, the last, perhaps,
excepted,—since it can run down as well as up, and this
notwithstanding that it lacks the stiff supporting tail
feathers, which the creepers and woodpeckers have. Like
the wryneck, it has no prehensile power in its tail.

The name Nuthatch, synonym of nut-hack or nut-hacker,
is perfectly appropriate. Some days ago one was seen
in my orchard on a large limb of a Bon-Chrétien pear
tree, busily jobbing away at something on the branch
before it. The strokes were delivered in rapid repetition,
and so loudly as to be audible at more than a hundred
yards distance. Thus occupied, it permitted near ap-
proach; so near, the observer had no difficulty in noting
every movement. He could see that the beak was driven
down, with the head at times held a little sideways, while
at each dig there was a muscular straining of the legs, as
if to give better force to the blow. After a time it flew
off, bearing between its mandibles what looked like a
piece of bark ; but it was more probably the kernel of a
nut, or some other edible substance. On the observer

The Nuthatch. 57

ascending to the branch where it had been at work, he
found a fissure in the bark; which, no doubt, the bird
had been taking advantage of to hold the object it was
hammering at.

On one occasion a bird was brought to me for identifi-
cation by a ranger of a neighbouring wood. He had
shot it, not within the wood, but beside it, in the garden
of his lodge, where it was feeding upon the young flower
buds of acherry tree, not yet blown. I saw it was the
Nuthatch (Sitta Huropea), whose favourite food is the
hazel nut, from the breaking open of which with its
powerful pickaxe beak it derives its vernacular name—
presumably an altered form of “nuthatchet,” or “nut-
hack.” Failing the hazél nuts, it will eat acorns, beech-
mast, berries, and the kernels of stone-fruit, as also
beetles and other insects, though I think it prefers a
vegetable diet when such can be obtained. The fact of
its being taken in the act of despoiling the cherry tree is
somewhat confirmatory of this; for although strictly a
wood bird, and commonly confining itself to the timber
trees, there are certain periods of the year, as now in
early spring, when it pays a visit to the adjacent orchards
to make forage among the buds and blossoms.

The Nuthatch is fairly entitled to a place in the list of
interesting British birds, and for several reasons. In
addition to its very pretty plumage, it is the only species
of its genus we have; while its habits are singular and
sui generis. Besides, it is of somewhat rare occurrence,
for although inhabiting many wooded districts of our
island, it is far from being common, and still farther from
being commonly seen. Even in the neighbourhoods it fre-
quents but few people are acquainted with its personal ap-
pearance. As a proof, the man who brought me the specs

58 The Naturalist in Siluria.

men knew not what bird it was, though he has been rang-
ing the woods around for upwards of thirty years. Yet in
these very woods Nuthatches are perhaps as numerous as
in any other part of England. This good man, however,
is not given to ornithological observation. ' His business
is with timber, lop and top, the split laths for palings,
the hurdle-bars, hop-poles, and pea-sticks. All these he
thoroughly understands, from the cutting down to the
carting off after being sold, and the price a purchaser
ought to pay for them. But birds he knows nothing
about, neither does he profess it. Alike deficient is he
in a knowledge of the four-footed feree nature, and equally
candid in disclaiming it. I verily believe that, while
going his rounds, if an eagle flew over his head, or a wild
cat scampered across his track, he would think no more
of the first than if it were only a sparrow-hawk, and as
little of the last as though but a rat or weasel. As he is
in every sense an honest, respectable man, I can forgive
him for this absence of interest in things which so much
interest me; though as a study to the naturalist—for man
is no exception to the subjects with which natural history
has to deal—his proclivities are as much a puzzle to me
as the mode in which the cuckoo deposits her egg in a
nest too small to admit the possibility of her there laying
it, or the manner of procreation ascribed to the vivip-
arous blenny.

But I must leave the unobservant wood-ranger, and
return to the bird of whose species he was ignorant,
though it must-have flitted before his eyes some hundreds,
if not thousands of times. ‘he Nuthatch is deserving of
notice from the naturalist, much more than it appears
ever to have had. I have pronounced its plumage pretty,
and, without entering into minute details of its colour or

The Nuthatch. 59

markings, it may be described in general terms as half
leaden-blue, half buff. The blue is above, comprising
the crown of the head, the nape of the neck, and back;
the buff below, taking in the throat, breast and belly, the
general tint of the under parts showing an admixture of
chestnut and orange. A black list runs from the base of
the bill over the eyes and on to the shoulder. This mark
has a peculiar meaning, as I shall presently show. The
long, strong, conical, and sharp-pointed beak is dark
blue above, the convex ridge of the lower mandible being
of a whitish horn colour. Morris, in his book of “ British
Birds,” describes the legs, toes, and claws as brown. In
the specimen before me, neither the legs nor toes are of
this colour; instead yellowish-red, with the same slight
admixture of orange observable on the plumage along
its sides. The bird is six inches in length; but the tail
being short in proportion to the body allows for a
greater bulk than might be deduced from the measure-
ment. Itis, in fact, about the size of a greenfinch, though
of quite a different shape, in form more resembling the
woodpeckers. ‘To these it is also very similar in habits ;
and although classed with the Certhiad, or Creepers, its
affinity to the Picidee seems quite as close, or closer. Its
resemblance to the woodpeckers is noticeable in many
of its ways. Like them it is a true tree-borer, not only
delving into the bark after insects, but drilling a hole for
its nest. The noise it makes while engaged in this oper-
ation can be heard at a considerable distance, and is often
mistaken for the “tapping” of the woodpecker. A
somewhat similar hammering is made by it in breaking
open nutshells to extract the kernels; from all of which it
has obtained the additional titles of “nut jobber’ and
“ wood-cracker.””

60 The Naturalist in Stlurta.

Another point of similarity to the woodpeckers, not in
habits, but in plumage, is the streak or list already alluded
to as running longitudinally from the base of the beak
over the cheeks and on towards the shoulders. This
moustache-like marking is a peculiar characteristic of all
the woodpecker family, and seems to have some myste-
rious connection with their mode of life, Itis, at least,
strange that the Nuthatch, of such similar habits, should
also be thus similarly provided, the thing itself pointing
to an alliance between the two genera. The Sitta Huropea
is a true tree climber, or rather creeper, since its mode of
progression is that distinctive of the Certhiadw. While
moving upon the trunk or along the larger branches, it
does not hop as the woodpeckers, but walks foot over foot,
in a quick, stealthy gait, its body flat against the bark.
Nor does it assist itself with the tail, of which the wood-
peckers make much use as a prop and support, often even
when they are upon the ground. Moreover, these seem
only able to go up the tree, or around its trunk, while
the Nuthatch can “swarm” with equal facility either
upward or downward. What gives it this superior capa-
city will be apparent by an examination of its foot; the
hinder toe, or heel, being larger than any of the three
anterior ones, while all are furnished with large sickle-
shaped claws, sharp-pointed, and strongly prehensile. If
the top of a finger be inserted between them and rapidly
drawn forth again, they can be felt adhering to it as
though they were barbed. From this it may well be
supposed that the slightest inequality in the bark will be
caught and clutched, without danger of the bird slipping
off, whether head up or down.

As already hinted at, the Nuthatch nests in a tree
cavity, in this respect also as the woodpeckers. And

The Nuthatch. 61

like these, it delves its own hole, though sometimes
taking possession of one already hollowed out If the
aperture of this be larger than is necessary for the admis-
sion of its body, the bird has been known to make it
narrower by laying a plaster of mud or clay around the
orifice. This trouble is taken, suggests Yarrell, as apre-
caution against attacks by the tits, a small embrasure
being easier of defence than a large one. The reason is
rather unsatisfactory. A blow from the powerful beak
of a Nuthatch would send tomtit, even the great Parus
major, to perdition. More likely the “chinking”’ is
done to hinder the entrance of hawk or owl—possibly the
pole-cat. When the Nuthatch excavates for itself, the
hole is a cylindrical tunnel, first running horizontally,
then at the end dropping downward to the site of the
nest,—a loose deposit of leaves, bits of bark, and moss,—
where it lays six or seven eggs of a dull white colour,
spotted, or blotched, with brown. In the pairing season
its note, “ kweet-kweet’’? may be heard, though at other
times it is rather a silent bird. Its presence is more
often betrayed by the noise it makes while hammering
at the hazel-nuts. Its mode of extracting their kernels is
perhaps the most curious thing relating to it. In order
to keep the nut steady to receive the stroke of its beak,
it first presses it into a crack of a decayed tree, or a
crevice in the bark,—sometimes between the posts of a
paling,—just as a blacksmith fixes in his vice the iron he
intends operating upon. And while pecking at the shell
the bird is so well sustained by its claws as to have the
whole body at command, which moves up and down with
the blows, its weight giving strength to the stroke.
Take it all in all, the Nuthatch is one of the most inter-
esting of our indigenous birds, for it is a true native,

62 The Naturalist in Siluria.

nesting with us, and continuing its sojourn throughout
the whole year.

Mr. Brammer, one of the wood-wards employed in the
adjacent Forest of Dean—a Government property—tells
me of a bird which makes its nest in a very original and
singular situation. When a portion of the Forest timber
is cut down, for the slabs and props used in the coal-mines,
it is first stacked or corded, the “‘ cords” being separated
by upright stakes driven into the ground between.
When the wood is hauled away, these stakes are often left
standing, and remain so for many years. After a time,
the weather having free play upon them, they become
partially decayed ; and then a small bird,—a tit, as my
informant supposes it to be,—hollows out a cavity in one
or other of them, near their top or head, in which it makes
a nest and brings forth its young, A small round hole,
he describes it, running several inches into the stake,
horizontally at first, then lowering to the nest. Mr.
Brammer, although a truthful and intelligent man, is, like
my-nearer neighbour, the ranger, not much of a natural-
ist; and [ take it that his “tit” is neither more nor less
than a Nuthatch. At all events the bird certainly does
not belong to the family of the Paride. For, though the
latter often make their nests in holes of trees, they do
not themselves make the holes, and cannot. I intend
paying a visit to these timber troglodytes, and scraping
acquaintance with them.

‘The Scarcity of Song Thrushes. 63

THE SCARCITY OF SONG THRUSHES.

I have never known Song Thrushes so scarce as they
are ab present, and have been during all the past year,
1880. I speak of my own neighbourhood, South Here-
fordshire, though I have reason to believe it is the same
allover the country. Three summers ago, in my grounds,
I could hear two or three of these birds of song,—un-
matched, save by the nightingale,—singing at the same
time, and within a stone’s throw of one another; and
singing all day long, from early morn till dewy eve, so
constantly and continuously I often wondered at vocal
powers that seemed never to fail or flag. But now all is
changed, and so changed! The mellifluous notes of the
mavis are rarely heard ; and when heard it is in solitary
strain—but one bird singing within earshot, and that only.
on occasional days. Nor is this the worst or strangest part
of it—still another change seeming to have come over the
thrush, making it parsimonious of its song. Instead of
the prolonged strain of former days, this year, whenever
and wherever I have heard it sing, there was but the
going over of its gamut two or three times, and all silence
for hours after !

This fact, for itis a fact so far as my observation extends
—and I have several times observed and been surprised
at it—courts inquiry as to its cause. Can it be because
the thrushes are so few in number, each pair with a wide:
field to themselves, that the cock bird, having no rival
near, and therefore no motive to make display of his pre-
eminence in song, is for this reason so sparing of it? The
conjecture that such is the cause may seem ludicrous
—yet I can think of no other. And why may it not be
thus? Itis well known that caged birds sing better in

64 The Naturalist in Siluria.

company ; piping out their notes in jealous rivalry, as
human vocalists on the stage of the opera-house or concert~
room. And why not wild ones the same?

PROOF POSITIVE OF THRUSHES BEING
SCARCE,

If, beyond the facts above set forth, I had needed other
evidence to assure me of the Song Thrush being now in
diminished numbers, I have got it in a way convincing,
as curious. Some days ago, chancing to be within ear-
shot of two boys, one of them the most noted nest-robber
of my neighbourhood, I overheard a snatch of dialogue
to the following effect :—

“ Wonderful few o’ the singin’ Thrushes be about this
year, Jim.”

“What make ’ee think that, Dick?”

“?Cause I hain’t foun’ a nest o’ em yet, an’ there warn’t
a many last year, eyther.”’

“‘Theer be plenty o’ the mistletoes ; more’n I’ve ever
seed. I hear ’em screechin’ all about farmer’s big
orchard.”

“Oh ! bother the mistletoes. They bean’t much good;
neyther their eggs nor themselves. But the singers!
If I only had a nest o’ young ’uns now, I could get five
shillin’ for ’t.”

Dick was the famous bird-nester; and at this point,
discovering myself, I interrupted the dialogue. I called
him up, for a spell of cross-questioning. Submitting him
to this, I found he was fixed in his idea that the Song

The Missel Thrush Abundant. 65

Thrush was less numerous in the neighbourhood than it
used to be, even within his brief period of nest-plundering
existence, though he was unable to assign the reason for
it. This set before him, as proceeding from the severe
winters of 1879-80 and 1880-81, he caught the idea up,
instantly exclaiming, “ That’s it sure, sir. I knows the
singin’ Thrushes be wonderful nesh.” By the old saw,
there are “sermons in stones, and books in running
brooks,” and just such teaching got I from this ragged
boy, though the lesson was but confirmatory of my own
observations, already made.

THE MISSEL THRUSH ABUNDANT.

The conversation which is above reported gave hint
of another fact, worthy of a word or two, and one I had
also been speculating upon. This, that the Missel Thrush,
by the boys termed “ Mistletoe,” is in as great numbers
as ever, if not greater. This would accord with the orni-
thological character of the bird, in connection with the
peculiar circumstances which have marked the two winters
spoken of—both severe beyond the common. The Missel
Thrush is a much stronger and hardier bird than the mavis,
and will even outlive winters that kill the fieldfare and red.
wing, two congeneric species, which one might suppose,
by their breeding and spending the summer in more
northern climes, would be better able to endure cold in
its extreme degree. Still, I believe it is not the cold
which tests the strength and endurance of these birds,

F

66 The Naturalist in Siluria.

but hunger ; and very likely the Missel Thrush, to the
manner born, and able to subsist on mistletoe berries,

MISSEL THRUSH.

with those of the ivy and others the snow cannot all cover
up, is thus preserved in undiminished numbers.

CHAFFINCH, OR BACHELOR BIRD.

Fringilla Coelebs—Bachelor Finch—the name which
Linnzeus bestowed upon the Chaffinch, is a misnomer—at
least, in Siluria. The Swedish naturalist has said that
‘before winter all the hen Chaffinches migrate through
Holland into Italy.” The remark, of course, refers to
Sweden; but commenting upon it, the famed naturalist of

Chaffinch, or Bachelor Bird. 67

Selborne says :—I see every winter vast flocks of hen
Chaffinches, but none of cocks.”

Now, I have been observing the Chaffinch, one of our
most familiar birds, for several years throughout all the
winter and summer, and have never known the sexes so to
separate. In all cases where there were flocks, the cocks
and hens seemed to be in about equal numbers, or at
least no difference worth noting; and Mr. Knapp, the
author of “The Journal of a Naturalist,’ bears similar

CHAFFINCH.

testimony of them. He says, “ With us the sexes do not
separate at any period of the year, the flocks frequenting
our barn doors and homesteads in winter being composed
of both.” Mr. Knapp’s observations were made in
Gloucestershire on the left bank of the Severn; mine chiefly
in the valley of the Wye. So, if those of Linnzus and
Gilbert White be correct, then the habits of the birds
in these western shires must differ from what they are
elsewhere, even in our own islands—a somewhat singular
circumstance.

68 The Naturalist in Stluria.

It is not often that the amiable naturalist of Selborne
came to wrong conclusions, or put forth fanciful theories,
so commonly indulged in by writers on natural history.
He was too acute an observer for the former, and too
conscientious a one for the latter. Yet in regard to these
same birds, another of his ideas seems paradoxical—that
relating to their migration. Noticing the large flocks of
them that appear in winter, he says, “ It would seem very
improbable that any one district should produce such
numbers. . . . Therefore we may conclude that the
Fringille celebes for some good purposes, have a peculiar
migration of their own.” Now, when we consider that
the Chaffinch usually produces two broods in a year, each
of four or five birds, and that around every house, and in
almost every hedge-row, there is a nest, it is mere matter
of wonder the winter flocks are not larger than they are.
Certainly migration is not needed to account for their
numbers. And, possibly, there is a like easy explanation
of the Hampshire ones being “almost all hens,” as White
puts it. For he does not affirm that they were all hens.
May not the predominance of this sex have been only
apparent from the young cocks of the year not yet having
attained their perfect plumage—the red breastand brighter
hues generally? Might not these have been mistaken
for hens, and so made the latter appear the more numerous?
Supposing eight or ten young birds to be successfully
brought up by a single pair in the breeding season—and
admitting the above theory to be correct—these, with the
mother hens, would give in the winter flocks nine or eleven
grey breasts against one of the brick colour. And, like
enough, this is the explanation of the puzzle.

The Bachelor Birds. 69

THE BACHELOR BIRDS.

In the valley of the Wye no species of our smaller birds
is represented by so many individuals as the Chaffinch
(Fringilla coelebs). In a miscellaneous flock, congregated
in either field or farm-yard, composed of buntings,
sparrows, linnets, greenfinches, and Chaffinches, these
last will usually outnumber all the other kinds; in rare
instances only, and in certain spots, the sparrows muster-
ing in equal strength. But in Herefordshire, throughout
all the year, winter or summer, the Chaffinch is the bird
most familiar to the eye, ever present to the sight, whether
the spectator be journeying along the road, sauntering
through the fields, or looking forth from the door of his
dwelling. Its somewhat monotonous, yet still cheerful,
“twink-twink,” salutes the ear with like frequency ;
though this is not audible at all seasons, since the Chaf-
finch, in common with most other birds, is mute during
the chilly days of midwinter. This winter it has been
so for a much longer period than is its wont. Its song,
not unfrequently heard about the middle of January, did
not strike my ear till February 6th, after the thaw had
declared itself, and the thermometer run up to 40°.
Nor till that time did it sound its ordinary call-note.
Now, both call and carol enliven the copse, and ring
around the walls of the dwelling. The song will again
cease about midsummer, but not the twink-twink ; that
will continue on till the cold of the autumn once more
admonishes it to silence.

Linnzug bestowed upon this bird the specific name
Coelebs (Bachelor), because, as he says, the sexes at the
approach of winter become separated; adding, ‘‘ All the
hen Chaffinches migrate through Holland into Italy.” Of

70 The Naturalist in Siluria.

course he speaks of a migration from his own country,
Sweden. Gilbert White, referring to the same bird and
its habits, as observed by him in Hampshire, after a fashion
confirms the statement of the Swedishnaturalist. He says,
“Vast flocks of hen Chaffinches appear with us in winter,
without any cocks among them.” Such partition of the
sexes does not take place here in Herefordshire; at least,
it has not come under my observation. Nor does it in
the north of Ireland, where, in my earlier days, I was
well acquainted with the habits of the Chaffinch, there
erroneously called Bullfinch, or still more erroneously,
“ Bullflinch.” According to Mr. Knapp, author of
“The Journal of a Naturalist,’ neither is there such a
separation in the adjoining county of Gloucester. So
far as I have seen, in all the flocks frequenting this
neighbourhood for several winters back, the two sexes
have been in about equal numbers; and where only three
or four birds are seen together, one or two of them will
be red-breasted. - Morris, in his book, “ British Birds,”
while chronicling the circumstance of the sexes so keep-
ing apart—which he believes to be a fact—says: “I am
inclined to think that this is most frequent in severe
winters.” My experience of this winter on the Wye
falsifies this conjectural assertion. It has been one of
the severest ; yet throughout its severity the flocks of
Chaffinches have been composed of males and females.
as many of the one sex as the other.

There are people who speak of the Chaffinch as an un-
interesting bird, an assertion showing little of either sense
or taste, and an opinion with nothing to support it, save
it be the plenteousness of the creature so harshly judged.
Were Chaffinches scarce with us as Java sparrows, no
doubt they would be more appreciated, and, like the last,

The Bachelor Bird a Friend to Fruit Growers. 71

oftener confined in cages. Luckily for them they are not
of such rare occurrence. The male Chaffinch, the “ Bache-
lor,” is in reality a beautiful bird, his plumage of the very
brightest and gayest in our indigenous aviary. And the
female, too, though of hues more sombre, when closely
examined, shows shades and markings becomingly pretty.
To speak of any bird as uninteresting is to give utterance
to the language of a Goth; above all, as regards the
Fringilla ccelebs, which in the drear winter day cheers
us by its ever-presence, coming close up to window-sill
and doorstep! As well might one say wicked things of
another red-breasted bird—the Robin; and none will
dare do that.

THE BACHELOR BIRD A FRIEND TO FRUIT
GROWERS.

Many an anathema is hurled at the head of the Chaf-
finch, alike by farmers and gardeners; and too often a shot
from the ten-shilling licensed gun. Nor can it be denied
that Fringilla coelebs does damage to the young sprouting
wheat, and the seedlings of the kitchen garden. ‘But let
justice be done to the bird, and account taken of the
compensation given by it in the destruction of noxious
larve, feeders both upon fruit-tree leaves and those of
garden vegetables. Just now, it so happens that apple
trees are infested by a “blight,” of quite unusual severity,
causing great anxiety to fruit growers, these hideous
grubs doing great injury to ‘the trees. Often the hopes
of a whole orchard, about declaring themselves in full

72 The Naturalist in Stiluria.

bright promise of blossom, are crushed—as it were,
literally nipped in the bud—by them. And this very
year there is every appearance we shall have a shortening
in the fruit crop, if not actual failure, from the same cause.
It will be less, however, in an orchard where Chaffinches
abound, as these birds, now with young in the nest, are
industriously collecting caterpillars from the apple and
other trees, to supply the stomachs of their broods, like
Oliver, ever calling for more.

I can certify to this beneficial fact, from having been an
eye-witness to it day after day. ‘Therefore I would be-
seech the destroyers of small birds to show mercy to the
Chaffinch—if only for the sake of their pears, apples,
currants, and gooseberries.

A CHAFFINCH PARTIAL TO NEWSPAPERS.

Though in building their nests each species of bird
employs certain materials by preference, yet, as is well-
known, where these are wanting, birds will use such
others as come nearest the thing of their choice. Few
make aneater nest than the Chaffinch, and it is rare to find
one greatly differing from another. Yet I have a Chaf-
finch’s nest now before me, which displays eccentricity
of a somewhat comical kind. Instead of the lichen usually
enamelling the outside, this is mottled all over with bits
of newspaper of different sizes, neatly worked into the
wall of grass work and other materials. Examining a
number of these scraps, I find them chiefly taken from
the advertising columns; though no doubt the bird in-

Chaffinch and Chiff-chaff. 73

tended them for concealing its habitation, rather than
making it known to the public.

This nest was found in the shrubbery of one of the town
gardens in Ross, where lichen may have been scarce, while
scraps of old newspapers lying about in plenty served the
bird as a substitute. Withal it is rather an odd case of
accommodation to circumstances.

CHAFFINCH AND CHIFF-CHAFF.

Throughout the month of May and up to June these two
birds are heard almost continuously from earliest daybreak
to latest twilight. The ordinary note of the Chiff-chaff,
which resembles the sound made by the file in sharpening
a saw, is anything but agreeable, many people pronouncing
it the reverse ; while the strain of the Chaffinch, though
cheerful enough, becomes tiresome through constant
repetition, One day I took out my watch to time one
which was singing in atree close by; and, after carefully
counting, I found that it repeated its song 74 times to
the minute, or 450 in an hour. And for many hours of
the day this was kept up, with only now and then short
intervals of silence. We could forgive the “ Bachelor
bird” for the plenteous outpouring of his monotonous
note, as it cheers us at a season when most other song-
sters are chary of theirs, or altogether silent. But it is
withal somewhat vexatious just now, as it hinders the
hearing and distinguishing the songs of rarer species,
who make but a short stay with us.

74 The Naturalist in Stlurta.

EARLY APPEARANCE OF THE CHIFF-CHAFF.

Having read various accounts of this summer visitant
being seen in the month of February, I was disposed to
doubt the correctness of the observation, and so said in
a former note. I now withdraw my doubts, and make
apology to the discredited observers, having myself shortly
after seen the Chiff-chaff, and held it in my hand. Still,
I cannot think that these birds have come on the regular
return migration from the South, but have been staying
with us all the winter. Why should they not any more
than siskins, gold-crests, and other species seemingly
tender as they? It is quite possible, even probable, that
many Chiff-chaffs remain in England throughout the
winter—when this is mild—and are not noticed. For
then not uttering their odd repetitive note, they might
easily escape observation, or, if observed, be mistaken for
other species. The theory held by some people, that this
bird hybernates—by which I suppose they mean that
they lie up somewhere concealed and in a dormant state
—is not necessary to explain the fact of their having
been here all the winter—if fact it be.

GROSBEAKS AND CROSSBILLS.

We have both these interesting birds in the Wye
Valley, and though rare, for some unknown reason their
numbers seem to be on the increase, more of them having
been observed of late years than formerly. This winter
the Grosbeak, or—as it is usually called—the Hawfinch

Grosbeaks and Crossbills. 79

(Loxia coccothraustes), is quite common in the country
around Ross. Captain Manly Power, of Hill Court, tells me
he has noticed several of them upon the trees in his park,
and the Rev. W. Tweed, of Bridstow, has also repeatedly
seen them in his ornamental grounds, one specimen having
been obtained and preserved by him. The severe weather
may account for the numbers recently observed, in one of

CROSSBILL.

two ways—either that being a winter visitant its
severity has sent more of them into our island, or the
bird being shy—for it is one of the shyest of the Finch
family—the hard times had tamed, and brought it down
from the tops of high trees,—its usual perching-place,—
and so closer to the observing eye. Though generally
supposed to be migratory, there is reason to believe that
a few pairs breed in this neighbourhood, and remain with

76 The Naturalist in Siluria.

us all the year. It isa bird well-known to the denizens
of the Forest of Dean.

The Crossbill (Loxiw curvirostra), a yet more interest-
ing bird, is certainly a permanent resident in many parts
of Herefordshire, as also becoming, year after year, more
abundant. Mr. James W. Lloyd, of Kington, records it
as occurring in that neighbourhood in the months of May,
July, August, October, and during the winter ; and since,
in August, he has observed the male, female, and young
together, it seems conclusive that they had nested there.
The Rev. Clement Ley, of King’s Caple, and Arthur Ar-
mitage, Hsq., of Dadnor, have frequently observed small
flocks of them, noting also that they usually appear in the
mysterious odd numbers of three, five, or seven. Ina
very interesting article on the ornithology of Hereford-
shire, the joint production of these gentlemen, it is re-
marked: ‘‘ Most curious birds they are, and very interest-
ing it has been to watch their parrot-like motions, as they
clamber from bough to bough of the spruce fir-trees,
frequently breaking off a spray with the cone attached to
it, which they grasp in their claws while they extract the
seeds, producing a loud, snapping noise with their power-
ful bills. Among those which visited us last summer
were several young males of the year, whose brilliant rosy
plumage formed a striking contrast to the almost sooty
hues of their companions.” In fact, taking its habits,
colour of plumage, and general appearance into account,
the Crossbill is as much parrot as finch, and several of
the species, as Lowia pityopsitaccus, L. teenioptera, and L.
leucoptera—all occasional, though rarer, visitants to our
island—show this alliance in an equal or even greater
degree.

The Carrion Crow. 17

THE CARRION CROW.

The Carrion Crow, that is, the real crow (Corvus
corone)—since the Rook (C. frugilegus) is sometimes
so called—commences its nidification early in March,
either repairing the old nest or building a new one.
The Carrion Crow, however ill-sounding its name or
wicked its propensities, has at least one virtue deserving
a word in its favour—it is faithful in its loves. Even the
dove, emblem of constancy, is not more true to its mate
than this bird of reputation black as its plumage. And
while the mated birds are constant as husband and wife,
they are equally affectionate as father and mother; the
young remaining under their protection, and possibly
receiving instructions from them throughout the year,
or until they get married themselves. The naturalist of
Selborne, apparently quoting from Pennant’s “ British
Zoology,” says that ‘‘ Crows go in pairs the whole year
round.” ‘This is an error; they are only seen in pairs
during the few weeks when engaged in bringing forth
their young, after which they are rarely ever apart from
these last. The family group usually numbers five or
six, though often there are as many as seven. If the
nest has been plundered—no rare occurrence when boys
or gamekeepers are about—then may the two old birds
be seen alone for the rest of the year. Notwithstanding
its name, this bird does not confine itself to eating
carrion, but often subsists on insects and reptiles taken
alive. It will even kill young rabbits and leverets. It
has also the repute of making free with the young fowls
of the farm-yard; but I believe that much of this sort of
damage laid to its charge is the doing of the magpie,
which last sly depredator steals many a march into the

78 The Naturalist in Stluria.

outhouse enclosures, and carries off weakling chicks,
despite the protecting efforts of the enraged parent.
The Crow otherwise is not only innocuous, but of great
benefit to the farmer, its principal food being the larve
of noxious insects. It is especially destructive to the
scarabidcee, and in search of these explores every drop-
ping of cattle, often scattering the heaps, which, left
untouched, would be injurious to the after pasture. In
regard to these droppings, I have observed a fact worth
recording. It is well known that cows will not eat the
grass which grows out of their own ordure. I had a
pasture field where this was plenteous, the rank spots
showing conspicuous all over it, into which two of my
‘horses were turned; and while the former carefully
shunned the rich succulent herbage originating from
themselves, the latter greedily ate it, browsing it down
to the roots !

Reverting to the Carrion Crow, it takes a practised eye
to tell one of these birds from a rook at 200 yards
distance. There is scarce any appreciable difference in
their size, shape, or colour, while they are almost as one
in gait and general action. Seen near enough, however,
there is no difficulty in distinguishing the species, the
bare triangular disc at the base of the rook’s bill being
the best mark of distinction. Several pairs of Carrion
Crows breed in Penyard Wood, each couple solitary, and
not in companionship, as do the rooks. Just above my
house, in the trees which grow against a steep escarp-
ment, nests a pair, which I look upon as my especial
pets. They spend most of their time on a stretch of
pasture visible from my drawing-room windows, they
and their last year’s progeny stalking carelessly and
majestically about among my black, but white-faced and

The Nest of ‘ Corvus Corone.” 79

white-tailed, sheep, already known to fame. Last summer,
in the haymaking time, provoked by the loss of some
chicks and ducklings, supposed to have been carried off
by these crows, I was cruel enough to use my gun, and
fired at one of them. Luckily I did not kill, but only
wounded it in the leg. For many weeks after I saw this
same bird limping about over my lawn; and, at the time,
a cripple myself, I could not help thinking it appeared
there as a reproach to me, saying, “Just see what you
have done! Look at me, and then at yourself!” I was
glad to find that its leg was not broken, and to see it
recover, till at length it walked, and still walks, as well as
any of the family. But the incident taught me a lesson
of humanity, and never again shall my gun be discharged
at Carrion or other crow.

THE NEST OF “CORVUS CORONE.”

The nest of a Carrion Crow has been brought me for
examination ; a nest which the owners had abandoned.
Likely enough, its egg treasures had been taken out by
some scansorial plunderer, as the eggs of this bird, being
rather pretty and of large size, are a desideratum in
collections. As many people suppose that the nest of
the Crow is similar to that of the magpie, it may be worth
while giving a detailed description of it, since, in many
essential points, it differs from the latter. What may be
termed the outer wall of a magpie’s nest is composed of
dead sticks, these nearly always branches of the haw-
thorn and blackthorn; some of them are thick as a finger,

80 The Naturalist in Siluria.

and so attached to the tree in which the nest is placed that
the removal of it would either entail its destruction or cut-
ting off the tree’s top. With the Crow’s nest it is dif-
ferent ; this being set in a fork of the trunk with little or
no fastening, and can be lifted out bodily without break-
ing it up. Besides, the materials of the outer wall are
not thorns, but the slender twigs of other trees, none of
them thicker than a penholder. Those in the nest before
me are nearly all oak, with a strand or two of honey-
suckle entwined, evidently to bind them together. But
what seems strangest about it is, that the oak twigs are
all freshly torn from the tree or trees. I say torn, since
each shows a ragged end, quite different from what
would appear had it been snapped or broken off, and as
if detached by a process of pulling and twisting. Now,
as this nest was in an oak standing amidst other oaks
in a wood, the twigs, no doubt, were obtained from the
trees around, and, I believe, plucked from them by the
birds themselves, since there are none lying loose upon
the ground, and no work going on in the wood where
sprays of this description could be obtained. There are
nearly two hundred of these slender rods forming the
outer wall, bent round it, and slightly wattled.

Again, a magpie’s nest is usually domed over, while
that of the Crow is quite open at the top, the whole
structure being hemispherical. The one before me is
eighteen inches in diameter across the top, of which the
wall of twigs, with inside lining included, occupies one
half, being about four and a half inches thick. The
author of “The Gamekeeper at Home,” speaking of
Carrion Crows, says : “‘ The keeper smites them hip and
thigh, and if he comes across the nest placed on the
broad top of a pollard tree—not on the branches, but on

The Nest of “Corvus Corone.” 81

the trunk—sends his shot through it, to smash the eggs.”
I never heard of a crow’s nest ‘‘on the broad top of a pollard
tree’; but whether there or elsewhere, I should say that
the keeper who acts as above were a man without much
intelligence, and silly in so wasting his ammunition.
For the wall-work of a Carrion Crow’s nest is so thick,
and of such solid structure, no shot of gun, save the
bullet of a big bore, could possible be sent through it.
Perhaps the most notable difference in the nests of
these two birds is their lining, with the materials com-
posing it. In the magpie’s nest there is only one layer,
which is some sort of threadlike, fibrous substance, ap-
parently the root processes of the ivy. A compost of
mud, or clay where it can be had, is laid underneath
these rootlets to attach them to the wattle-work of sticks.
The interior of the Crow’s nest is altogether different,
there being two layers of lining composed of various
materials. Nor is there any mud, clay, or such earthy
matters, though Montagu and other ornithologists
say there is. I myself have never seen such in the
Crows’ nests that have come under my observation. The
lining, as I have said, is two-fold: first, a layer of grass,
this also of two sorts—cooch, and a broad-leafed kind
common in our woods, and known to the woodmen as
“deer grass.” These mixed together form a stratum of
an inch thick, resting immediately on the groundwork of
twigs ; while the extreme inner lining, of about the same
thickness, is composed of many substances, combined
and closely felted together so as to make a neat hemi-
spherical cavity. Pulling them apart, I find horsehair to
predominate with wool; and a few birds’ feathers, among
them two or three wing primaries of the wild pigeon
‘Quest). But, mirabile dictu ! human hair also, woman’g
G

82 The Naturalist in Siluria.

hair, a thick tress of it, full fourteen inches in length, and
of a beautiful dark auburn hue. Where this could have
come from, or how the Crows got hold of it, it is hard to
say. Were it a short twisted tuft, one might believe it
the castaway combings of a head; but a tress of such
thickness, length, and beauty, where is the woman or
girl likely to part with the precious treasure ?

Nor is this all, my Crow’s nest affording still other food
for curious reflection. In its varied material of lining
are several scraps of old newspapers ; which, as with the
nest of a chaffinch I have already given account of, have
been taken chiefly from the advertising columns, these
two setting forth the merits of various patent medicines.
Conspicuous among them is a “cure all,” warranted to
relieve every ill flesh is heir to. I refrain from giving
the name of this wonderful specific, lest I might be
accused of puffing it. Therefore the curious must be
contented with my telling them it is not “ Cockle’s
Antibilious Pills.”

THE CROW A FAMILY BIRD.

Acute and conscientious as was the naturalist of Sel-
borne, he has-made some mistakes ; one about the Crow,
or, as commonly called, “Carrion” Crow (Corvus corone),
which he tells us “ goes in pairs the whole year round.”
An error that, with many more in relation to the habits
of this bird, has been perpetuated by Yarrell and most
other English ornithologists, so as to become the stereo-
typed phraseology of the encyclopedias.

I am able to state for certain that the Crow never

The Carrion Crow a Cleanly Bird. 83

goes in pairs save during the days of nest-building. If
seen thus at any other period of the year, it is because
the nest has been robbed, or the brood in some way de-
stroyed, leaving the bereaved parent birds alone for the
length of another twelvemonth. But when successful in
the hatching and bringing up their young, there is no
separation nor pairing. Instead, the whole family keeps
together—though apart from all others—throughout after
summer, autumn, and winter, on till nesting-time in
spring.

To verify this habit, I have been for years observing
the behaviour of the bird, and .can now vouch for it as a
fact. My opportunities are excellent, as the Carrion Crow
is common in my neighbourhood, more than one family
having their cantonments near. A pair annually breed
ina hanging wood contiguous to my grounds, and last
year they were successful in raising their brood of four ;
since which time all six—the old with the young—have
consorted together, never for an hour being apart.

At the same time I know of a single pair, not far off,
keeping by themselves. But I know also that this want
of sociality is not their natural habit, but forced upon
them, either by bird-nesting boy or the gun of the
gamekeeper.

THE CARRION CROW A CLEANLY BIRD.

Notwithstanding the foul habits attributed to the
Carrion Crow, even to giving it its common name, it is in
person one of the cleanliest of birds, and addicted to
frequent ablutions. Even in the cold days of winter I

84. Tie Natewalich tn Sthuria.

have often seen Carrion Crows washing themselves in a
brook that runs through my land; and but three days
ago I saw one on a spot of grass meadow which the
brook had overflown, the bird plunging and rolling about
in the water with apparent delight, while it sent the spray
in showers all around it. After the bath it flew up to a
tree near by, and there alighting, shook the water from
its body and wings, then went on preening its feathers,
at iutervals giving them a fresh, vigorous shake. As
there was but the one in sight, I take it for granted it
was the cock bird, the hen being at the time on her nest.
Had it been otherwise, the pair would certainly have been
together, or in visible proximity, for, winter or summer,
the Corvus corone is never seen alone, save when its mate
and the younger members of its family have fallen
victims to gin or gun.

ABRUPT DISAPPEARANCE OF CROWS AND
MAGPIES.

While out on a long drive, I was once struck with the
almost total disappearance of Crows and Magpies from
places where previous to that day I had been accustomed
to see them. Going the same round but a few days
before, I had observed the latter in troops of ten, twenty,
or thirty, loudly vociferous, their chattering scarce ever
out of my ears. Now only one, or at most a pair, is to
be seen at a time, and silent as mice. The explanation
is, of course, that these birds have mated, and gone
about building their nests, or repairing the old ones of

Magpies ; or, the English Birds of Paradise. 85

last year. When so occupied, the Magpie is shy, if not
sly; and will accumulate a half-barrowful of faggots on
the top.of a Scotch fir close to your house, and, it may be,
right over your head, without your having seen it carry
a stick thither !

The disappearance of the Crow (I speak of Corvus
corone) from its customary haunts, much more interested
me. For I may almost claim individual acquaintance
with every bird of this species belonging to the parish I
reside in, with parts of others adjacent. I at least know
every family, with the field, ay, almost the exact spot,
where each could have been found any day throughout
the past winter. Their absence from these places told
me they too were occupied with the building of new
nests, or renovating the old ones.

MAGPIES; OR, THE ENGLISH BIRDS OF
PARADISE.

It is scarce necessary to say that Magpies are numerous
in Siluria, as in most places where woods abound. Just
now, however, and for the two months past, any one
passing along our roads might imagine them in greater
numbers than they really are. For one of their habits,
hitherto not much observed, is to congregate in the early
days of spring, and remain so for several weeks; the
purpose evidently courtship, and the choosing of partners
for the nesting season to ensue. I have counted as many
as twenty thus together; and their excited manner, with
much vociferation, would lead one to believe that this

MAGPIE,

86

Magpies; or, the English Birds of Paradise. 87

was the business they were about. It may be that the
old pairs are constant to one another, for certainly the
same nest is used year after year, and most likely by the
same birds. If so, the clamorous congregation may have
for object only the mating and marriage of the young
ones; and the chattering, oft in tone of angry objurga-
tion, may be disputes between their parents as to fitness
and settlement.

It is said that in some parts of England the Magpie
has become quite a rara avis, having been persecuted
almost to extermination by both farmer and gamekeeper.
A pity this, for it is one of our most beautiful and
interesting birds, its presence a cheer and ornament to
field and tree. A neighbourhood, or homestead, would
not seem English without it. And if Magpies do, now
and then, pilfer from the partridge’s or pheasant’s nest,
and carry off chick or duckling, they make amends for
such damage by destroying an infinite number of
noxious creatures, far more harmful than themselves.

It appears to me that this beautiful bird is ornitho-
logically the northern representative of the famed Birds
of Paradise of the tropics, of a nearly allied family, if not,
indeed, the same. Its voice, habits, close-set, velvet-like
plumage, with changing metallic tints, and, above all, its
ample development of tail, point to it as being a so-called
Paradise bird—that special to the more temperate climes.
Last year, while taking the young out of a Magpie’s nest
for purposes of examination, I was impressed with this
fact in observing the behaviour of one of the parent
birds. Flying excitedly from tree to tree, now and then
clinging to a branch in upright attitude, with body elon-
gated, wings outspread in a tremulous motion, and the
long trowel-shaped tail, with side feathers graduated in

88 The Naturalist in Siluria.

regular échelon, all the while giving utterance to wild,
sponized cries—very screams—it presented a spectacle
beautiful as touching. If I mistake not, Mr. Wallace, in
his fine book souk the Oriental Archipelago, describes
the Birds of Paradise as behaving in a very similar
manner.

ARE MAGPIES GREGARIOUS?

As a rule, Magpies are seen singly, or in pairs, and
aost people know of the superstitious feeling attached to
their appearance, as thus formulated :

One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three a marriage,
Four a boy.

Were there any truth in these old saws, and it is wonder-
ful how they are believed in, some neighbourhoods would
show a preponderance of sorrow; while in others the
wedding bells would be kept constantly ringing, and
places become over-peopled. This last would surely be
the case in some of the western shires where woods
abound, and where four or more Magpies consorting
together is quite a common sight. In my own neigh-
bourhood, the southern part of Herefordshire, it is almost
a rarity to see but one or two together; and last week
sixteen of the noisy chatterers were counted close to my
house consorting in a single flock. This, however, is a
somewhat singular occurrence, and no doubt due to the

Are Magpies Gregarious ? 89

abnormal mildness of the weather, the Magpies mistak-
ing it for spring. When spring comes, there will be
nothing strange in it, as then these birds congregate in
large assemblages, often of twenty or more, for courtship
and marriage; and when married, models of constancy
they become.

But, apart from their association at pairing time, and
in the fields, I have evidence, lately gained, of their
tendency to gregariousness, which I believe to be their
real habit when in sufficient numbers.to indulge in it.
Three weeks ago my gun-man, instructed to get mea pair
for purposes of scientific examination, found nigh a score
of them in the same night roosting-place—for the time
was just before nightfall. Nor were they roosted on tall
timber, but among young oaks not much larger than
apple trees, with the trunks ivy-entwined, and last year’s
leaves still on. A copse it is, of about an acre in extent,
standing solitary and apart, though between two exten-
sive tracts of woodland, and scarce two hundred yards
from the edge of either. Why this preference for the
copse as a roosting-place, over the continuous woods, is
of itself a singular circumstance, and one I am unable to
explain. Whether a better shelter or not, the latter
would certainly have been a safer one, notably in the
present instance, since my man had no difficulty in
bringing down a pair of the birds as they screamed and
fluttered among the branches such a little way above
his head.

The Magpie, which I believe to be the temperate-zone
representative of the tropical Birds of Paradise, is pos-
sessed of a beauty little known and too little appreciated.
Viewed from a distance, only black and white colours in
severe contrast are distinguishable; but taken in hand,

90 The Naturalist in Siluria.

just after being killed or caught, its iridescent raiment
shows tints in brightness rivalling the hues of the
rainbow.

It will be a surprise to ornithologists when I prove—
as I hope ere long to be able to do—that in England we
have two distinct species of this very familiar bird !

MAGPIES IN A MADHOUSE.

I have received account of a singular incident, furnished
me by the chaplain of a west-county lunatic asylum, in
which five of these birds were kept as pets for the amuse-
ment of the patients. They had been in the establish-
ment before the chaplain received his appointment to it;
and one day, shortly after entering on his duties, he was
out in the grounds along with several others, when a

_ Magpie flew towards him, alighted on his shoulder, and

commenced nibbling at his ear. Astonished, and some-
what annoyed, he brushed the bird off; only to have it
return again, and recommence the pecking process, which
gave him no pain, as the thing was done gently, and
seemingly in play. Still it tickled, while further as-
tonishing him; all the more after repeated drivings off
and back-comings of the bird. Not till then became
he aware of the cause of its persistency, this a strange
one.

It appeared, as told him, that he bore a striking like-
ness to a former patient in the asylum, lately deceased,
who had been a favourite of this Magpie, the bird being

The Nesting of Rooks and Magpies. 91

his especial pet, and that the man had taught it the
manoeuvre which, misled by the personal resemblance, it
was now essaying to practise on himself !

THE NESTING OF ROOKS AND MAGPIES.

Speaking of nests, a comparison between those of the
Rook and Magpie suggests itself. Though so much alike,
as seen on the tops of tall trees, closer examination shows
many points of difference. That of the Magpie inclines
to an oval shape, and is usually domed or otherwise roofed
over. It is also a more elaborate structure, if I may use
the expression, with more “ basket work ”’ about it, and
firmly attached to the tree-fork. A Rook’s nest is negli-
gently constructed, with the sticks laid loosely upon one
another rather than wattled. The winter blasts afford
evidence of this difference in construction, as regards
permanency, the former defying them even in the most
exposed situations, while the latter gives way to them in
places comparatively sheltered. ‘The Magpie builds a
house it intends to inhabit year after year, during its
season of incubation, and for that purpose will return
to it if left unmolested; whereas the Rook, though
coming back again to the same place and tree, seems
not to regard the labour of re-building.

Y2 The Naturalist in Siluria.

THE CUNNING OF ROOKS IN THEIR CHOICE
OF NESTING-PLACES.

I have often noticed the preference of Rooks for build-
ing about churches, as a proof of instinct, or, to call it
by its proper name, an act of ratiocination, admonish-
ing them that such places afford greater security. I
might have added that the same process of reasoning
also guides them to build in gentlemen’s parks, and by
grand mansions, knowing these to be, if not sacred as the
precincts of the church, equally, or even more, safe from
the intrusion of nest-robbing boys and the danger of
ten-shilling licensed guns. I know of parks where Rooks
have their nests on trees so low, and, to coin a word, so
climbable, that a six-years-old urchin might easily ascend
to and despoil them either of their egg treasures or
chicks. But the proprietors will not allow this; and so
year after year the birds come back with equal, and, it
may be, increased, confidence.

THE ROOK IN A COURT OF LAW.

Many people desire to have a rookery in proximity to
their houses ; nor can there be any wonder at this. For,
despite some disagreeables attendant, the cawing of these
birds, so familiar as to seem the conversation of friends,
with the opportunity of watching their many quaint ways
and movements, is certainly worth something. Yet is
there great difficulty, as all know who have tried it, in
getting Rooks to breed upon trees not self-chosen; and

The Rook in a Court of Law. 93

various artifices have been resorted to as attractions. It
is not of these I intend speaking now, but to relate an
anecdote furnished me by my friend W. Baker, Esq.,
of Lincoln’s Inn, showing the Rook in a court of Jaw, into
which it was unwittingly dragged, as many of the human
kind often are unwillingly. The Probate Court it was,
the episode occurring in Ireland—Tipperary, too—where
resided Mr. C., an old gentleman of large estates and
noted eccentricity in his habits. Having a small rookery
by his house, and wanting to enlarge it, by way of en-
couraging more birds to build, he had bundles of sticks
cut into convenient lengths and laid in litter all round
the place; which the Rooks, as is their wont, made free
use of. But another eccentricity of Mr. C., which in the
end proved less innocuous, was a mania for making wills.
Many made he, year after year; so many and so varied
in their conditions, as also the beneficiaries they referred
to, that when he at length took departure from the world
the difficulty was to determine which will was the latest
made and legally valid one. As the natural consequence,
there was dispute between several claimants, resulting in
an expensive lawsuit of long continuance, epitome of
which I give in Mr. Baker’s own words, quoted from a
letter lately received from him.

“When Mr. C. died, there was a lawsuit about his
estate. Lord Longford v. Purdon was the name of the
action, and I think it was compromised last year. One
of the pieces of evidence produced to show that he (Mr.
C.) was of unsound mind, was the fact that he assisted
his Rooks to build their nests! My attention had been
called to the case in a marked way, owing to the fact
that in one will (unfortunately not the right one) he had
named some connections of mine as legatees.”

94, The Naturalist in Stlwria.

Had Barham, while writing his “ Ingoldsby Legends,”
but known of this Tipperary incident, he might have
given it a place alongside the “‘ Jackdaw of Rheims.”

THE JAY A CARRION FEEDER,

While an incident chronicled below shows the alliance
of the Jay to hawks and shrikes, it also partakes to some
extent of a vulturine character. For not only does it
eat fresh meat of all sorts and kinds—even greedily
devouring fat bacon—but will not disdain that which is
tainted. I could recount many instances of its feeding
on carrion—dead sheep left lying neglected near a wood’s
edge, or unburied offal thrown out by a farmstead—
sharing the repulsive banquet with rat, stoat, weazel,
magpie, and tomtit, to say nothing of Canis domesticus.
Odd enough that in his stroll through Savernake Forest,
the same in which he was witness to the encounter spoken
of—a reverend friend of mine and his companions came
upon the body of a dead deer—a carcase fast hastening to
putrefaction—with a Jay perched upon it, “stocking”
away with all its might !

The scientific names given to bird, quadruped, reptile,
or insect should, where possible, set forth some indication '
of its character and habits. Unfortunately, this golden
rule is too often disregarded, the vanity of naturalists—
especially they of the closet—leading them to bestow
titles complimentary to friends and patrons, so making
the nomenclature of zoology unintelligible as ludicrous.

The Jay a Cannibal Bird. 95

As regards the Jay being called Garrulus glandarius,
there is nothing of this, the name being more a miscon-
ception. For after the habits of the bird, as above
described and attested to, who could think it appro-
priate ?

THE JAY A CANNIBAL BIRD.

Ihave never known Jays so numerous in my neighbour-
hood (South Herefordshire) as they are at the present
time, and have been for a year or twoback. Throughout
the past winter, and the autumn preceding, it has been a
common sight to see flocks of from half a dozen to a score
skirmishing about orchards, or along high hawthorn
hedges, screeching as though they would split open their
throats. This is evidence sufficient that exceptionally
inclement and trying winters, which make havoc among
many other species of birds, have done no hurt to them.
On the contrary, as I am inclined to think, that ex-
tremely rigorous winters are rather in their favour,
providing them with, as it were, a perpetual feast, and
the food most to their liking, which, I believe, is not
acorn, but jlesh. During the long-continued snows of
January, 1880, and 1881, there was scarce a hedgerow
that had not fieldfares and redwings lying dead alongside
it, killed, not by the cold, but hunger; since in both years
preceding the wild berry crop had failed, and everything
else eatable by these migratory birds was for weeks buried
up beyond their reach. Many of our permanently resident
kinds perished also, but certainly no Jays, these finding
sport, or at least plenteous sustenance, in what was

96 The Naturalist in Siluria.

death to the others. Cannibal-like, more than once have
I seen them gorging themselves on the flesh of fieldfares
that had fallen victims to the snow, seeming to hold revel
over the unnatural banquet.

“GARRULUS GLANDARIUS” A MISNOMER.

It seems to me that the ornithological name bestowed
upon this bird is a misnomer, both generically and specifi-
cally. Many other birds are as noisy chatterers, some
even more so,—the magpie, for instance, and parrots in
their wild state,—while it is not specially a feeder upon
acorns. Neither does it seem correctly classed in the
family Corvide, in which most ornithologists place it;
for, though the smallest member of this family inhabiting
England, it is, in reality, more rapacious than any of
them, the raven not excepted. Besides, if anatomical
structure be reliable as a guide to habits, the denticulated
upper mandible of the Jay’s beak, with its sharp curving
claws, points to relationship with the Falconide quite as
much as with the Corvide. But there is another family
with which it seems to have a still closer kinship—the
shrikes (Laniade). There is a striking resemblance
between it and the great grey shrike, or butcher-bird
(Lanius excubitor), not only in the dentition, but in many
of their ways and habits, both being murderous birds.
For I have reason to know that during the winters of
1879-80 and 1880-81 the Jays did not always await their
weak bird brethren succumbing to death from starvation,
but in many cases forestalled it by killing them.

“ Garrulus Glandarius” a Misnomer. 97

It seems even less known, if, indeed, ever suspected,
that the Jay often deals death to quadrupeds as well as
birds. Quadrupeds, too, of no diminutive size, or without
the strength to defend themselves, such as mice. For it
will kill young rabbits, and, what is more, the squirrel,
a robust, active animal, of pugnacious, predatory habit,
which even the stoat often finds a doughty adversary. A
well-attested case of Jays attempting the life of a squirrel,
which would have been successful but for outside inter-
ference, has just come under my notice, furnished by my
friend, the Rev. Arthur Armitage, chaplain of the Military
College at Oxford. With some companions, he was ex-
ploring Savernake Forest, near Marlborough, Wiltshire,
when their attention was attracted to a pair of Jays
excitedly fluttering about among the branches, and
giving utterance to their well-known screech, in tone
harsher and seemingly angrier than usual. Drawing up
to them, it was seen that they were engaged in combat
with a squirrel, repeatedly darting at and pecking it;
the quadruped doing the best it could to defend itself.
So earnestly were the birds occupied with their murder-
ous design, that the tourists got quite close to them
before being perceived. Then desisting, the birds flew
off, while the squirrel, disabled, was easily caught. On
examination, it was found that one of its eyes was already
gone, pecked clean out of the socket; while other injuries
showed where it had suffered from the beaks of the Jays,
sharp and hard as steel. Unquestionably they would
have killed it outright but for the accidental inter-
ruption.

98 The | Naturalist in Stluria.

A LIVING JAY WITH BOTH LEGS BROKEN
AND THE SKULL CRUSHED IN.

I have just received the legs of a Jay—lately shot in
some preserved woods between Ross and Ledbury—both
broken but healed up again. The bird had evidently
been caught in a gin-trap, from which it had been taken
by the gamekeeper and cast down as dead. And,
besides the broken legs, a portion of its skull had been
crushed in, as if by the butt of the gamekeeper’s gun or
the heel of his boot. All this damage must have been
done to it months before, and yet the creature still lived,
and when shot was in good condition, flying about
among: the trees as if it had never received injury! The
stoat, taken some two years ago in Shropshire, which
had been several times trapped, leaving it only one leg,
might be quoted as a parallel case. But, no; as regards
tenacity of life, I can believe anything of a member of
the family Mustelide, especially after seeing, as I last
summer did, one of its smallest species, a weasel, do
battle with a large sheep dog for nearly an hour, before
it was finally conquered and killed!

THE WAYS OF THE DORMOUSE.

The account I have given below of the Dormouse, as to
its extracting nut kernels, has been confirmed by so accu-
rate an observer as Mr. Harrison Weir. He seems to
think, however, that the kernel is loose in the shell, and
the animal turns the nut about, so as to bring it in contact

The Ways of the Dormouse. 99

with the hole already drilled. This is not so. The kernel
adheres to the shell, filling up all its interior, and is
scraped off piecemeal, as I described it. After a night’s
feeding—for it is by night the Dormouse does most of
its eating—several nuts will be left with the kernel but
partly consumed, these to be cleaned out at the next
meal. J have examined them thus in all stages, from
the shell half-full to only a small morsel remaining at the
bottom, and invariably to see the gouge-like track of the
creature’s teeth all over the rasped (not gnawed) surface,
this itself being always eaten down level, with no in-
equalities left save the marks of the incisors. The only
part of the performance I am unable to explain is, how
the detached pieces are extracted from the shell. The
hole is too small to admit even the animal’s snout, save
with closed jaws, and thus it could not possibly take the
chips up in its teeth. Therefore they must be got out by
one of two ways—either by being spitted on the sharp-
pointed incisors of the lower jaw, or licked up by the
tongue. The latter, I take it, will prove to be the solution
of the enigma.

And first, another note in connection with the hazel
nuts. These are often without any kernel, a circum-
stance the Dormouse is not aware of till it has penetrated
through the shell, making a hole not much larger than
the head of a pin. Then, with the tongue no doubt,
discovering there is nothing eatable inside, it drops that
nut, and tackles on to another. And, as further proof
that the creature’s instincts are not infallible, but, indeed,
rather blind, I have known it return to the same empty
shell, and open a hole at the opposite end, to meet with
a like disappointment. Whether while drilling this
second hole it remembered having made the first one, I

100 The Naturalist wn Siluria.

cannot tell; but I should think not, and that the useless
afterwork was as that of certain tropical insects boring
hole after hole through a thin board, as a place of deposit
for their eggs, each time to find themselves back into
daylight on the reverse side. A like delusion has been
frequently observed in the case of the sand, or bank,
martin repeatedly tunnelling its way through a mud
wall.

Small as is the Dormouse—its weight being under an
ounce—it is a very glutton, three kept by me in the same
cage consuming in a single night three full-sized chest-
nuts and fifteen hazel nuts, the shells excepted. In bulk
this mass of food eaten by each must have been equal
to its own body, even exceeding it. But their digestive
powers are great, and of quick action, as shown by the
quantity of droppings every day needing to be cleared
out of the cage. No sort of vegetable food offered them
will be refused; and though nuts are undoubtedly their
preferred diet, they have also a relish for apples. The
largest pippin dropped into a Dormouse’s cage will soon
disappear, skin, seeds, and all.

I have said that they do their eating chiefly by night,
and it is during the night hours they are awake and
active, sleeping most part of the day. If kept in a dark
place, there will be some modification in this habit,
though not much. About daybreak they invariably retire
to the dormitory compartment of the cage, to issue forth
from it at, or after, sunset. For in their wild state they
are habitually nocturnal, one of the reasons why so little
is seen or known of them. Tree climbers they are, too,
as much as pine martens or squirrels, if not more, though
generally contenting themselves with the ascent of hedge
bushes, or hazels, to the branches of which I have seen

The Ways of the Dormouse. 101

them clinging in all attitudes, back downward as often as
otherwise. The prehensile power of their claws is not
only great but something inexplicable. While handling
a Dormouse in a semi-somnolent state, it caught hold of
wy finger by the claws of one of its hind feet, and hang-
ing from it, absolutely dangling down, went off into a
sound sleep; so remaining till my patience became ex-
hausted and I released the finger from its clutch. Had it
been left to itself I have no doubt it would thus have
slept its sleep out. The bat, with its hooked wing mem-
brane, could not well do more. But the true sleeping
attitude of the Dormouse is with snout and root of tail in
juxtaposition, rolled up in spherical shape—though not
so perfect a sphere as the clewed hedgehog—with the
long, bushy, and distichous tail coiled spirally around.
When in its winter, or hybernating sleep, the creature
feels cold to the touch, and one unacquainted with this
singular phenomenon would suppose it dead. Hold it for
a time in the hand, however, and, so warmed, its beard
bristles will be seen to move, the body rise and fall in
gentle resperation, till at length it awakes, gradually un-
folding itself as it becomes conscious of existence.
Zoological writers place the Dormouse in the list of
hybernating animals, and all believe it eminently so, as
may be deduced from the name bestowed upon it. It
certainly does hybernate, though, I fancy, not to the
extent generally supposed. I had one brought me in the
middle of January by a hedger, who had taken it while
“ pleaching ” a hedge, at the bottom of which he found
it, wide awake. And like enough in mild winters these
little creatures are often up and about in the night, when
there is no eye to observe them. If not, then their habits
undergo change in confinement, and when kept in a house.

102 The Naturalist in Siluria.

In such situations they also sleep soundly and heavily,
unlike the sleep of ordinary animals, but, as a rule, only
in the day. And if neara fire, never for any great length
of time, its duration seemingly dependent on the tem-
perature around them. If cold, they slumber on; if
warm, they will awake.

IT have much more to say about this most interesting
quadruped ; but, as my note has already outrun the allotted
space, I must leave it over till another opportunity.

A CAGED DORMOUSE.

On the 23rd of May a bark-stripper brought me a dor-
mouse which he had captured in Penyard Wood, and in
its nest. This was fixed high up in a bunch of broad-
leaved grass, known to the woodmen as “‘ deer-grass,”’
and was composed partly of the grass blades and partly
of leaves of trees. Though a nest of the present year,
strange to say, the Dormouse was nota young one, instead
an old male, and wide awake when taken. The stripper
tells me he has never known of an old one thus caught in
the nest. As the latter was rather open at the top, con-
trary to what is usual, it may have been unfinished, and
the animal in the act of adding to it.

Placed in a common bird-cage, and food offered it—
shelled hazel-nuts and canary-seed—it refused to eat
while under observation, showing shy and frightened.
At night, however, when left to itself, it consumed a por-
tion of both the nuts and seeds. Next day other eatables
were introduced into the cage—lettuce, sorrel, and
groundsel—all of which it ate, apparently with a relish.

A Caged Dormouse. 103

This evinces a fact, I believe, not hitherto noted, that
green vegetables form part of the food of the Dormouse.
By most naturalists it is described as subsisting on
acorns, beech-mast, grain, haws, and hazel-nuts, especially
the last, from which it has derived its specific name,
Avellanarius—a wistake and misnomer, according to
Bell, who says: “The name dvellanarius is not well
chosen, as the principal food of the Dormouse does not
certainly consist of the hazel-nut; indeed, I have never
seen any that could gnaw through the shell of that nut
when fully ripe and dry.”

My own observations, made on the one before me, are
so far confirmatory of this view. After allowing it to
hunger for two days, with only unshelled hazel-nuts in
the cage, it did not gnaw through any of these shells,
though it had tried several, as could be seen by its tooth-
marks here and there over them.

Still the specific name, which was bestowed by Linneens,
may not be so inappropriate, since there can be no doubt
of the Dormouse feeding upon hazel-nuts, and being fond
of them. But, I think, it can only get at their kernels
when in the green state, before the shells become
hardened. At that time it is often seen perched upon
hazel trees far above the height of a man’s head, and
seemingly as much at home there as any bird.

In reality, this beautiful little quadruped is more
squirrel than mouse, though naturalists regard it asa
connecting link holding half-way relations between the
two. Certainly it looks like a miniature squirrel, the
rufous colour of its coat and bushy herring-bone tail giv-
ing it this appearance, while removing it from that of the
mouse family, often so repulsive. Its habits, moreover,
liken it more to the Sciuride than the Muride. It is a

104 The Naturalist in Siluria.

dweller among trees, or rather bushes, its prehensile claws
giving it the power to climb, even to cling, with hinder
feet, and at ease. Besides, it makes its nest among
branches, as squirrels do. As these, too, it lays up a hoard
of food—usually haws, hazel-nuts, and beech-nuts—and
eats them seated on its haunches, and held in its fore-paws
as by hands. It hybernates, also, as the squirrels, lying
torpid and clewed up in a ball throughout the winter
months. Yet I have known it awake in winter, even when
very cold. Once in January, a hedger, pleaching a hedge
near my house, caught a Dormouse curled up in dry grass
at the bottom. If sleeping, it awoke, and showed con-
siderable activity, at short intervals repeating its querulous
cry in tiny treble. Taken home to the house, and put into
a box-cage, it remained awake and lively afterwards; no
doubt, from the indoors warmth. In very mild days of
winter the squirrel rouses itself, and roams abroad; and
certainly the Dormouse does the same; but from its
smaller size and nocturnal habits it is less liable to
observation.

Though the habitat of the Dormouse is usually remote
from the habitations of men, no animal is more easily
made a pet of. With slight care and training it will be-
come tame and familiar, even to letting it run about
loose ; a thing to be avoided, however, if there be felines
in the neighbourhood. I knew of one that went regularly
to bed with its owner, sleeping indifferently in a fold of
the counterpane, between the sheets, or coiled up under
the edge of the pillow.

As a pet, many people esteem the Dormouse so much
that half a guinea is often given for one ungrudgingly.
This tells of their scarcity, for in no part of the British
Isles, that I know of, is it found in any great numbers.

The Squirrel. 105

Its breeding nest is a hollow ball—as those of the
harvest and wood, or long-tailed, mouse—the entrance
rarely visible. It is sometimes set in a thick thorn-hedge
or coppice; but the favourite nesting-place of the Dor-
mouse seems to be ina young beech with bushy top, on
which the leaves stay all the winter through. I once saw
a family of dormice thus domiciled, just after the young
ones had got big enough to be abroad. The beech, a
mere sapling, with stem not more than an inch in diameter;
and clear of branches for a yard or so, gave me an excel-
lent opportunity for observing the behaviour of the little
quadrupeds. They seemed to play as lambs, some run-
ning down the stem on one side as others went up on
the opposite; and this in continuance, like the revolving
links of an “ endless chain.”

THE SQUIRREL.

It is hardly necessary to say that in a wooded district,
as is the greater portion of the Wye Valley, Squirrels
abound. I have them in a grove in my own grounds,
while on Penyard’s wooded hill, and throughout the
adjacent Forest of Dean, they are common enough.
Our English Squirrel (Sciurus vulgaris) is interesting for
many reasons. Its beauty, both of form and colour, its
wonderful agility, with its many pretty ways, make it
one of the greatest ornaments of our woodland scenery.
Besides, it is the only indigenous tree-climbing and tree-
inhabiting quadruped we have in our islands. I will not
here enter into lengthened particulars of its ordinary

106 The Naturalist in Siluria.

habits or life-history, which will be found in zoological
works and encyclopedias. All know that it makes its
nest in a forking branch, usually high up in the tree,
’ building it very much after the manner of birds, the
material being twigs deftly interwoven, lined with moss
and leaves. In this it brings forth its young, often as
many as five in a litter. These for months follow the
mother about, as chickens do the hen that has hatched

SQUIRREL.

them. The little kittens keep company with their parents
all through the winter, and until the warmer weather of
spring causes a break-up of the family circle, the separation:
being due to that instinct which leads to the perpetuation
of their species. The Squirrel, classed among hyberna-
ting animals, is not wholly so. Ona warm winter day it
wakes up, and strays about in search of something to

The Squirrel. 107

eat. It usually knows where to find this, since it is one
of the prudent creatures which lay up a store against
times of scarcity. As the nuthatch, its favourite food is
the hazel-nut, though it is also given to eating grain,
beech-mast, and a variety of other vegetable substances.
Unfortunately for its character of innocence, it does not
confine itself to these, but has been known to rob birds’
nests, sucking the eggs, and devouring the callow young.
Insect larvee—of less consequence as regards the injury
done—it also makes an occasional meal of, proving this
playful rodent, supposed to be so harmless, a very vora-
cious creature. But it does damage of a different and
still more serious kind—this to vegetation itself. Among
the items of its diet are the seeds of coniferous trees, for
which it has a penchané almost equalling that for the
hazel-nuts. It skilfully extracts them, sitting upon its
haunches, holding the cone between its paws, and peeling
off the scales with its teeth.. If it went no further than
eating the seeds, no one would object. But unfortunately
it does go further; and in early spring, when the fir cones
are all empty or rotted by winter rains, and the young
leaf-buds begin to show upon the trees, the Squirrel
makes sad havoc among these. Still another kind of
damage it does, hitherto unknown to me, and of which I
have just heard.

One of the woodwards of the Forest of Dean informs
me that in the larch plantations over which he had ward-
ship for some years past, he had now and then noticed
large branches, and even tops of the trees themselves,
broken off by the wind. Some of them were of large
size, thick as a man’s thigh; and for long he could not
tell why Holus was dealing such wholesale destruction,
for there were acres upon acres of the larch woods

108 The Naturalist in Siluria.

strewed with the dead and broken branches. He learnt
at length, discovering the cause to be Squirrels! Their
mode of procedure was by peeling off the bark, not only
in isolated patches, but in broad rings all round the
branch or bole of the tree—their object, of course, being
to eat it—and thus naturally killing so much of the
branch as was above, which, after a time decaying, gave
way before the wind. From the manner in which my
informant speaks of the circumstance, I fancy that hence-
forth Squirrels will be scarce in the Forest of Dean,
especially in that portion of it committed to his care.

‘I have spoken of the colour of our English Squirrel,
pronouncing it pretty. In its summer coat it is so cer-
tainly : above, a beautiful chestnut-red, aud below, white.
In winter the upper parts become greyish, and in
northern countries, like many other animals, often nearly
pure white. But here, in Herefordshire, I have to record
a very singular family, as regards colour, which was
found in the Forest of Dean, not far from that pic-
turesque spot well-known to Wye tourists as “ Symond’s
Yat.” One of the woodwards, already spoken of, going
his rounds in that neighbourhood, observed a Squirrel of
the usual reddish colour, but having a snow-white tail.
His idea was, that it might be an old one, age having im-
parted to it the hoary distinction, He thought no more
about the thing till, several weeks afterwards, when,
passing by the same place, he saw what he supposed to
be the same squirrel, but not now alone ; instead, accom-
panied, or rather followed, by five lesser squirrels, its
kittens, all with white tails, miniature imitations of the
mother! This time, having his gun with him, he could
not resist shooting the parent, while the quintette of kits
scampered off into the underwood, where he lost sight of

The “ Hut” of the Squirrel. 109

them. The dam was sent to a Monmouth taxidermist,
by whom it was skinned, stuffed, and mounted, and long
afterwards shown by him among other noted curiosities.

THE “HUT” OF THE SQUIRREL.

Fortunately for the naturalist, as the lover of nature,
not all the snares, gins, and ten-shilling licensed guns
can either exterminate this interesting quadruped or
apparently much reduce it in numbers. In most wooded
districts, despite all persecution, it maintains its ground;
and from correspondents in Ireland and Scotland I learn
that in both these countries for some years past its
numbers appear to be increasing, rather than diminish-
ing. In the Forest of Dean and other woods in the
Welsh bordering shires squirrels are plenteous—too abun-
dant, say the proprietors of fir plantations, to which, it
cannot be denied, these animals do considerable damage,
especially to larches. In hard winters they strip the
bark from the branches round and round; and though
there be but a twig thus bared, of course all the spray
that is above it perishes. In early spring also they gnaw
off the young leaf-buds, so injuring the health and retard-
ing the growth of the tree. During later spring and
summer they are destructive to birds’ eggs, but in autumn
nuts and acorns furnish them with their preferred food ;
the latter supply the staple of it, and both are hoarded
for a winter store. But this note is not meant to give
a detailed account of the squirrel’s habits, only of its nest,
or “hut,” one of which I have now before me, taken

110 The Naturalist in Stluria.

from a tree in the Forest of Dean. It is of rounded
form, and roofed, with side entrance, its bulk being about
that of a child’s head; and, as with the nests of most
birds, it is double-walled, having an outside layer and
lining. The former is composed of coarse moss, with an
admixture of sheep’s wool, and, more sparingly employed,
broad strips of bark, the thin outer epidermis of young
oaks. The material of the inner wall or lining is alto-
gether different, consisting exclusively of the under or
sap-bark of the oak, split into fibre-like strands, some
of them fine as sewing-thread, their ragged ends and
edges showing evidence that the splitting had been done
by the animal’s teeth. Now, to procure this material,
and hackle it into the required condition, must have cost
the squirrel, or pair of squirrels, a considerable amount
of labour, independent of the task of construction. The
question, therefore, suggests itself, why this extra toil
when other substances, seemingly equally suitable, were
to be had in plenty around? Just by the tree from
which this hut was taken there grow grasses of several
species, some of them slender-bladed as the bark fibres
used in its lining, and these could have been had with
but the slightest exertion of strength or teeth. The
employment of some preferred material in the construc-
tion of their nests is one of the most singular habits, or
instincts, of birds, and one still hidden among the arcana
of nature. But not less singular that squirrels, also
nestbuilders, should show a like instinct, for of other
huts I have examined the materials were the same.

The Squirrel a Pest in Fir Plantations, 111

THE SQUIRREL A PEST IN FIR PLANTATIONS.

In early spring squirrels do considerable damage in the
Forest of Dean by eating the bark and leaf buds of
the young larches. Some days ago my gunman—who, by
the kind permission of my friend Sir James Campbell,
has free range of the Forest—brought home to me a batch
of squirrels he had shot. All were in fine condition,
quite fat, and unlike animals late aroused from the
slumber of hybernation, which likely they had not much
indulged in during the past mild winter. There were in
all six of these squirrels, and they differed a good deal in
size, as also in colour; some being of a much more vivid
red, with the coats glossier, than others. On opening
their stomachs I found them filled with a greenish sub-
stance, so comminuted as to be unrecognisable, though
it looked like young larch leaves gnawed to a pulp.
Mingled with it were soft masses of a yellowish white
stuff, I took to be ants’ eggs, also pulped.

The squirrel, notwithstanding its pretty playful habits
and innocent look, is one of the most vicious of quadru-
peds, as also the most courageous; especially the female
when the mother of young. At this time, if the nest or
“hut” be approached by any one climbing up to it, she
will assail the intruder with all the fury of an enraged
cat, and has been known under such circumstances to
bite people severely. They are equally valiant when
attacked by dog or other animal; and one of my ferret-
keeping friends assures me, that a ferret has more diffi-
culty in conquering a squirrel than a weasel, and far more
than in killing the fiercest rat. The boys who live
around the Forest of Dean often gang together, on
Sundays or idle holidays, and go in chase of squirrels.

112 The Naturalist in Siluria.

Not allowed to carry a gun into the enclosures, their
weapons are usually stones and sticks. Their mode of
proceeding is for one boy to “swarm’’ up the tree
in which a squirrel is seen, force the animal off it to
another, and so on till they get it into a tree standing
well apart from the others. Driven out of this, its last
stronghold as it were, it has no resource but to leap to
the ground, where a “surround” of its pursuers has
been previously arranged for cutting off its retreat, in
which they are often successful.

Squirrels are sometimes snared, not by set snares, but
a running noose of fine spring wire fastened on the tip of
a pole, light and long as a fishing rod. This, cautiously
and dexterously handled, is slipped over the squirrel’s
head, as it lies quiet along the limb of a tree; when, at
length, taking the alarm, and attempting to scamper off,
the animal finds itself fast in the wire, to be instantly
jerked to earth.

THE WEASEL FAMILY.

Writing these notes, specially intended for the com-
prehension of those who have given but little attention
to zoological studies, I may be pardoned for repeating,
what every naturalist knows, that in the British Isles
there are six native species of the Mustelide, or Weasel
tribe, and one of doubtful foreign origin. The former,
all wild, are the Weasel itself,—typical representative
and smallest of the family, the Stoat, Polecat, Pine, and
Stone Martens; with the Otter, differing in genus; the

The Weasel Family. 113

latter a tame or domesticated species—the Ferret. Mr.
St. John, in his very interesting work, ‘“‘ Wild Sports and
Natural History of the Highlands,” speaking of these ani-
mals, describes them so correctly and with such graphic
felicity, that I cannot resist quoting from him :—“The
blood-thirstiness and ferocity of all the Weasel tribe is
perfectly wonderful. . . . The more blood they spill,
the more they long for, and are not content till every
animal they can get at is slain. A she ferret with a litter

of young ones contrived to get loose a few nights back,
and instinctively made her way to the hen-house, accom-
panied by her six kittens, who were not nearly half-
grown; indeed, their eyes were not quite open. Seven
hens, and a number of tame rabbits, were killed before
they were discovered ; and every animal that she killed,
notwithstanding its weight and size, was dragged to the
hutch in which the ferrets were kept; and, as they could
I

114 The Naturalist in Silurta.

not get their victims through the hole by which they had
escaped themselves, a perfect heap of dead bodies was
collected round their hutch. When I looked out of my
window in the morning, I had the satisfaction of seeing
four of the young ferrets, covered with blood, dragging
a hen (which I had flattered myself was about to hatch
a brood of young pheasants) across the yard, which was
between the hen-house and where these ferrets were kept;
the remainder of them were assisting the old one in
slaughtering some white rabbits. Their eagerness to
escape again and renew their bloody attack showed the
excited state the little wretches were in from this their
first essay in killing.”

The present note refers only to the smallest of the tribe,
the Weasel itself (Mustela vulgaris), and dwells but on
one of its habits, often observed in Siluria. Last summer
some mowers, cutting the grass of a meadow, were in-
duced to suspend their scythe-strokes by hearing a
sharp, plaintive cry, which they knew to proceed from a
rabbit. The meadow, a small one, was surrounded by
woods, out of which bolted a large rabbit, and shortly
after a weasel in pursuit. Instead of seeking shelter, as
would seem natural, the rabbit kept to the open where
the grass had been cut. Nor did it continue in a rush of
retreat, but every now and then made a stop, repeating
its frightened cry. Very fear, perhaps the certain know-
ledge of its fate being sealed, seemed to enfeeble and
render it irresolute. Still, the ruthless pursuer, like a
diminutive sleuth-hound, kept after it, though not all the
while visible to the mowers. Even in the mown sward
its elongated vermiform body was at times out. of sight,
as it paused in crouching attitude between the successive
shoots and zigzags of the chase. After making several

The Weasel Family. 115

short stops, the rabbit appeared quite overpowered with
fear, and, as if deeming escape hopeless, at length came
to a dead standstill, seemingly with no thought or effort
to go farther. It even half squatted down, as if to make
it more convenient for the cruel pursuer to mount upon
and make prey of it. All which the Weasel did in an
instant after, springing on the rabbit’s shoulders, and
laying itself along the neck, the latter, with a last
agonized cry, but almost without a struggle, falling pros-
trate on the grass. There was nothing particularly
strange in all this, a spectacle the men had frequently
witnessed before. The unusual part of it came after,
when they observed the Weasel in a few seconds’ time
forsake the quarry it had killed, and go streaking back
into the wood, out of which. in less than a minute more,
bolted another rabbit, pursued in the same way, over-
taken, and killed. But this was not all, nor the half of
it. For still another rabbit was run from among the trees
into the meadow, to be served in a similar fashion, and
another and another, till siz dead bodies were upon the
sward—all apparently the work of one and the same
Weasel !

It is a curious fact, and I believe it to be a fact, that
the rabbit, when pursued by stoat or Weasel, never takes
to its burrow; yet when chased by dogs this is the first
place it makes for. It seems instinctively to know that
in its subterraneous abode, secure against every other, it
has no security against those its natural and worst
enemies, but would there be more at their mercy than
anywhere else.

116 The Naturalist an Stluria.

THE RABBIT AND WEASEL.

That an animal so large as a rabbit—combative, too,
as proved by fierce conflicts with those of its own kind—
should be so easily conquered and destroyed by such a
diminutive creature as a weasel, seems one of nature’s
wonders. Yet it is an incident of every-day occurrence—
so frequent, indeed, that, despite the solitude of the stage
on which this tragedy of animal life is usually enacted,
the spectacle is often witnessed. A young lady on a visit
at my house some time ago, while out for a walk in Pen-
yard Wood, heard a shrill scream, somewhat resembling
the cry of a child; and hastening towards the spot from
which it seemed to come, saw a rabbit wildly rushing
about in the middle of the wood-road. It was acting as
if demented, though only making efforts to escape from
a stoat, which had attacked it, and was seen cling-
ing along its neck, head to head. Vain they proved, for
soon as sighted, and but a few seconds after uttering its
distressed cry, the rabbit sank to the earth, dying almost
instantly ; while the weasel was driven off. But so far
from being frightened, this fierce creature, a very monster
in vicious appearance, in its retreat several times turned
round, and raising itself erect on its hind legs, seemed to
threaten the young lady herself. Ihave often noticed the
stoat assume this defiant attitude when disturbed at its
sanguinary game.

A still more curious incident of this kind lately came
under the observation of one of my servants. Out in a
field not far from the house he saw a rabbit being chased
by a weasel. The chase ended almost immediately by
the pursuer springing upon the shoulders of the pursued,
giving it the fatal bite on the back of the head, and

The Rabbit and Weasel. 117

bringing it to the ground. As the quarry fell close to
where he stood, he at once chased the weasel off and took
possession of the rabbit, finding it, as he expected, in
the last gasp of life. And while he still stood holding it
in his hands, a second rabbit came running along the
edge of the field, exposing itself to the view of the
weasel, not yet out of sight. Quick as thought, the
bloodthirsty creature, deprived of one prey, hastened to
lay hold of another, regardless of the presence and near
proximity of the man. And it succeeded; in another
second’s time being seen to leap up to the rabbit’s neck,
bite, and bring it to the ground just as before. And as
before it was driven off from its prey, both rabbits being
retained by my man-servant, and handed over to the
cook.

It is no uncommon thing for rabbits to be found lying
dead about the fields skirting a piece of the hilly wood-
land infested by weasels—killed by the latter, of course.
When recently killed, or fresh enough to be used for
food, the finder generally so utilizes them.

The mode of attack on the part of the predatory
animal—which I believe to be chiefly, if not exclusively
the stoat (Mustela erminea), and not the smaller or
common weasel (MM. vulgaris)—is to lie in wait, or
stealthily approach the rabbit when the latter is browsing
at a distance from its burrow; then, with a rush and a
leap, launching itself upon the victim’s neck, and laying
itself head to head. There is not much to come after—
no combat, no attempt at defence on the part of the poor
creature so assailed, only a repetition of shrill cries, which
end abruptly by its dropping to the earth, if not actually
dead, so paralysed with fear as to cease struggling alto-
gether. And the tragic scene itself lasts only a few

118 The Naturalist in Siluria.

seconds longer, the stoat or weasel, after a very short
interval, being seen to separate from its victim, and to
go off after other game. A superficial observer, now
regarding the dead body of the rabbit, and not aware of
what had preceded, might wonder what had killed it;
for there is no mutilation, much less any portion of flesh
removed. Closely scanned, however, a wound will be
discovered in the creature’s head, the puncture of a vein,
so slight as to appear done by a sharp-pointed instru-
ment. Yet through this the life-blood of the animal has
been drawn and sucked out to its very source, the four-
footed vampire contenting itself with the blood, and
caring not for the flesh, which it leaves to other carnivora
of less fastidious tastes.

Sometimes rabbits are found with the head eaten off,
the body remaining unmutilated and untouched. A case
of this kind came under my notice only the other day.
I believe this is the work of cats, not weasels, the cat
always eating the head of hare and rabbit first, as by
preference.

OUR WEASELS AS A STAIR OF SIX STEPS.

In relation to our native Mustelide, two points which
seem to have escaped notice may be worthy of it: first, that
within the limited area of our islands there are no less
than six distinct species, taking the Otter as one; and
second, that in size, or at least length, they should be
nicely, almost exactly, graduated as the steps of a stair.
An average-sized Otter, from tip of snout to that of tail, will

The White Stoats. 119

measure above forty inches, the Pine Marten thirty inches,
and the Stone or Beach Marten about twenty-five inches ;
while the three lower representative types of Mustela,
Fitchet, Stoat, and Common Weasel, are of the respective
lengths of twenty, fifteen, and ten inches. There is yet
another odd circumstance connected with this graduation
of length, each species doubling on the next above and
below, so as to make certain lengths of the chain, as it
were, duplicate. In other words, the male Weasel is often
as large, or even larger, than the female Stoat; the male
Stoat in turn running up to the dimension of the female
Fitchet, with a like proportion throughout the series of
six! The graduation, however, as observed in the three
smaller species, is more strikingly curious from their
closer resemblance to one another. I have a collection
of these before me of every possible size, from the little
she Weasel of less than nine inches long, to the he Polecat
(Fitchet) of over twenty inches. But all with such family
resemblance, alike vicious in look, that one might easily
imagine them members of the same family, only of differ-
ent ages.

THE WHITE STOATS.

In a number of the Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic
News I gave an account of two White Stoats taken in the
parish of Flaxley, Gloucestershire, near the Forest of
Dean boundary. One of them, or rather its skin stuffed
and mounted, is in my possession; and I find that in
describing them as white all over, save the tips of the
tail, I made a mistake—at least about this one. Hurried

120 The Naturalist in Siluria.

examination of the skin, when turned inside out, hindered
me from noticing that the frontlet and crown of the head,
with a portion of the nape of the neck, still preserve their
normal hue—a light bay. The other specimen, however,
is nearly as white as a true Arctic ermine. That it is the
cold which causes this blanching is generally acknow-
ledged among naturalists, as also that an extreme degree
of it is necessary to produce the change. Hence was I
puzzled at its having come about in a winter so mild as
the past one had been all through. On reflection, how-
ever, I think it likely that these stoats turned white in
one or other of the two preceding winters,—perhaps
partially in both,—and during the summers intervening
they had not gone back to the bay colour.

Itis rare to meet with White Stoats so far south as
Gloucestershire, though instances have occurred, some
even in Cornwall; and Mr. Bell, in his “History of British
Quadrupeds,” tells us of such in the classic region of
Selborne itself.

A PROLIFIC WEASEL.

In The Inve Stock Journal of August 18th, 1881, I
made mention of a gill Ferret that had brought forth
eleven young, and was successfully suckling them with
but eight teats! They were then about a month old, and
the owner, a labouring man in my employ, brought them
to me for examination. Mother and all were enclosed in
a rough deal box, and on removal of the lid, a curious
spectacle was presented. Twelve vermiform creatures,
looking as much reptile as quadruped, all white, with a

A Prolific Weasel. 121

yellowish tinge, the dam only distinguishable from her
progeny by having her eyes open, and being a little
larger than they. Not much, however, as even then the
young ones were well grown. To see them crawl about
the box, climbing over and pushing under one another,
writhing and wriggling in knots and bunches, while
giving utterance to querulous yelps, as so many puppies,
was a sight quaintly curious. To me, however, the most
interesting part of it was the fact of there being eleven
of them at a birth; the usual number rarely exceeding
seven, and the highest I had before heard of nine. So
I determined to keep a watch over this wonderful brood,
and see what would come of it; as I could hardly believe
it possible for a ferret mother, Weasel ,though she were,
to suckle eleven young with only eight teats, and raise
them to full ferrethood. She did it, however—nursed
and reared the whole “ kit” of them till full-grown, with
not a weakling among them! They are distributed now,
disposed of to different people; and the prolific dam is
dead, though she died not from having been so pro-
ductive. Her death was brought about by exposure to
cold, after the young had been taken away from her,
The owner still retains three of them—a “hob” and
two “gills’’—having sold the other eight for half-a
crown apiece. The “hob,” now trained both to rabbiting
and ratting, was brought to my barn some days ago to
clear it of infesting rats, which he did in good style,
killing several, among them an old buck, which measured
eighteen inches from snout to tip of tail. But neither
did the ferret come off unscathed, as evinced by several
scratches on its muzzle, made by the teeth of Mus ratius.

The owner of this remarkable family of domesticated
weasels has made known to me a fact I was not hitherto,

122 The Naturalist in Siluria.

aware of—that the eyes of young ferrets do not open till
five and sometimes six weeks after their birth; and,
moreover, that one eye often opens days before the
other.

WEASEL, WILD DUCK, AND WATERHEN.

One of my friends, who has an artificial pond in his
grounds, directly in front of the house, and within view
of the windows, was witness not long since to a somewhat
curious spectacle. In the pond was a pair of wild ducks,
or rather a duck and drake—mallards—pinioned to pre-
vent them flying away. Some moorhens, or more properly
waterhens, were there also, regular denizens of the place,
While watching them, my friend observed a vermiform
quadruped come out from among the evergreens, and go
skulking around the edge of the pond, now darting this
way, now that. There could be no mistaking a weasel,
which it was, nor its design—evidently to make a meal
upon one of the waterhens. But the drake, perceiving
it, as if taking up the cudgels on their account—
though more likely on his own and that of the duck—
rushed out of the water, and, with open beak, hissing
the while, dashed right at the weasel, which instantly
turned tail, and scuttled back into the bushes. The
singular part of the affair was in a weasel, which very
rarely exhibits fear of any other animal, and will even
show fight to a dog, thus retreating from an assailant so
little formidable as a drake. Possibly the loud hissing
and wing-flapping of the latter had for the moment dis-
concerted it,

Rabbit, Ferret, and Badger. 123

RABBIT, FERRET, AND BADGER.

A poacher of my acquaintance (I admit holding corre-
spondence with the fraternity) tells me that when there
is snow on the ground his ferrets have more difficulty
in running the rabbits out of their holes. The reason he
assigns is, that the rabbits, knowing the snow to be out-
side, feel that they would have but a poor chance to

THE KALBIT.

escape through it if they bolted; and so keep to the
burrow as long as they possibly can.

From the same authority I have it, that if rabbits
chased by a ferret take refuge in the “holt” of a
badger—as in their hurried retreat they often do—the
ferret will refuse to follow them in, as it would into their
own burrows. Keen of scent, as are all the Mustelide,

124 The Naturalist in Siluria.

it is by this admonished of danger inside, and knows
perfectly well what the danger is: a carnivorous creature,
with jaws and teeth capable of killing it by a single
© scrunch,”

ROMANCING ABOUT THE -MOLE.

There is, perhaps, no quadruped, of like diminutive
size, about which so much has been written as the Mole,
the subject seeming to have had a fascination for mam-
malogists, as that of the cuckoo for ornithologists. Bell,
in his “ History of British Quadrupeds,” the accredited
standard work on this department of our native fauna, de-
votes twenty-six pages to it ; while dismissing the badger
with nine, the fox with eight; giving the wild cat only
five; and to both species of the marten—perhaps the most
interesting animals of all—scant twelve between the two.
Alike voluminous have been other writers treating of the
Mole; and, were all that has been said of it true, its
story would well merit such enlargement of detail. Even
what is true fairly deserves this; but most of the truthful
is that portion of its life’s history and habits that remains
untold ; while whole chapters of fiction about it have long
passed current as fact.

One of the most notable of these misrepresentations is
the tale of the mole’s so-called ‘fortress ’’ or castle, which
has not only been described by authors, but delineated by
artists, the picture of it to be seen in nearly every illus-
trated work on quadrupeds, encyclopawdias among the

Fomancing about the Mole. 125

number. In the latest edition of Bell are given both
horizontal and vertical sections of this remarkable strong-
hold, showing its central hollow globe—the reposing
place, as said, of the animal—with two parallel circular
galleries, above and below, between which there are five
passages of communication, and then, leading off from
the lower one, nine other subterranean tunnels, in almost

MOLE’S PALACE.

regular radiation as the spokes of a wheel. Yet, for this
wonderfully curious and symmetrical structure, so minutely
described and delineated—in all seriousness, too—I do
not believe there was ever an original. On the contrary,
it seems certain that the whole thing is the fanciful con-
ception of a Frenchman, Henri le Court, endorsed by
Geoffroy St. Hilaire. To get at the truth and root of the

126 The Naturalist in Stluria.

story, I may quote from the account of it given by Mr.
Bell, which is as follows :—

“For these and many other interesting particulars in
the life and habits of the Mole, we principally are indebted
to the researches of Henri le Court, a person who, having
held a lucrative situation about the Court at the epoch of
the French Revolution, retired from the horrors of that
fearful period into the country, and there devoted the re-
mainder of his life to the study of the habits of the Mole,
and of the most efficient means for its extirpation. His
discoveries have been recorded by M. Cadet de Vaux, in
a work published in the year 1803, and more briefly by
Geoffroy St. Hilaire, in his ‘Cours d’Histoire Naturelle
des Mammiféres.’ This distinguished naturalist. indeed
visited Le Court for the purpose of ascertaining the truth
and extent of these discoveries, and of enjoying the facility
with which he was enabled by long habit to trace and to
demonstrate the various labours of this object of his in-
cessant research.”

Le Court’s research seems to have reached further into
the arcana of Nature, or under the ground, than those of
any one else. I can, at least, answer for my own, since
having opened scores of moles’ nests—for they do make
a nest—I never came upon anything of the fortress kind,
nor ever met I mole-catcher who had, and I have cross-
questioned no end of Talparii. What Talpa really con-
structs for breeding-place, and not as a retreat for repose
or security, is a heap, or “ tump,” which externally bears
a rough resemblance to the so-called fortress ; but inter-
nally, or rather subterraneously, is altogether different.
There is a nest in the centre, mostly composed of the
dead leaves of trees, and placed nearly on a level with the
surface of the surrounding terrain; while leading away

Romancing about the Mole. 127

from it are three or four underground galleries, neither
at equal distances apart, nor always alike in number;
evidently made without any aim or design, save that of
convenient passage out to different parts of the mole’s
“ mooting ” grounds, and return from them.

And why should this animal contrive a stronghold of
security, since it has such in all its “rans,”’ both the main
permanent ones and those of a temporary kind made in
the pursuit of worms? Only one of its enemies, the
weasel, can make way along either; and this slender
vermiform creature could just as easily enter and assail it
within “the fortress.” In fine, I hesitate not to say, that
this self-same fortress, though described as being under-
ground, were better characterized by calling it a “ castle
in the air.’ I may be wrong, however, and, if so, will
be glad to be set right by some one who has actually
entered the Mole’s fortress.

Another erroneous belief about the Mole, and one of
more important bearing, though with less of the ludicrous
in it, is that this animal benefits the farmer in various ways,
but chiefly by destroying wire-worms, which it is said
to feed upon. In The Field newspaper, some long time
ago, there appeared a communicated article alleging this
to be a fact, and backing the allegement with a string
of details, which, as I could see, were drawn from imagi-
nation, just as Le Court’s castle. Yet neither The Field’s
natural history editor, nor any of its numerous corres-
pondents, has, so far as I know, contradicted the erroneous
statement, though it is calculated to do harm to the
agriculturist, by making him tender as to Talpa and chary
of destroying it. I can contradict it, however, proving
the Mole a real pest, showing, by many experiments
actually made, that it does not eat wire-worms, and will

128 The Naturalist in Stiluria.

not touch them, its sole food, so faras I have been able
to discover, being the ordinary ground or earth-worm
(Lumbricus terrestris).

THE MOLE A “CONFERRING BENEFACTOR”!

I lately noticed an article on the Mole, casting ridicule
on all who destroy this little quadruped, which the writer
believes to be a heaven-born blessing, while the farmer re-
gards it as a curse, or, at all events, a very troublesome pest.
In this the tiller of the soil is right, for a pest Talpa is,
greater than rat, and ten times greater than rook. The
writer in question says: ‘The mole more than makes up for
any damage it does by destroying wire-worms and other
grubs that prey upon the wheat crops.” This is no new
theory, and at first thought may appear plausible enough.
It is not substantiated, however, by accurate observation,
for the mole does not eat wire-worms and other noxious in-
sect larvee, the innocent earth-worm (Lumbricus terrestris)
being its natural and regular food. The stomachs of
many which I have examined contained only the latter,
cut into sections for the convenience of swallowing ; and
that this is the mole’s preferred diet I can offer very
direct proof. One year early in June I had the luck to
catch one alive—no common occurrence—and haying
placed it in a large empty flower-pot, from which an aloe
had been just removed, I proceeded to experiment on its
food partialities. Wire-worms it nosed and passed by, as
though its palate disdained them; but as soon as an

The Mole a “Conferring Benefactor”! 129

earth-worm was thrown in to it, the long wriggler was
seized upon and chawed up with a surprising rapidity.

For reasons, presently to be stated, I was not permitted
to carry out the experiment to my satisfaction; but this
has been done for me by Mr, Allen, the very intelligent
bailiff of my friend Arthur Armitage, Esq., J.P., of Dad-
nor, Herefordshire. Having captured a live mole, Mr.
Allen placed it, just as I had done, in an empty flower-pot,
where for three weeks he kept it, repeatedly, indeed every
day, offering it wire-worms in abundance. It would not
eat one of them; yet the moment earth-worms were
thrown into the pot it gobbled them up greedily. Be-
fore the end of the three weeks it had become so tame as
to take the worms out of his hand !

He says, moreover, that the “runs” of the moles ina
field of young wheat are the favourite resort of the wire-
worms, which affect loose, open ground; and these will be
found plenteous in the runs, but never in the stomach of
the mole. Mr, Allen assures me that the moles, besides
being noxious in other ways, do great damage to young
clover sprouting from the reed. It is then a tender,
delicate plant; and the mole loosening the earth around
its roots, causes it to wither and die.

Farther experimenting on the mole I had caught, while
my servant was searching for earth-worms to offer it,
under some artificial rockwork, a toad was turned up,
which I directed also to be thrown into the flower-pot.
Then I became witness of an episode somewhat singular.
The mole, utterly regardless of my presence—or the string
tied to one of its hind legs, with which I frequently pulled
it about—at once made up to the toad, and caught the
thigh of the latter between his teeth. It did not bite the
batrachian, however; only seemed to play with it, or as if

K

130 The Naturalist in Stluria.

speculating on what sort of a meal it would make. But
the toad was in a very agony of fear, as could be told by
its air and attitude.

Night coming on, I had several shovelsful of earth
thrown into the pot, and so left mole, toad, grubs, and
worms—the mole’s leg released from its tether. In the
morning the quadruped was found dead on the surface of
the mould, while the batrachian, with some of the anne-
lids and larvee, were alive underneath it.

Now, the question is, what killed the mole? It had
not been taken in a trap, or otherwise previously injured,
nor could it have died of hunger, as there were earth-
worms in plenty around it. Did a despairing sense of
captivity cause its death? If so, why did not the same
happen to the one with Mr. Allen, which lived three
weeks in captivity; indeed, until he released it? Having
become a sort of pet with him, he did not like killing it.

Then, was the death of my mole due to some venomous
substance exuded by the toad in the water-like fluid?
The last seems the most probable explanation.

The writer referred to above affirms that the mole “is
most assuredly a conferring benefactor on the farmer, and
by perforating the soil and throwing up earth it improves
the natural pastures.” He seems to overlook the fact
that the mole’s victim, the earth-worm, does all this in a
much better manner—so efficiently as to have had a
chapter devoted to it by England’s earliest naturalist,
Gilbert White, and a whole book by her latest and greatest,
Charles Darwin. Ifthe mole were such a benefactor to
the farmer, it is rather strange perverseness that he,
whether grazier or agriculturist, has been for hundreds of
years waging war upon it, many being annually out of
pocket considerable sums for its destruction. And money

The ‘ Mooting” of Moles. 131

well laid out; though the writer in question pronounces
it “‘ignorance,” describing his own mole-catcher as star-
ing like a lunatic “‘ when I told him rather than kill them
he would do me a favour if he would bring me a cartload
of live moles, and turn them down in my field.” No
doubt the mole-catcher did stare, nor any wonder at his
doing so; for if among farmers a vote were taken as to
which of the two was the lunatic, the newspaper writer
would find himself hoisted high on his own petard.

THE “MOOTING” OF MOLES.

The lore relating to talpa seems absolutely inexhaust-
ible. A large volume might be written about the habits
of this underground animal, every page telling of some-
thing strange. The more I observe, the greater grows
my record of facts relating to it, many of them to me
quite incomprehensible. As, for instance, I cannot
understand how the creature works its way through wet
earth—mud it may be—proceeding at a pace faster than
the most adroit spadesman can dig after it, and yet no
morsel of the soil adhering to its smooth, velvety coat,
which comes out of the ordeal clean as a new kid glove!
I am aware of the usual explanation put forth—about its
fur standing on end, or rather lying any way it may be
stroked. The premises are right enough, but the con-
clusion seems a lame one. Such may account for the
animal being able to go tail foremost along its subterra-
nean galleries—as it does when these are too narrow for it

132 The Naturalist in Siluria.

to turn in; but that its fur should remain clean because
reversible, is quite a different matter, and, I think, calls
for other explanation. Doubtless, some secreted oleagi-
nous substance protects it; but in what way is no less
difficult to understand.

Again, how does the animal throw up its hills, or
“tumps,” as West country people call them? In all
that I have read of moles I find no explanation of this;
indeed, no attempt at one; zoological writers seeming
shy of alluding to the subject, doubtless from inability to
deal with it. Yet, in all the unexplained actions of ani-
mal life I know none more puzzling, and few more
mechanically interesting. Here we have a little round
hole, less than two inches diameter, in the firm turf of a
pasture field, through which a heap of underground
earth, often a bushel measure of it, and at times even a
barrowful, is thrown up in a single night. Nor is this all
of the night’s doings; half a dozen, or it may be a dozen,
smaller ones may be seen near by at varying distances,
the work of one mole between the two daylights.

Still, it is not the wonderful exhibition of industry
which perplexes; that were comprehensible enough.
The puzzle is how the task is performed. For the heap
is in most cases a regular cone, so obtuse as to approach
hemispherical shape, and there are no tracks nor sign to
show that the mole comes. out upon the surface while
raising it; instead, every evidence it does not. How,
then, is the earth thrown up? It cannot be by the
animal’s feet and claws, however well adapted these are
—the fore ones especially—for burrowing, There seems
but one way possible: that the mould is projected up-
ward by the creature’s snout, just as is done by pigs
when “rooting.” All the mole-catchers I have consulted

Moles in the Month of March. 133

agree in this being the modus operandi, and no doubt it
is so, though still a puzzle.

There is yet another puzzle—as to whence comes the
ejected earth. Some of it, of course, from the ground
immediately underneath the vertical shaft ; but it cannot
all come thence. A bushel, or even half a bushel, of
loose mould could not be got from a bulk of the firmest
packed soil scarce so big as a man’s fist; and there is no
larger cavity just below the orifice. It must then be
brought along the horizontal passages—the “runs.”
But how so? By pushing forward, or a series of back-
ward scrapings? ‘To these questions even the oldest
talparit cannot give satisfactory answer. I have spoken
of “‘tumps,” where the tossed-up mould will quite fill a
bushel; but there are exceptional ones of more than a
barrowful. Ihave just measured one in a meadow near
my house, of oblong form, to find the greater diameter
4ft., the lesser 3ft., and the vertical height or axis 18in!
On scattering this vast heap, J discovered that no less
than eleven “runs” led away from it, radiating to every
side. Still there was no nest nor cavity within; though
this might have been made later on, as the heap was but
recently raised, and no doubt intended for the place of
parturition.

MOLES IN THE MONTH OF MARCH.

“‘Mad as a March hare” has long been a proverbial
expression, quite intelligible, though all may not under-
stand it. Its origin has reference to the rutting season,

134 The Naturalist in Siluria.

when these animals, like most others, are seen running
about in a state of unusual excitement. Just so is it
with the mole in March, the period at which it gives way
to instincts of propagation, and the time when the talparii
reap their richest harvest. For now the males follow the
females, and pursue one another, doing battle along the
main runs, regardless of traps or other obstruction.
While this state of things exists— which it does from the
latter part of February till well on in March—the mole-
catcher has a busy time of it, and the busier the better
he likes it.

THE GARDEN MOLE.

Let not the reader imagine Iam about to speak of a
distinct species or variety of talpa, though the mole-
catcher will tell you of a “garden mole.’ He means,
however, only one found frequently in the garden, and
for the trapping of which he will charge you double—
that is, sixpence—instead of the ordinary price, which is
threepence. His assigned reason for this, a valid one, is
the greater difficulty of capturing the animal in garden
ground, from the looseness of the mould and the greater
irregularity of the “runs.” Often days, or even weeks,
may elapse before a pair of moles that have taken to the
kitchen garden—where they do infinite damage—can be
coaxed into the trap.

The Moles Out and About. 135

THE MOLE IN FULL “MOOT” AFTER EARTH-
WORMS.

The main galleries, used in passing from place to place,
are permanent, while the ordinary worm-runs are from
time to time abandoned when the annelide have been
all eaten out of them. Then the mole betakes itself to
afresh spot; and when it first breaks ground in this, a
curious spectacle may be witnessed, should there be day-
light to show it—that is, the frightened worms crawling
out upon the surface and wriggling about, just as if the
ground had been sluiced with salt water! They will be
seen rising in front and to each side of the underground
tunnel as it progresses, staying hidden among the grass
till the destroyer has passed on.

There is no animal, however low in the scale of intelli-
gence, but knows its natural enemy; and this behaviour
of earth-worms is another proof, if any were needed, that
they are the special prey and food of the mole.

THE MOLES OUT AND ABOUT.

I have elsewhere spoken of the mole no longer throw-
ing up its “tumps,” or hills; giving reason therefor—that
the earth-worms are now every night above ground, so
that talpa has no need to burrow after them beneath it.
On April 14th, strolling about my fields, I noticed here
and there a round hole, the orifice of a tunnel, which, on
being probed with my cane, was found to descend some

186 The Naturalist in Siluria.

five or six inches vertically, then angle off horizontally.
The inside of the cavity, cylindrical, and exactly two
inches in diameter, was smooth as that of a new-laid
drain-pipe. Of course, I knew it to be a “mole run,”
though not of the ordinary kind; instead, an upward
shaft, made by the animal for nocturnal excursions over
the pastures around. I have heard and read of the mole
concealing this door of outcoming and ingoing, with earth
heaped over, fearing betrayal by it. There is no truth
in the statement; there is nothing around the circular
orifice of the cavity, which is clean cut as the entrance to
a sand swallow’s nest. Throughout the winter such
holes are never seen; for then the mole has no business
above ground. It comes to the surface in winter too,
but not every night, or with such frequency as to make a
beaten path like that above described.

These summer holes of exit and entrance, well known
to the mole-catcher, receive attention from him. They may
be old, and out of use, or moles may be passing out and
into them every night. For ascertaining the truth about
this, and to save him the trouble of setting extra traps, a
skilled talparius will lay two or three straws athwart the
orifice, and await the result. If, after a time, the straws
have been pushed out of place, or otherwise disturbed,
then the inference is that a mole must have done it, and
down goes a trap into the “run,’’ the setter of it feeling
pretty sure that on his next visit he will find the trigger
sprung, and a dead mole squeezed flat between the iron
grippers.

On 21st of December—shortest day in the year—
my ploughman, while resting his team on turning at the
headland, saw two moles issue out of the bank close
by, one evidently pursuing the other, as shown by

The Moles Out and About. 137

their excited manner. Soon as in the open, the pursued
turned upon its pursuer in fierce, angry fight. Their
mode of mutual assault, as described by the witness—a
reliable one—was more like that of pigs than anything
he could think of, repeatedly thrusting their snouts
underneath, then with a hoist upward, each endeavouring
to throw the other on its back. And, singularly enough,
the noise they made—for they fought not in silence—also
bore resemblance to the squeaking of young pigs, of
course with a diminutive volume of sound.

Left to themselves, how long they would have battled,
or in what way the combat might have ended, cannot be
told. For it was brought to a termination by the plough-
man himself killing both combatants on the spot, though
not on the instant, as curiosity for a time restrained his
destroying hand. Though living all his life in a district
where moles abound, and spending most part of his time
in the fields where they are at work, he had never before
seen two of them together above ground, much less a
pair so engaged. Indeed, to see a single mole on the
surface—unless it be a dead one taken in a trap—is an
uncommon sight; and the spectacle of a combat between
them is so rare that one might live in the country all of
a life—or for that matter fifty lives—without ever having
an opportunity to witness it. I have never myself seen
such, and, besides that related, have heard of but one
other instance of it.

To the ordinary English labourer, the mole, or “ hoont,”
as sometimes called, is a creature to be killed on sight,
as rat, weasel, or snake; and, as soon as my man had
satisfied his curiosity, he brought the combat to a close,
with the lives of the combatants.

Even this was done in a somewhat original fashion.

138 The Naturalist in Siluria.

Having nothing in his hands by way of weapon, and
neither stick nor stone being near, he picked up an ob-
ject which promised to serve his purpose—a ball of snow,
for there was a slight covering of this on the ground,
which one of the horses had cast from his hoof in turning.
Flung at the fighting moles—still too earnest in their
battle to note his approach—it knocked both over, killing
one instantly and crippling the other, to be finished by a
stamp with his heavy, hobnailed shoe.

Brought to me, I found, as might have been expected,
that they were both males, though differing somewhat in
size, as also in colour, the smaller one evidently a young
“boar” of last season’s littering, the other at least a
year older. There was no wound or mark of teeth on
either, a circumstance somewhat strange, as these car-
nivorous little quadrupeds are furnished with formidable
incisors, and known to make terrible use of them in
tearing up their prey. Might it be, that when thrown on
its back the mole is helpless to right itself, as long-fleeced
sheep and turtles, and knowing this the antagonist aims
so as to capsize it? The structure of the animal’s body,
with its short, inflexible legs, seems to point to such con-
clusion. Certainly moles are often found dead in the
ditches, from no assignable cause, and never one with
scar or scratch upon it that I have heard of. I have not
made the experiment of placing them on their backs, but
intend doing so with the first living “ hoont” which falls
into my hands,

The ** Hoont.” 139

THE “HOONT.”

A striking feature of our fields just now, more es-
pecially the pastures, is the number of mole-hills, or, as
here called, “tumps,” observable all over them. I never
beheld them in such profusion; on some meadows so thick
that there is almost as much of the surface covered with
these dark, circular heaps as with the grassy turf around
them ; all recently thrown up too, or sat least since the
commencement of the frosty weather. Some are so large
it seems almost incredible they could have been made by
a creature so diminutive as the mole, taking the time
into account; for one which I noticed in particular bore
resemblance to a barrowful of loose mould “ dumped”?
down on the grass, its freshness showing that it had been
the work of the night or day preceding. Not only itself,
but a row of others on each side indicating the “ran,”
all equally recent, proclaimed the tunnelling to have been
done by this wonderful navvy within a period of twelve,
or, at most, twenty-four hours! And this when the
earth was frozen to a depth of several inches! For
during the December snow, which fell upon a frost
already gone deep into the ground, I saw many mole-
hills freshly thrown up. There is much in the natural
history and habits of this curious quadruped which needs
explanation. Even its mode of burrowing, if I mistake
not, has never been clearly comprehended. No more the
fact that, passing through what sort of soil it may—the
ferruginous earth of the red sandstone, or the white tilth
of the chalk formations, squeezing through ground wet
or dry—its soft, silky coat comes out unstained and un-
sullied, as if from a wrapping of tissue paper. I hope to
have an opportunity of returning to this subject, which

140 The Naturalist in Siluria.

is of some scientific interest. Meanwhile I take leave of
talpa by observing that here, in Herefordshire, it is
rarely called by its proper name mole. “ Hoont” is its
designation among our rustics, while, by a strange per-
versity of nomenclature, its true title has been transferred
to a different animal, the land vole (Arvicola agrestis).
The error, no doubt, is due to the similitude of sound
between “‘ vole’? and “ mole.”

CAN MOLES SEE?

“ Blind as a mole” has long been a proverbial expres-
sion; like many other proverbs, untrue, because based
on erroneous data. For not only can the talpa see, but
it possesses powers of vision sufficiently acute for all the
purposes of its semi-subterranean life.

Moles rarely come under close observation when
living, being usually caught in spring traps, and so
instantly killed. Then their eyes, becoming wholly or
partially closed, can scarce be detected under the cilie
of soft fur which forms a periphery around their sockets.
With a live mole, such as some days ago I held in my
hands, it is different; and I could see the little black orbs
shining like jet, while made aware by the behaviour of
the animal that they also saw me.

My talparius tells me that if ho do not cover up his
traps so as to exclude every ray of light from the runs in
which they are set, the mole will not enter them. Seeing
the suspicious framework of iron, with its smooth trigger
plate, it will turn snout upward, “scrat” its way to the

Can Moles See? 141

surface, pass the trap, and dive back into the tunnel
beyond !

The belief in this animal’s blindness, so common as to
be almost universal, is therefore groundless, though no
doubt it sees better in a dim light than in a bright one,
its habits, as with the bats and owls, being chiefly
nocturnal. But, if at all deficient in visual power, the

\! il EN,
= Pod vattil f if /

Be FG le
aaa

deficiency is fully compensated for by a high develop-
ment in three of its other senses—smell, hearing, and
touch—and possibly the fourth, taste. Certainly it has
a discriminating palate, as I have proved by actual test ;
while it can hear acutely, the least noise in its neigh-
bourhood causing it, if above ground, to plunge instantly
under, or suspend operations if excavating below. It is

142 The Naturalist in Siluria.

for this reason moles are so seldom seen upon the surface,
though they are oftener there than is supposed. The
fall of a distant footstep is a signal for them to retreat to
the covered gallery, which they will have reached ere the
intruder is near enough to catch sight of them.

As highly developed, if not more so, is their sense of
smell. Traps that have been too much handled they
back away from; aud an accomplished talparius will
replace the human scent by that of the mole itself, well
rubbing the trap, before setting it, against the body of
one already caught.

My mole-catcher tells me of a still more effective
method for deceiving talpa by the scent: making this
attractive, instead of repellant. It is done by bottling
up a number of earthworms, and so keeping them till
they become fluxed into a jelly. A portion of this,
aught but agreeable to human olfactories, dropped into
the run near where the trap is set, will attract moles
from near, and afar, as valerian would a ¢at. Though
unable to be his voucher for this curious circumstance, I
believe it to bea fact, knowing the man’s truthfulness,
with the absence of motive for misleading me.

As to the sense of touch, the mole evidently possesses
that in a high degree, its long tapering muzzle, as the
elephant’s trunk, and the bill of snipe or woodcock,
being furnished with nerves of great sensibility, enabling
it to tell by the feel what it comes in contact with.

Take it all in all, this humble quadruped, supposed to
be blind, and helpless beyond the common, is better
furnished, both for attack and defence, than many others
seemingly its superiors in sense capability.

Wild Cats. 143

A PAIR OF POSSIBLE WILD CATS, AND A
PROBABLE THIRD.

About ten years ago some boys of this neighbourhood,
while birdnesting in the Chase wood, two miles from the
town of Ross, came across and killed what they supposed
to be a wild cat. By the description of it which has
been given me, it must have been either a real wild cat,
or a Felis domesticus run wild; but if the latter, it was
certainly one of an uncommon kind. The boys had two
dogs with them, and their attention was attracted to the
feline by seeing the dogs excitedly take stand, and begin
barking by the mouth of a largish hole in the mound-like
fence which encloses the woodland. A stick being thrust
into the cavity, there came out only sounds—a spitting
and “swearing,” as my informants put it; but the
punching, persisted in, brought forth a shaggy, savage-
looking quadruped, which they took to be a cat of some
kind. At first issuing from the-hole, she made a spring
at the boy who was nearest; but missing him, was tackled
by the dogs. Neither of these, however, was of much
mettle—one being a superannuated spaniel, the other
a worthless cur; and left to themselves the cat could
easily have conquered both, and would, so the boys, who
are now grown men, have assured me. But these taking
part in the scrimmage with sticks and stones, the wild
grimalkin, over-matched, gave way, and retreated up a
tree—the nearest to the spot. Unfortunately for her, it
was a young oak of no great size or height, and the boys
continuing to shower stones at her with all their strength,
hitting her some hard blows, she bounded down again,
and back into the hole. From this she was once more
“prodded” out, and as before made a spring at the

144 The Naturalist in Stluria.

nearest assailant, who chanced to be the biggest of the
boys and best armed—his weapon a heavy hedge-stake.
A well-aimed down-blow on the cat’s skull stunned her,
and before she could recover from it, other blows
administered in quick repetition laid her out apparently
lifeless. The boys believing her so, and caring more for
birds’ nests than cat of any kind—little did they suspect
what an interesting animal they had dealings with !—were
about moving away from the ground, in fact, had gone
some distance, when, chancing to look back, they saw the
cat, they had supposed dead, tumbling about and making
futile attempts to get upon her feet—in which, left to
herself, she would doubtless have succeeded. But re-
turning they made a sure finish of her, cutting off the
tail, which alone they took away with them as a trophy.
What a pity it was not the whole pelt! Had it been so,
this article would, no doubt, be more interesting, or, at
all events, less conjectural.

That tail is now lying on the table before me, with a
full note account of the episode—when it was taken, and
a description of the cat herself, correct and near as
remembered. She was larger than the largest house
“Tom,” more stoutly built, with a square head, and huge
broad paws, her coat shaggy, the colour a barred black
and grey, with a yellowish tinge—all characteristics of
the true wild cat. But the tail before me, which I can
see for myself, this puzzles me. Its colour is ringed
black and grey, so corresponding with that of the wild
species. But then the hair on it, though coarse, is short,
the shape tapering, and its length—for I have the whole
of it from root to tip, or rather its skin—is less than six
inches, while that of a true wild cat is, or ought to be,
over eleven. But no better does this short tail tally with

Wild Cats. 145

that of the Felis domesticus, except in the “ taper.”
Indeed, in length it is farther removed from the latter ;
hence a mystery which baffles all my attempts to solve it.
The behaviour of the animal certainly seems to point to
its having been a real wild cat, for it repeatedly sprang
at its assailants, growling and “‘ swearing ” all the while.
And something more remains to be told. A bailiff who
had charge of the wood was met by the boys shortly
after, to whom they reported: the encounter, with its
result; to be told by him, how glad he was they had
killed “that wild cat,” and he wished they had “done
the same wi’ t’other un.” For it appears there were two
in the wood—likely male and female—the man adding
that they had been there some time, had done no end of
damage, destroying hares, rabbits, and pheasants, and
that he could never get near enough to shoot them, they
were so “ wonderful cunnin’ an’ shy.”

Unfortunately, this woodman has long ago gone to join
‘the majority,” else I should belikes know more about
the animal whose caudal appendage perplexes me.

I have received account of still another remarkable
feline killed at a later date—seven years ago—in the
parish of Foy, some six miles farther up the Wye. A
farmer, whose land lies along the river, destroyed this
one; and, like the birdnesting boys, thinking it of no
more value than rat or weasel, forthwith had it interred
—skin, tail, and all! Had he but known that I would
have given guineas for the skin, it would now, no doubt,
be among my mounted specimens, instead of gone to
decay under a muck heap. For the description I have
had of the animal—size, shape, colour, everything, this
time including the tail—seems conclusive evidence of its
having beena true Felis catus. The account of its doings

L

146 The Naturalist in Silurta.

is also confirmatory of this view. It had not only killed
and carried off several of the farmer’s fowls and ducks,
but those of others in the neighbourhood, besides
destroying some tame cats, and badly maiming others,
that had chanced to come in its way.

The farm in question is on the skirts of a wood of
considerable extent—that of Perrystone—in which most
likely the animal had its lair, issuing forth only for
nocturnal forays. A ‘ hanging” wood it is, on a steep
slope overlooking the river, in places almost precipitous,
and the likeliest of “lays” for such a creature. Still it
could not have been haunting there for any great length
of time, with a gamekeeper all the while on the look-
out for “vermin.” Besides, it must have been a poacher
of a most redoubtable kind. The probability then of its
having been a real wild cat rests on the supposition of its
having found its way thither from the Welsh mountains,
following the course of the stream downward, perhaps
here and there making temporary sojourn. And the
same may be said of the one killed, and the other seen on
Chasewood Hill, which also overlooks the river. Such a
migration were not only possible, but probable enough ;
since, among the wooded “ dingles” where the Wye has
some of its sources—very fastnesses—this now rare
animal is believed still to have existence.

TAME CATS TURNING WILD.

The common house cat taking to the woods, and there
remaining—in short, becoming, to all intents and
purposes, a wild cpt—is an occurrence by no means

Tame Cats Turning Wild. 147

rare in the valley of the Wye. A case has just come
under my observation of one thus voluntarily abandoning
house and home for a permanent residence sub jove, and
a life, if not merrier, more congenial to its feline nature,
under the greenwood tree. The animal in question—a
maie, by the way—belonged to a near neighbour, whose
house stands contiguous to the borders of Penyard Wood ;
and it was to this last that Tom betook himself. For
a time after his being missed it was supposed he had got
caught in a trap, or shot by some keeper. After awhile,
however, he was seen wandering through the wood, or
rather skulking about, his movements showing no sign
that he considered himself strayed or lost. Instead, he
appeared as much at home among the trees as though he
had never been outside standing timber, and all attempts
to capture, with a view of returning him to his owner,
were foiled by his immediate flight and retreat to the
most inaccessible fastnesses of the wood. He had, in
fact, become wild as its wildest denizen, and as shy of
man’s presence as either badger or fox. For four years
be continued to live this free forest life, and doubtless
would have done so to the end of his days—indeed, did
till their end—which was a tragical one, as his life
terminated by his getting caught in a trap that had been
set for “‘vermin ” of a very different kind. So fierce and
full of fight was he when approached in the trap, that it
was found necessary to kill him ere he could be released.

A circumstance connected with this incident is worthy
of consideration by the naturalist. In its wild condition
the animal had undergone a physical change quite as
great as that which had come over it morally. It had
grown more than double its former size in the domestic
state, thus contradicting the usually accepted doctrine

148 The Naturalist in Siluria.

that animals are improved, or made bigger, by being
brought under the dominion of man. Its coat, moreover,
after the four years of freedom from restraint, was of the
sleekest and glossiest, its whole appearance proving it in
perfect health, with all the litheness and vigour of its
feline kindred—the leopards, panthers, and tigers. This
fact of a tame cat increasing in size when it turns wild
has been often observed, and would seem to strengthen
the argument of a descent from our indigenous wild
species, now nearly extinct; the latter, as is well known,
being much larger than the former. Whatever the
truth of this matter, it is certain that tame cats always
evince a tendency to take to the fields, and still more the
woods, where these are near at hand, to stay in them for
periods longer or shorter, in proportion as they there
find suitable provender; and, furthermore, that cats noted
for this sort of absenteeism are always those of greatest
size and strength. The distance these straying grim-
alkins will wander from their own homes is something
wonderful. One lately shot in Penyard Wood was
identified by its very dissatisfied owner, who lives at
a little clutch of houses called Crow Hill, quite three
miles from the scene of the slaughter! Yet this cat was
not “ after kind,” but skulking among the trees in quest
of squirrels, rabbits, or leverets.

WILD RABBITS WONDERFULLY PROLIFIC.

Whatever the fact elsewhere, in this neighbourhood
the wild rabbit is prolific to an extraordinary degree.

A Hare with Two Sets of Sucklings. 149

An instance has come to my knowledge of no less than
ten young being found in the same nest, all presumably
the litter and progeny of a single pair. And when it is
taken into account that during the spring and summer
months these animals breed as often as house pigeons,
that is, bring forth a fresh brood every five or six
weeks, the increase in their numbers may beset down as
something very surprising. Were they not kept under
by the multitude of their enemies—both beasts and birds
of the rapacious order—they would soon overrun any
country which claims them as part of its fauna, and
make havoc of all that appertains to the industry of farm
and garden. By good luck they are fairly palatable as
an article of food, which guards against their ever be-
coming a pest altogether unprofitable.

A HARE WITH TWO SETS OF SUCKLINGS.

The hare, though not so prolific as its near congener,
the rabbit, is nevertheless known to bring forth several
times during a single season; and sometimes in such
quick succession that the young of one gestation are not
quite cleared out of the way before the litter following
claims the fostering attention of the teat. Of this fact
an instance came under the observation of one of my
friends but a few summers ago. He was seated by the
side of a wood with a pasture field adjoining, quietly
smoking his cigar, when his attention was attracted to a
doe hare, which, running out some short distance into the
pasture, was there joined by a brace of leverets—her own,
of course—these setting to and applying themselves

150 The Naturalist in Stluria.

industriously to her teats. After awhile the mother gave
them a signal to desist, by striking her forepaws with
quick repetition on the turf, the strokes causing a sound
loud enough to be audible to the ears of my friend at
thirty yards’ distance. The command was evidently
understood by the youngsters, and instantly obeyed by
them, as shown by their separating from the mother’s
side, hopping off, and disappearing among some long
grass that grew near. As soon as they had left her, the
dam turned back towards the wood, and making her way
through a hawthorn hedge, continued on to a clump
of gorse, just inside the edge of the timber. Entering
under this, she was lost to the view of the spectator, who,
all the while remaining motionless, and quietly smoking
his cigar, had been the unobserved observer of this little
drama on nature’s stage. But there was yet another act,
or scene, in store for him, soon after witnessed within
the wood, and under cover of the gorse. Having risen
to his feet, and approached the place stealthily, and
without making the slightest noise, he there beheld the
same old hare in her nest, in the act of being sucked by
a second pair of leverets, the tiniest creatures that could
be of their kind, to all appearance only a few hours old!
There could be no doubt of their being brothers and
sisters—or, it might be, half-brothers and half-sisters—of
the pair that had received nourishment on the pasture-
ground outside.

A SUSPECTED “BARK-STRIPPER.”

The “wood,” or “long-tailed field,” mouse (Mus
sylvaticus) is one of the hoarders, often laying up stores

A Suspected ‘‘Bark-Stripper.” 151

of nuts, beech mast, and other specialities of its food, in
surprising quantity. A curious instance of this habit has
come under my notice, recalling the story of the “ Maid
and Magpie,” as also Barham’s “Jackdaw of Rheims.”
A wood-bailiff—who has charge of a shooting-box be-
longing to one of my friends, and situated on the wood’s
edge, not far from my house—had gathered about a half-
bushel of hazel-nuts, and deposited them in a shed, as
stock to be drawn upon when desirable. They were in a
canvas bag, left with the mouth open, the owner deeming
them safe, since the shed was inside an enclosed yard,
and no one had access to it save a bark-stripper em-
ployed on the estate, and believed to be an honest man.
Some weeks elapsed before the bailiff went back after
his nuts, wanting some to crack and eat. But, lo! the
bag was nearly empty, only a few nuts being found in
its bottom! Of course, the bark-stripper came in for a
suspicion of pilfering, even to direct accusation of it;
which he denied, stoutly asseverating his innocence. To
be disbelieved, nevertheless; and for a time the man
lived under a cloud: his character gone, and his situation
endangered. He would, in fact, have been discharged
but for the discovery of the real thief, fortunately found
out in time; this was neither more nor less than a wood-
mouse, or possibly a pair of them. It, or they, had
carried off the nuts and hoarded them; the place of stor-
age they had selected being, for quaint curiosity, on a par
with all else relating to the incident. In a dark corner of
the shed were three vessels, that had been there lying
neglected for a length of time. One was a little wooden
keg, or “bottle” so called, of gallon measure, in which,
labouring men carry to the field their drink for the day ;
the second was a tin can; and the third an earthenware

152 The Naturalist in Siluria.

jar, or “greybeard,” both of like capacity as the keg.
All three were found full of hazel-nuts, choke-full to their
necks, with just enough knawing on the nuts to tell of
their having been transported thither by mice. And
illus sylvaticus proved to be the culprit, from evidence
obtained afterwards; so clearing the character of the
wrongly-suspected “stripper.”

THE LITTLE GREBE.

There are few birds more generally distributed over
the globe than the Little Grebe (Podiceps minor). The
multiplicity of its vernacular names, as “ dipper,” “ di-
dipper,” “dabchick,” “ducker,” “loon,” and the like,
each having a local significance, points to a wide range
throughout the British Isles; indeed, it is found all over
them, wherever there is lake, pond, or stream of sufli-
cient depth to give it security by diving. Hven in the
pools alongside railways, formed by excavations, and
others where brick-clay has been dug out, if of any con-
siderable size, a pair of dabchicks will have their habitat
and breeding place, sometimes sharing it with the more
showy water-hen.

All over Europe this bird exists, as in most parts of
Asia and Africa. In America, too, I have met with it on
the ponds and streams of the Mississippi Valley, there
leading the same solitary life as in England, swimming
about, and at intervals turning its quaint somersaults as
it goes under water, but never taking wing till absolutely
forced to it.

In February, 1881, one of my friends was fortunate

The Inttle Grebe. 153

enough to capture a dabchick alive. It was caught on
the Wye River, near the town of Ross, and displayed
a rémarkable pugnacity, biting and scratching at the
hand which held it, just as do the tomtits. Placed
in a tub of water, it dived instantly, and swam round
and round underneath, its mode of subaqueous pro-
gression, as my friend describes it, resembling that of
the frog. Minnows, water beetles, and other insects
dropped into the tub it refused to touch, though likely,
had it been kept longer, the promptings of hunger would
have caused it to act differently. On the second day of
its captivity my friend restored it to freedom, letting it
off on a large pond in the neighbourhood, when it went
under the water like a shot, not coming up again till
nearly a score yards off.

The rapidity with which the Little Grebe disappears
beneath the surface is something remarkable, in this re-
spect equalling any of its kindred. When a boy, my first
gun was a flintlock,—percussion pieces being then rare;
and right well do I remember that to kill a didipper, in
clear daylight, it was necessary to blind the flash from the
pan with a screen of paper, or a leafy branch.

Some English ornithologists speak of this bird as
migratory—disappearing in the winter. This, however,
must be taken as referring to lakes, ponds, and other
stagnant waters, when frozen up. Then the dabchick
must needs shift quarters—nolens volens. But when it
has its haunt on the running river—unless this be also
icebound—I believe it sticks to it throughout the entire
year. Certainly, it is not a migratory species in the
sense of periodical migration.

154 The Naturalist in Stluria.

THE TREE SPARROW.

This bird is, in most districts, of sufficient rarity to
make it interesting and its possession desirable. I have
a specimen before me, just shot in my grounds, a cock in
winter plumage, and for those who find a difficulty in
distinguishing it from the house sparrow, to which it
bears a remarkable resemblance, I offer some indices
that may be relied on. The Tree Sparrow is smaller than
its congener of the farmstead, besides being of neater
shape, and trimmer in the arrangement of its plumage.
Two whitish bars traverse its wings diagonally where the
house sparrow has but one. But the best point of dis-
tinction, or that easiest to determine, will be found in
the colour of the crown—this in the passer montanus
being a fairly good chestnut, while in the passer domesti-
cus it is bluish grey.

In habits they are altogether different, the former a
shy bird, keeping afield, and, if I mistake not, only
associating in families, save during severe weather. Then
it sometimes approaches the homestead perforce, con-
sorting with others of the fringillide, to which it generi-
cally belongs.

Likely enough the Tree Sparrow is oftener seen than
recognised, its similarity to the gable-end chatterer
making its identification very difficult indeed.

THE GROSBEAK IN GREATER NUMBERS
THAN SUPPOSED.

The grosbeak, or, as more commonly called, hawfinch

Grosbeak in Greater Numbers than Supposed. 155

(Loxia coccothraustes), though still a scarce bird in Great
Britain, seems of late years: becoming more plentiful.
At least, so it would appear in the Welsh bordering
counties, where not only do they show themselves in
winter, but throughout all the year, breeding and success-
fully rearing their young. I have had ample evidence of
this by having had their eggs brought me—which should
not have been done—and seeing the birds themselves in
all stages of feather change, from fledglings to the fullest
plumage ever attained. A remarkable bird is the haw-
finch, and a beautiful one too; though what most strikes
the observer is its grand development of beak, alongside
which that of the bullfinch is as a bodkin to a crowbar.
Well does this justify its trivial name, grosbeak, as its
specific appellation, coccothraustes (berry-breaker), for no
shell or rind of berry could well resist its crushing power.
Hawfinch is equally or even more appropriate, since the
haw is certainly its preferred food ; not so much the pulp
of the fruit as the aromatic kernel inside the stone, which
last it can crush between its mandibles as though it were
but the thinnest of egg-shells.

During one winter my gunman shot for me two or
three specimens, and could have obtained more had I
wished, or allowed it. As the haw crop has been un-
usually abundant, this may account for the greater abun-
dance of these finches; and likely enough in years when
the former fails the birds will be absent too, going else-
where.

One reason why the grosbeak is so little observed is its
very shy habit, for it is among the shiest of the Fringillide.
In summer the foliage conceals it, while in winter, with
the trees stripped bare, it keeps among the higher
branches, even the tops of the tallest, and at such a dis-

156 The Naturalist in Siluria.

tance off is not easily identified ; its size, of course, seem-
ing less on the high perch, where, no doubt, it is oft
mistaken for chaff, bull, or greenfinch.

That the grosbeak is often in greater numbers in a
neighbourhood than is generally supposed some proof
is afforded by an incident occurring to one of my lady
friends, who takes interest in the habits of birds. During
one of the long lying snows she was accustomed to feed
a flock on the lawn, but a little way from the house win-
dows, and one day, among the tits, sparrows, chaffinches,
and buntings, appeared a bird larger than any, which she
recognised as a hawfinch. It was shy at first, but grew
bolder as time passed, and there was none to disturb the
feeding of the flock. Next morning it brought another
along with it, and on the following day two more, till at
length five of these grand finches became recipients of
her bounty. Yet this was in a district of country where
the local ornithologists had even doubted the fact of a
hawfinch having ever been seen !

THE NEST OF THE BOTTLE BIRD.

April is the nesting season of our permanently resi-
dent birds, and I cannot resist touching on the sub-
ject, with special reference to certain of their nests.
Travellers in tropical countries, and people at home read-
ing accounts of them, regard with wonder the nests of
the so-called “ weaver birds,” “ tailor birds,’’ and others
that show ingenuity of construction. Yet I doubt whether
any of these give evidence of greater textile skill than
that of our own best nest-builder, the long-tailed tit

The Nest of the Bottle Bird. 157

(Parus caudatus), or “bottle bird,’ as some country
people call it, from the shape and style of its nest. One
I have just made note of, a nest of this year, during
March, with all the eggs in it, which is an unquestionable
curiosity, besides a beautiful specimen of bird architec-
ture. Of a nearly regular ovoid shape, its longer axis is
a little over six inches, the measurement crossways being
four and a half. Itis placed vertically on a wild rose-bush,
in a hedgerow, the smaller end upwards, in which is the
entrance hole, that barely admits the insertion of my fore-
finger. The bird itself passing in or out must needs have
a squeeze for it, small though the creature be. The inside
furniture is a thick lining of feathers, in which I identify
those of the jay, with other wild species; while the main
wall of the nest is composed of green moss and wool,
firmly woven, or rather felted together, and supported in
the rose-bush by several branches worked in with the
material. The outside layer or surface is not the least
curious thing connected with it: this an encrusting of
small lichen scales, set all over it so thickly as almost to
conceal the greenery of the moss, and give it a sheen of
silver grey. And, as if to heighten the effect, here and
there are larger and lighter coloured blotches of a thin
substance, I at first took for bits of tissue paper, but
which, on examination, proved to be the gossamer enve-
lopes of some species of insect in the pupal state. Likely
enough the tits had eaten the pupe themselves out of
their silken coats, before they were converted into nest
ornamentation.

It has long been matter of speculative surprise that a
bird with such lengthy development of tail should build
a nest seemingly so ill-suited and inconvenient for its
uses. The inside cavity, however, is ample, ovoid in form

158 The Naturalist in Siluria.

as the whole structure, with a depth of four inches and a
width of three—so giving room enough for the bird to
turn about, even both hen and cock sometimes occupying
it at the same time, as seen in this one.

THEH WHITETHROAT—ITS FLIGHT AND
SONG.

At this period of the year (early May) the Whitethroat
(Sylvia cinerea) may be frequently seen mounting up into
the air in a nearly vertical line, singing as it goes. The
flight, though direct, is not continuous, but in starts or
by stages, much after the manner of the skylark. It
does not, however, ascend so high as the lark, some ten
or fifteen yards being the summit of its soaring ambition ;
on attaining which, it poises for a few seconds, then flies
back to the bush, or hedgerow, from which it started.
The naturalist of Selborne mentions the Whitethroat as
one of the few birds that “sing as they fly,” very
correctly describing the manner “by odd jerks and
gesticulations.”

The song of the Whitethroat has a certain resemblance
to the first few strains of that of the blackcap. The
latter, however, is of longer continuance, and the notes
that succeed, the “inward melody” and “gentle modu-
lations” spoken of by Gilbert White, are wanting to the
former. listening to this portion of the blackcap’s lay,
one might fancy it to proceed from the throat of a black-
bird, singing in the heart of a grove or wood, at a far
distance off.

A Inliputian Combat. 159

A LILIPUTIAN COMBAT.

-That the passions of hostility and anger are not con-
fined to large animals, but felt with equal intensity by
the smallest, I had this day (May 10th) evidence, and of
a somewhat curious kind. The day being remarkably
fine and warm—indeed, hot for the month of May—I
bad my wolf-skin robe carried out and spread under a
tree to recline upon. Lying along it, and listening to
the songs of birds—now so varied—observing also the
movements of many species of insects, which the hot sun
had stirred into activity, my attention was attracted to
one of the latter, in a larval state, by its odd movements.
It was making way over the smooth surface of a velvet-
covered cushion, but for which it is not likely I should
have noticed it; the creature at full stretch being little
over the fifth of an inch in length, and not the eighth in
thickness. It was white too, or cream-coloured, the
velvet being dark blue, so rendering it conspicuous by
the contrast. Its close proximity to my eye, and curious
mode of progression, led me to taking special notice of it;
the latter being made by repeated contractions and exten-
sions of the body, at each the creature rising and stand-
ing erect on one end, then pitching forward to its full
length, and with a jerk drawing the tail instantly after.
The same singular procedure I had often observed in
. larve of a larger kind, as no doubt has every one else.
But though odd enough in these, it seemed still more so
in the little midget—certamly not bigger than a cheese-
mite—that was journeying across the cushion. I was
about taking my eye off it, when I saw coming in the
opposite direction another insect, of about the same size,
but perfect, not larval. A wingless crawler this was, but

160 The Naturalist in Siluria.

with my limited knowledge of entomology I was unable
to identify either. The new-comer was also light-
coloured ; and the two proceeding in opposite directions,
but along the exact same line, it was evident they must
meet head to head. This in point of fact they soon after
did, their heads coming in collision, both evidently
taken by surprise at the unexpected encounter. But
instantly recovering from it, they began a battle of the
fiercest. Though matched in size, the grub appeared to
be the more powerful and attacking party, its quick,
violent contortions seemingly meant to enfold and crush
the perfect insect, its adversary, while the latter looked
as though struggling to escape. At that moment I
would have given five shillings for five minutes’ use of a
microscope; as a glance through one would no doubt
have revealed the varying attitudes of these miniature
combatants, engaged in a strife, no doubt deadly as
between lion and tiger, if on a smaller scale. I at first
supposed that the crawling insect was but endeavouring
to get out of the clutches of the jumping one, and ex-
pected soon to see it dead and devoured. Not so, how-
ever, was the result ; for, after more than a minute spent
in wriggling and wrestling, the antagonist somehow or
other got separated, and the crawler crawled away,
apparently unharmed. Then the behaviour of the grub
afforded me another spectacle, interesting as that which
had preceded, and further proving it the aggressor. It
turned to and fro on the velvet, darting out its head, first
to one side then to the other, in rapid succession, as a
hound trying to recover a lost scent, evidently in search
of the escaped enemy !

Were our eyes magnifying glasses, in the world of
Liliputian life we should, no doubt, often witness hostile

A Devourer of Fish Fry. 161

encounters, with a display of passion fierce as that
which rages in the breasts of bigger animals—even of
man himself.

A DEVOURER OF FISH FRY.

The dipper” is a great destroyer of little fish; and
those engaged in pisciculture had need be on their guard
against it. Proof of its voracious appetite has been
lately furnished me by the behaviour of a pair of dab-
chicks that had their home on an artificial pond in the
park of one of my friends living near. This pond, or
lakelet, is fed by a running stream, and the owner wish-
ing to stock it with trout, had some thousands of the fry
of this fish put into it. For a time they seemed to do
well; but then it was noticed that, day after day, they
were decreasing in numbers, until at length only a few
could be seen. At first there was some surprise at their
disappearance, with mystery. But ere long the cause
declared itself, on the dabchicks being watched in their
diving ; when it was discovered that each time one went
under a young trout was brought up in its beak, and
swallowed without ceremony. ‘They had, in fact, been
all along living on the fry as their almost exclusive diet.
Aistheticism pleaded hard for retaining the dabchicks,
as an ornament to the water, and on account of their
quaint, curious ways. But more material tastes pre-
vailed, to the destruction of the birds, for the preserva-
tion of the fish.

162 The Naturalist in Siluria.

THE CIRL BUNTING.

T believe this remarkably handsome bird to be in much
greater numbers all over the country than is generally
supposed. The close resemblance it bears to the yellow-
hammer, its near congener, no doubt leads to its being
often mistaken for the latter. Indeed, to most country
people it is unknown, just for this very reason; as the two
are so like in size, colour, and general habits as to be
indistinguishable from one another at any great distance.
He would be sharp-eyed who could tell which from which
at twenty yards off, unless a practised ornithologist. To
him, however, there are distinctive marks by which
either may be identified at a glance; and to enable an
ordinary observer to do this, I] may say that the best
guide—or most conspicuous one—will be found on the
throat; that of the Cirl Bunting being black, as though
it were a black scarf, while the yellow-hammer is with-
out this sombre distinction.

It is a somewhat curious coincidence that with several
genera of our small birds there are two species of each
usually found frequenting the same neighbourhood so
like one another as to require close scrutiny for their
identification. Notable examples are the two pipits
(Anthus arboreus and pratensis), the common and tree
sparrows (Passer domesticus and montanus); the pied and
white wagtails (Motacilla yarrellit and alba) and the sky
and wood larks (Alauda arvensis and orborea), the last
pair, however, not so much alike as the others.

Singular Capture of a Woodcock. 163

SINGULAR CAPTURE OF A WOODCOCK.

Some time ago a labouring man in my employ made
capture of a woodcock under circumstances so peculiar
that probably the like may never occur again. He was
sauntering along one of the wood roads (Forest of Dean),
the day being Sunday, when he saw a woodcock at some
distance before him, close by the path’s edge. On the
ground, it was going at a run through the grass; as it
had already sighted him, and was making off in retreat,
His rapid advance upon it first brought it to the squat;
then, as he drew nearer, and it saw no chance of conceal-
ing itself, the alternative of flight was determined upon.
I believe it to be a fact that the woodcock in taking wing
uses its bill to help it up into the air, by pressing the
latter against the ground. Certainly before rising, as
every sportsman may have observed, this bird is seen
with head down and rump elevated, seemingly straining
its neck, as if for a leverage to aid it upwards. Just so
was this one doing when come upon by my labourer—a
man who had seen the like before, being well acquainted
with the woodcock and its ways. But now he saw what
gave him a surprise, the bird convulsively fluttering its
wings, as in a struggle, while, instead of flying away, it
remained in the same spot, and so stayed till he got up,
and laid hold of it. Then to find that it was already held
in fast grip by the ground, into which it had dug its
beak, and could not draw it out again! Strange as it
may appear, I can vouch for this ag an actual occurrence ;
though the only one of the kind I have ever heard, or am
likely ever to hear of.

164 The Naturalist in Siluria.

THE FAVOURITE FERRET WITH
POACHERS.

In a confidential chat I had the other day with an old
transgressor of the game laws, though no longer such, I
am happy to say, he let me into a secret of the fraternity
relating to ferrets. It appears that the white variety of
these domesticated weasels is that preferred by the
poacher, and for the following reasons: When “ rabbit-
ing’”’ at night—the poacher’s orthodox time—a white
ferret is more easily seen, its colour making it con-
spicuous in the darkness, and its work, done in silence,
with dodging into and out of the holes, can be more
readily interpreted as affecting results. Besides, a white
ferret is less liable to be lost than one of the dark or
fitchet colour. The poacher knows that the latter variety
is of a fiercer, gamer nature, hardier than the former, and
better for work in the ordinary legitimate way. But for
clandestine nocturnal duty he prefers the pink-eyed
albino ; the reasons, as above, being good and sub-
stantial.

FERRETS AND THE WILD BIRDS’
PROTECTION ACT.

T have lately come to know that the destruction of
wild birds which accrues from the keeping of ferrets is
something considerable. Not that the ferrets themselves
are blamable in the matter, but their owners. In

Ferrets and the Wild Birds’ Protection Act. 165

almost every neighbourhood there are poor men, one or
more of them, quite apart from the fraternity of poachers,
who indulge in the luxury of keeping a ferret or two,
partly to make money by occasional rat-killing for the
farmer, and partly by the young ferrets—a numerous
progeny. As these animals do not live on air, but require
substantial food for their subsistence—a goodly amount
of it, too—their owner is often at a pinch for the providing
of it. The sheep’s paunch, which costs him twopence, is
his best stand-by ; but even this runs up to money, taking
into consideration his precarious wage of twelve shillings
a week, often reduced by days of rain or sickness. So, to
economize the expenditure on paunches, he has recourse
to the fere nature, and of these the young of wild birds,
callow in their nests, are the easiest of procurement.
They are in this state, too, just at the time when the
young ferrets are querulously calling for food, and need-
ing a large supply of it.

A tale of poacher cleverness, combined with audacity,
has been lately told me, the narrator vouching for its
truth. The hero of it, a noted transgressor of the game
laws, was out “ rabbiting”’ on a certain moonlight night,
having with him a pair of ferrets, a dog, and the usual
paraphernalia of nets. The scene of his operations was
@ warren by the wood’s edge on the estate of a neighbour-
ing gentleman, and several miles from the poacher’s own
home. He had just entered the “ weasels” when the
gentleman’s gamekeeper dropped upon him, catching
him in flagrante delicto. Still, he found time, before the
keeper got forward, to pluck up his nets, clew them into
a ball, and fling them into some bushes near by. Asa
right-of-way path ran past the place, and the man was
unknown to the keeper—with no other evidence of his

166 The Naturalist in Siluria.

guilt apparent than the canine by his side—the latter
doubting the chances of a conviction, hesitated about
taking him up; perhaps all the more from his being a
stalwart, determined-looking fellow. But, just then, one
of the ferrets—a white one—showed its snout at the
entrance of the burrow; and down dropped the keeper
on his knees to lay hold of it. The animal, however,
which would have allowed its owner to catch it, when
approached by the stranger shied back again into the
hole out of sight. It was a wide-mouthed cavity against
a sloping bank; so the keeper flung himself flat on his
face, thrust head and shoulders in after, and commenced
feeling for the ferret. Seeing him so situated, a grand
strategic idea flashed across. the brain of the poacher.
He was standing by the side of a hedge lately “‘pleached,”
and plucking up one of the pointed stakes, he stuck it
into the bank between the keeper’s legs, close up to his
hips, driving it in firm and fast. The man endeavouring
to draw out again, and finding himself fixed, commenced
a series of wrigglings, accompanied by angry objurga-
tions, that seemed as if sent up from the bottom of a well.
Tn time his voice changed to that of entreaty, begging to
be released. He could not release himself, as the stake
hindered him from backing out of the hole, and it was
too high for him to lift his legs over it. But the poacher
was pitiless, and gave no ear to his entreaties, alone busy-
ing himself about the recovery of his ferrets. These had,
meanwhile, returned out of the burrow, and popping them
into the ample pockets of his velveteen—his nets re-
covered, too—he ran away from the place, leaving the
hapless keeper with his head in the rabbit-hole! And
in this “ fix” the man remained throughout the rest of
the night, and till near noon of the next day; indeed, he

Poachers in Petttcoats. 167

might have died in it but for one of his watchers, who,
chancing to come that way on his rounds, found and
released him. For this sharp practice on the poacher’s
part no prosecution followed, nor was any action taken
afterwards, which may be thought strange. But the
gamekeeper was a new hand in the neighbourhood, be-
sides the culprit being altogether unknown to him. And
possibly he had no desire to identify him, not liking to
make a noise about an affair in which he had himself cut
such a ridiculous figure. Of course, the poacher kept it .
dark enough, and it is only known to the initiated.

POACHERS IN PETTICOATS.

A keeper employed in the Government Forest of Dean,
whose enclosed boundary is but a few stones’ throw from
my house, tells me a sorrowful tale of his troubles with
poachers. He says poaching by snare and trap is so
rife throughout the Forest that he can hardly go his
rounds, taking his dogs along, without one or other of
the canines getting caught in a “ gin ”—the steel spring
trap.

This I can credit, knowing how strong and numerous
is the fraternity of poachers all around the Forest borders.
Indeed, there are families in which this practice is
hereditary, and has been followed for centuries—the
descendants of those who stole the king’s deer, when
the antlered stag was among its denizens. And now
that there are no deer in it to be stolen these thrifty
people of the modern day have transferred their industry

168 The Naturalist in Stiluria.

to the acquisition of hares, rabbits, and pheasants. But
what rather amused me in the keeper’s account of his
miseries was to find that around the Forest there is not
only a fraternity of poachers, but a sisterhood of them—
in other words, women engaged in it as wellas men. As
a rule, the men are employed at other work, in the coal-
pits and iron-mines, so having scant time to look after
traps. But their wives and daughters do this, some of
them, as the keeper says, setting a wire snare, or planting
a gin, with as much skill as could the men; while, not-
withstanding their impediment of loose drapery, they are
equally quick and clever in getting out of his way, when-
ever he makes an attempt to come up with them.

A KINGFISHER KILLED BY A PERCH.

On a certain pond, some years ago, occurred another
curious episode, not witnessed by any one, but made known
by results, A kingfisher was found lying dead by its
edge, the cause of death unmistakable: it had caught a
perch, and tried to swallow it, but without success; for
the fish was still sticking in its throat, the spines having
penetrated the bird’s gullet, and so choked it.

Something more in connection with this unwitnessed
spectacle of nature is worth noting. At the time it oc-
curred the pond, a very small one, had been but a few
days established, and perch put into it. The situation is
far away from any other water in which there are fish, on
high lying land, and the last place one might expect a
kingfisher to be found in. A bird, too, of such rare

Goldjinches Feeding on Fir Cones. 169

occurrence anywhere. Yet this one, guided by some in-
explicable instinct, or, more likely, a reasoning intelli-
gence, had so soon discovered the remote speck of water,
and to its misfortune the fish in it as well!

GOLDFINCHES FEEDING ON FIR CONES.

It is cold-blooded cruelty, absolutely bird murder, to
use the gun upon a goldfinch; yet I, who say so, have
been guilty of this very crime, and but a short while ago;
not wantonly, the reader may well be assured, but in the
cause of science, if that be any palliation. It was done
to verify a fact lately communicated to me by a lady
friend, and with which I had not previously been ac-
quainted. She had seen a flock of goldfinches in a grove
of Scotch firs pecking away at the cones. I suggested
* crossbills,” though doubtfully, knowing the lady pos-
sessed of ornithological knowledge, but knowing also that
these birds with the beak awry are frequently observed
in flocks among our fir plantations. But no; she was
sure that those she had seen pecking at the cones were
goldfinches. And so am I now, after the ruthless murder
committed—a veritable thistle-feeder (Fringilla carduelis),
shot down out of a Scotch fir, where it had been gorg-
ing, its crop found nearly full of seeds it had contrived
to extract from the cones.

170 The Naturalist in Siluria.

ERRONEOUS BELIEF ABOUT THE WILD
BERRIES.

It is a common belief among unobservant people that
if the crop of wild berries—haws, hips, and those of the
holly—be unusually abundant a severe winter will follow.
Nature, in her beneficence, say these people, so provides
for her favourite creatures, the birds, not forgetting the
beasts. But if nature be so benignant, why does she let
either ever starve at all? As itis, they did—the birds any-
how—in hundreds and thousands during the winters of
1879-80 and 1880-81. Both were severe enough to test
the truth of the above belief; which they did, showing it
not true at all, but absolutely erroneous. For, in both, not
only were the wild berries unusually scarce, but in many
districts altogether wanting. And as further proof con-
firming the fallacy, the winter just passing away, mild
throughout, has been one with the berry crop so plenteous
as to redden hedge and bush everywhere—berries of all
sorts—just when the birds could have well done without
them !

Naturalists of an amiable disposition, but not always
true to nature, are very fond of dwelling upon her be-
nignance, some of them ever dinning it into our ears.
How good and wise she is, say they, in her every act and
design! Wise she may be for purposes we know not
of; but as to her goodness, it would be difficult to con-
ceive anything more apparently cruel than her whole
scheme as regards the ferce nature, one species preying
upon another, all over the earth, in an endless chain of
hostility and destruction. The sad fact exists, and the
purpose, though to us inscrutable, may be of the wisest
and for the best—indeed, must be. But is this a reason

Gipsies and Hedgehogs. 171

why naturalists should stultify themselves by an over
saudation of nature, telling her to her teeth she does
that which certainly she does not ?

GIPSIES AND HEDGEHOGS.

Around here we have both of these curious creatures
in abundance: the biped attracted by the Forest of Dean
and other Wyeside woods, where he is permitted free
tenting-ground; the quadruped finding in the dry tus-
socky outskirts and underwood a habitat to its taste.
Mention of the one almost invariably suggests thought
of the other. For who has not heard of the gipsy’s fond-
ness for the urchin’s flesh, and his original mode of cook-
ing it—a bake in a ball of clay? But I have reason to
doubt the correctness of what has been said about this
culinary process. It is certainly not practised by any of
the fraternity around here—indeed, not known to them.
All with whom I have come in contact tell me that their
mode of cooking the hedgehog is simply by roasting it on
a stick, or other spit, over their ordinary “faggot fire,”
having first removed the skin and “ offal”; the which, so
far as this neighbourhood is concerned, does away with
the pretty story of baking in a ball of clay.

There is no question, however, as to their partiality for
the animal’s flesh. Gipsies, young and old, are friand of
the same, speak of it as a bon-bouche, and take much
pains to procure it. In its capture they display wonder-
ful skill and sagacity. Where an ordinary individual can
perceive neither trace nor sign of hedgehog presence a
gipsy will sight the creature’s “ spoor,” and follow it up

172 The Naturalist in Siluria.

to the den, unerringly as hound on the scent of hare.
Some are noted for superior cleverness in this speciality
of chase, and proud of it. Ina camp I lately visited, a
gipsy woman—with, by the way, a very pretty daughter
at her side—while lauding the superiority of “‘ hodgkins’”
flesh, also took occasion to sound the praises of her-hus-
band—who was absent—enthusiastically proclaiming him
a “ good hedgehog dog,”—the best in the community.

A woodreeve of the Forest of Dean tells me that he
has seen as many as fifteen or sixteen hedgehogs in a
gipsy camp all at one time, hung up on the branches of
the trees, skinned, cleaned, and ready for the spit.

The ancient British Kingdom, or Principality of
“Ergyn,” in Saxon and Norman times known as the
Hundred of Urchinfield, now Archenfield, whose territory
extended along the Wye from the Forest of Dean to
Hereford, no doubt drew its primitive name from being a
special abode of the urchin, Britannicé, “ Ergyn.”? Pos-
sibly, too, the name of the Roman station, “ Ariconium,”
on the edge of this district, was of like derivation—
Latinized.

THE TREE PIPIT.

Of late I have had excellent opportunities for observing
the habits of the Tree Pipit (Anthus trivialis)\—a more
interesting bird than its sober plumage might bespeak it.
I think there can be no doubt of its being a connecting
link between the wagtails and the larks; its shape,
gait when on the ground, the nature of its food, with the
quaint vertical vibration of the tail, likening it to the
former, while the colour of its plumage and markings, but

The Tree Pipit. 173

above all the timbre of its voice, show its affinity equally
near to the latter. In some of its habits it is wonderfully
like the woodlark, especially that of perching on the
topmost twigs of a tree—usually a tall one—thence soar-
ing upward while it sings. The song is neither so sweet
nor varied as that of wood or skylark, yet unmistakably
like them in tone; so much so that one hearing it, with-
out seeing the bird, would know he was listening toa
songster allied to the Alaudine. Nor is its flight either
so high or prolonged as theirs. It shoots rapidly upward,
in a line nearly direct, and at an angle of forty-five
degrees, but only for a distance of some sixty or seventy
yards. There, soaring for a few seconds, singing all the
while, it comes back to earth in a spiral curve, or, more
correct to say, to the top branches of a tree, though not
always the same from which it started off. In the last
twenty or thirty yards of its descent it exhibits a shape,
and gives utterance to a note, both peculiarly interesting.
The wings are at first widely extended, as is also the tail,
without beat or other observable motion, they are then
gradually drawn in towards the body, till the bird, seen
against a clear sky, in shape resembles the head of an
arrow, the wings representing the barbs; and while thug
it utters a plaintive piping note, a very cry of distress,
some ten or a dozen times repeated.

Although more of a tree-percher than its near con-
gener, the meadow pipit (A. arvensis), it seems to affect
places in the proximity of water, further likening it to
the wagtails. A pair have just brought forth young in a
tract of rather marshy pasture some two hundred yards
from my house, the nest being at the bottom of the grass
under a bunch of rushes. It was not found till the young
birds were nearly full fledged, then only three being in it.

174 The Naturalist in Silurta.

On the finder returning to it some hours afterwards, there
were but two, one of them badly hurt, apparently from
having been trampled upon by one of the browsing cattle.
I had them brought up to the house for examination, and
while out upon the lawn inspecting them—an interval of
nearly an hour having elapsed—I saw a little bird drop
down upon the grass beside me, on the smooth, closely
mown, and finely rolled sward, a bird ofa species never
observed there before, a titlark by its strut and the wag
of its tail—a Tree Pipit—and it was the mother of the
little fledglings I was in the act of examining.

There might seem nothing strange in this, but there
was more than one thing strange. One, in the bird of
a species which usually keeps far afield coming so close
to the house and me. Another in its knowing where to
find its young, abstracted from the nest. This was at
least 150 yards off, with a thick grove intervening; and
the boy who brought the young birds carried them under
cover, so that they could not possibly have been seen by
the parent. Nor could their tiny “cheep,” uttered at
intervals, have been heard by her; it was not audible to
me ata rod’s distance. How then came she to know of
their changed whereabouts? The only explanation I can
think of is that seeing the lad take up what remained of
her offspring, she had watched whither he went, and mis-
sing them from the nest, after a time repaired to the place
in search of them. But that could not be instinct ; instead,
something higher—surely an exercise of reasoning !

There is more to come concerning this little episode of
bird-life, other incidents and observations yet incomplete,
which, when completed, I may have an opportunity of
laying before the reader.

_

The Nightingale. 175

THE NIGHTINGALE.

It isa common belief, even among British ornitholo-
gists, that this interesting bird does not find its way so
far west as our western shires. In the latest edition of
“Chamber’s Encyclopedia,’ a work usually correct in
points of natural history, it is stated that the Nightingale,
“though plentiful in some parts of the south and east of
England, does not extend to the western counties.”? Now,
Hereford is surely a western county, and I can answer
for it that at this present writing Nightingales may be
heard every night, making Penyard Wood vocal with
their matchless melody. lts western limit seems to lie
somewhere near the longitude of Hereford city itself, and
does not reach either Radnor or Brecon. For in lists of
birds made out by competent observers, covering districts
by the Welsh border, I see no mention of the Nightingale,
and its presence in any part of Wales has not yet been
chronicled. On the western side of Monmouthshire it
is, I believe, also unknown, though where the Wye cuts
through the carboniferous rocks in this county, in the
valley of the river itself, the bird is a visitor. Inde-
pendently of geographical range, it is capricious, or rather
it might be called fastidious, in regard to the topography
of its haunts and habitat. As, for instance, while Night-
ingales may be heard on one side of a hill, or range of
hills, they will be silent on the other—in other words,
they are not there. Penyard is an elongated ridge, full
two miles in length; and often, returning home at a late
hour of the night, around its southern slope I have heard
as many as half a score of these birds in full song; no
two together, but continued along the line of the ridge,
each occupying a little ravine or section of its own, which

176 The Naturalist in Stluria.

it seemed to have appropriated for the season. On the-
northern side of this same Penyard I have never heard

the Nightingale, nor does it make its appearance there.

Moreover, it frequently affects one side of the river, while

shunning the other. I have friends living not five miles

off, but beyond the Wye, who will scarce give me credit

when I tell them that Nightingales sing all round my

house. They have never heard it on their side, and were

surprised to learn that the bird not only visits but breeds

in Herefordshire—their native county !

With regard to the geographical range of the Nightin-
gale in our island, and the capriciousness above alluded
to, I have heard a theory advanced which seems worthy
of investigation. It is that the bird only frequents those
districts where the glow-worm is found. In the old red
sandstone of Herefordshire we have the lampyris noctiluca
in plenty ; and it is also abundant over the chalk forma-
tion of the Chiltern Hills, in Bucks, Berks, and Hertford-
shire, where Nightingales are most common. This seems
to favour the above theory, pointing to another fact—
that the luminous insect may be the favourite food of
the nocturnal songster.

THE MONTH OF BIRD-MUSIC.

May is usually accounted the month when birds sing
their loudest and sweetest. However this may have
been in times past, certainly for the last four or five
years June better deserves the credit. And never one
more than this now present. There were May-days pre-
ceding when wood and field, copse and hedgerow, were

ASSAY i (
+b ow VLG & ¥ bu
GROUP OF WARBLERS,
"7

178 The Naturalist in Siluria.

all alike silent so far as concerned the singing of birds—
not a stave of song heard in any of them; only occasional
call-notes, or signals of alarm. How different all now,
deep inthe middle of June! This day (the 14th),
driving out, and through wooded dells that border the
Forest of Dean, though not in it, I had the pleasure of
listening to a concert of bird-music, with so many voices
taking part in it that to give the names of the singers
would make a list large as ever sang on opera stage,
choristers included.

Therefore, only one will I particularize—one well
worthy of the distinction, the prima donna, not of the
theatre, but of the grove. Had I ever doubted before
that the nightingale sings by day, on this day my doubts
would have been removed. At meridian hour, as before
and after, with the sun shining brightly in a diaphanous
sky, I heard its song, unmistakable as unmatched by
anything else in the way of bird-music; and if there be
any one sceptical of its singing by day, let him just now
repair to the dells around the Forest of Dean, on the
eastern or Gloucestershire side, and I promise him a
change of faith.

AN OVERPRAISED BIRD.

“The male blackcap is inferior only to the nightingale
in the quality of his song.”’

So asserts Mr. Yarrell, and the assertion has been
repeated by all, or nearly all, ornithological writers since
his time, till it is now generally received as axiomatic.

An Overpraised Bird. 179

Yet never was statement much wider away from the
truth. Not only is the blackcap’s song inferior to that of
the nightingale—with which it has no claim to com-
parison—but is beaten, far excelled, by those of thrush,
blackbird, lark, linnet, and goldfinch.

I had often wondered at this concurrence of belief in
the superiority of the blackcap’s song, so different from
my own impressions of it. But I think I have discovered
the explanation. In nearly every instance where the
naturalist of Selborne has made a mistake the error
has been perpetuated by writers who have copied him;
as, for example, that “crows go in pairs the whole year
round.” In the case of the blackcap’s song, however,
he has made no mistake; instead, described it with re-
markable precision. His words are :—‘‘The blackcap
has a full, sweet, deep, loud, and wild pipe; yet that
strain is of short continuance, and his motions are desul-
tory; but when that bird sits calmly and engages in
song in earnest, he pours forth very sweet, but inward
melody, and expresses great variety of soft and gentie
modulations, superior perhaps to those of any of our
warblers, the nightingale excepted.”

I have italicized the word warblers, for on that hinges
the weight of White’s opinion, which influenced his
copyists, and so misled them. He clearly meant by it
our summer visitants, the soft-billed birds, or Sylviade,
specially known as the “warblers,” without any refer-
ence to our permanently resident songsters. For of the
former he was speaking when he so pronounced himself
about the blackcap. Elsewhere he simply characterizes
it as a “delicate songster,” which is quite out of keeping
with his entertaining the belief that of all our song birds
it came next to the nightingale—as it certainly does not.

180 The Naturalist in Siluria.

I hear the blackcap singing while I write, and through
my window see the bird itself flitting about from tree to
tree; for it isa restless creature, and does not remain long
in one place, usually running over the whole of its gamut
scale but twice or thrice, then betaking itself to some
other perch, and there in similar manner repeating it.
There are occasions, however, as the naturalist of Sel-
borne quaintly expresses it, when “ that bird sits calmly,
and engages in song in earnest,” its strain being un-
doubtedly one of the sweetest. No verbal or written
description could come nearer giving an idea of it than
that of White himself, his phrase “inward melody”
having a peculiar and characteristic significance. While
it is singing there is a muscular dilatation of throat, and
erection of the crown feathers, forming a very dis-
tinguishable crest. Just now (last week of April) the
blackcap is heard more frequently than later on, and
oftener seen. When the trees are in full leaf, it is diffi-
cult to get sight of the bird, even when it is pouring
forth its strain but a few feet from the spot where one
may be standing.

NINE REDBREASTS IN ONE BROOD.

The singular ornithological fact which is elsewhere re-
ferred to is that of a pair of robins having brought forth
nine young at the same hatching. The place of nesting was
in the parish of Walford, near Ross, Herefordshire, and
there was enough singularity in the time, the birds being
out of the shell early in March. But nine of them, when
the orthodox number is five, may seem something still more

A Word about the Slow-worm. 181

abnormal. There is an explanation, however, though
even this leaves the occurrence one deserving to be
called strange. There were in reality two nests but a
few paces apart—one with five eggs, the other only four
—and for a freak a school boy, who had discovered them,
took out the four eggs and deposited them in the other
nest with the five—there leaving them. Asa rule, boys
will not despoil the nest of the robin, and this urchin,
being himself rather an odd and inquiring mind, made
the transfer to see what would come of it.

What did come of it was that the owners of the five
eggs continued incubation upon all nine, and in due time
brought out the nine birds nearly together, fed and nur-
tured all without distinction, apparently unconscious of
the trick that had been played them.

A WORD ABOUT THE SLOW-WORM.

As the Slow-worm (Anguis fragilis) is now also show-
ing out of its winter quarters, it naturally attracts notice.
Mr. Bell, in his “ History of British Reptiles,” the ac-
credited standard work on our native herpetology, speak-
ing of the Slow-worm, says that its “ total length is from
ten to twelve, or even fourteen inches.” Why even
fourteen inches? Such loose, conjectural phraseology,
too often indulged in by zoological writers, is likely to
mislead, as in the present instance, when it gives an
indefinite idea of the reptile’s size—indeed, an erroneous
one—which, after Mr. Bell, no doubt, has been copied
and found a place in our standard encyclopedias. The
error may be worth rectification, and I can rectify it

182 The Naturalist in Siluria.

from actual measurement of several Slow-worms taken
in my own grounds, some of which were much above
fourteen inches in length, and one actually exceeding
seventeen inches. A curious habit of the creatures,
half-lizard, half-snake, which they have in common with
the true serpents, is their hybernating in bands of several
individuals, twisted and coiled up together. A man in
my employ, while working in a stone quarry, turned out
such a cluster from a cleft in the rocks, where they had
doubtless passed the whole of the winter. Awaking
from their semi-dormant state, and separating, there
were found to be sixteen of them.

A CURIOUS CASE OF BADGER-DRAWING.

In October, 1881, one of my friends out rabbiting
sent two of his dogs into the burrow of a badger, hoping
to draw the animal out. The hole, or “ holt,” as com-
monly called, was on the slope of Howle Hill, a lofty
eminence overlooking the Wye, some four miles below
the town of Ross. The dogs were fox-terriers, and valu-
able—one of them being a prize-winner—and, as time
passed without either reappearing, my friend became
anxious about them; all the more that no sound, neither
bark nor yelp, came back out of the burrow.

Hours were spent waiting, with every effort made to
coax the animals out. All in vain; neither call nor
whistle received any response from the subterranean
abode of the badger.

There seemed no alternative but to use the pick, spade,
and shovel; which, in fine, were set to work with. Ag

A Curious Case of Badger-Drawing. 188

long trying-poles showed that the “holt” ran horizon-
tally to a great distance, and laying it open from the
mouth would be a task entailing great labour, it was
determined to sink a vertical shaft instead. This was
done by dint of hard digging, and the underground
gallery reached, as it chanced, just midway between the
two dogs, both of which were found dead. The one near-
est the mouth of the burrow was jammed in a narrow
passage, from which it had vainly struggled to extricate
itself; while the other lay farther in, with open space
around sufficient for turning, yet alike lifeless; but on
neither was there mark of tooth or scratch of claw! The
badger was also there, up at the extremity of the burrow,
from which it was unearthed and killed.

Now, the question is, what killed the dogs? The
one caught in the jam might have wriggled itself to
death ; but this hypothesis will not answer for the other,
which had room enough to move about. And as there
was sufficient atmosphere around to keep their lungs sup-
plied, asphyxia will not explain it—unless it was produced
by some powerful effluvia emanating from the badger.
That this animal has the power of secreting a substance
of most disagreeable odour, and projecting it at will, is
well known; therefore the theory of the dogs being
suffocated by it is not at all an absurd one—instead, plau-
sible enough. If not, then how came they by their death?
I can think of only one other cause—absolute fright at
‘finding themselves hopelessly entombed. But that were
still more improbable.

The badger was not one of the largest, scaling only 27
Ibs. In my notes I have record of many weighing, at
least, a third more.

184 The Naturalist in Siluria.

A DOG AND FOX FIGHT ENDING
MYSTERIOUSLY.

Another instance of a dog entering a badger’s burrow,
and never coming out again, occurred just twelve months
ago, and within a hundred yards of my own house—in
the hanging woods of Penyard Hill, that rise directly to
rear of it. The “ holt” was, and still is, at the base of a
cliff,—an outcrop of the old red sandstone conglomerate,
—buit in this case there was no badger in it; or, if so, he
was not the object after which the dog was sentin. In-
stead, a fox had just entered, as told by its tracks in the
snow; for it was during the long-lying snowfall of
January, 1881. The dog was a rough Scotch terrier, that
had often tackled both foxes and badgers ; and its owner,
a poor man, supposing he had made a sure profitable find,
urged it in after the fox, bagging the mouth of the hole,
to secure the latter when it should attempt bolting out.

For some time the men outside—for there were two of
them—heard the sounds of a struggle, a combat @ out-
rance between dog and fox, as their angry voices indicated.
But these gradually grew feebler; not as if the strife were
being relaxed, but carried farther away into the rocks;
at length ceasing altogether, or, at least, ceasing to be
heard. Nor came there out any sound afterwards; neither
issued forth dog nor fox; though for days the place was
frequently revisited, and the snow carefully examined all
around, Had either of the animals returned out again
their tracks could not fail being seen; besides, the terrier
would have found its way home, the distance being only
a few hundred yards.

In this case there was no thought of opening the
burrow, which, being a natural cavity in the rocks, would

A Prolific Polecat. 185

have been a work of quarrying and cost. So the fate of
fox and dog remains undetermined; though, certainly,
it was death to the latter, and likely to both. But here
again we have another mystery, difficult of elucidation as
that which occurred on Howle Hill; the same question,
under somewhat different conditions: what caused the
death of the animals? Did they kill one another? Or
did they go fighting on so far into the cavity as to be
unable to find their way out again? Or was there a
badger also within, that destroyed both as intruders upon
its “holt” and home? Its outgoing tracks would not
be seen, as it would not likely come forth so long as the
snow lasted—too cunning for that.

A PROLIFIC POLECAT.

As is generally believed, the polecat, or fitchet (Mustela
putorius), of which the ferret is erroneously supposed to
be but a domesticated variety, is not so prolific as the
ferret ; yet there are instances of it also producing more
numerously than is stated in zoological works. Mr. Bell,
in his ‘ History of British Quadrupeds,” speaking of it,
says: “The female polecat brings forth four, five, or six
young.” This may be the normal number; but I have
note of a case in which it was exceeded, no less than seven
young polecoats having been dug out of a den, near the
banks of the river Wye, all evidently of the same “kitten-
ing.” This, in a way, tends to show near relationship
between the ferret and polecat ; and, beyond doubt, they
are closely allied, yet still specifically distinct. As some
proof of their being so, I may point to the close resemblance

186 The Naturalist in Stluria.

between other species of Mustelide known to be distinct,
as between the stoat and common weasel. These are so
graduated in size, the female stoat being little, if any,
larger than the male weasel, while so like in shape, facial
expression, and other respects, that were it not for the
stoat’s bushy and black-tipped tail there would be some
difficulty in distinguishing the one from the other. Mere
general resemblance in shape and colour is not enough to
justify specific sameness; besides, the polecat is usually
larger than the ferret, which would contradict the rule of
increase by domestication. As for the white ferret with
pink eyes, it is a lusus nature of the “albino” kind, and
therefore not in the naturalist’s category of species.

WILD FERRETS.

I think it highly probable that we have Wild Ferrets in
England; that is, ferrets escaped from their owners and
living in a wild state—in short, become true fere nature.
I am led to this conclusion by some cases that have come
under my own observation, with others reported to me.
It is well known that ferrets when sent in after rabbits
often remain inside the burrow, and have either to be dug
out, waited for, or abandoned. When digging them out
is hopeless, from the nature of the ground, and to await
their coming forth inconvenient, they are frequently lost;
hence the cruel practice, still in vogue, I am sorry to say,
of stitching up their mouths, to prevent their indulging
in their bloodthirsty propensity when they have caught
the rabbit in the burrow. The general belief is, that
these defecting ferrets are recovered again, either by being

Wild Ferrets. 187

found within a few days, or themselves returning to their
owner, when his home is near at hand. Instances of the
latter Iam assured of; and also of a strayed ferret, whose
owner had chanced to come across it in the woods, follow-
ing him home as would a dog. But I am equally well
assured of the other instances above referred to, where
lost ferrets had not been found, and were still living
months after having made their escape. As it is gen-
erally conceded that the tame ferret originally came to us
from Africa, or the south of Europe, and is known to be
“nesh” in cold weather, the supposition is that if left to
itself in our woods and wilds, it would not survive the
winter. But two of the cases that have come under my
observation contradict this view, entirely refuting it.
Some four years ago a man living in the parish of Hope
Mansell, Herefordshire, lost a ferret while “ rabbiting,”
and after trying his best to recover the creature, had to
give itup. This was in early winter; and in the month
of March following, when strolling through a track of
woodland near the place where the ferret had got away
from him, he espied an animal which he at first took for
a fitchet (polecat) ; but getting nearer, by certain marks
known to him, he saw it was his lost rat and rabbit-catcher.
There were several other men along with him; and they
immediately gave chase, running it from cover to cover,
and hole to hole, routing it from each in succession, but
still unable to lay hands on it, for it was as wild as any
weasel. Nearly two hours were spent in skirmishing about
after it; when, at length, one of the men, a labourer in
my employ, who had stripped off his jacket, succeeded
in throwing this over the animal, and so getting grip on
it. It gave tongue, however—a harsh chatter—and teeth
too, biting him severely. Now, this ferret had been out

188 The Naturalist in Siluria.

all the winter, and, moreover, an exceptionally severe
winter; but that it had not suffered from the cold was
evident, for, when recaptured, it was found in best form
and condition, its coat sleek and glossy, itself fat, as if
fed from an abundant larder.

Another curious circumstance I may mention relating
to it. When caught, it gave out an offensive odour, of
the true polecat essence, and quite as strong. Strange,
too, that after being captured and restored to its hutch,
it died within three days’ time, though it had received no
known injury while being “chevied”’ and taken.

Now, it seems only a fair inference that this ferret,
having survived one winter out of doors, would have
equally got through another, and another—in short, lived
out the term of its natural life in the woods of Hope
Mansell, had it been left to itself. And why not? As
is well known, all animals of the weasel fraternity can go
long fasting, if such be a necessity; though in the case.
of this ferret it seemed not to have been. And just for
the same reason warmth would be within its reach, no
matter how cold the winter, since it could lie up for long
spells inside the burrow, and in the snug nest of a rabbit.
Therefore, I conclude that there may be many ferrets
living wild in our woods—“ fitchet ferrets,” as they are
called, on account of their colour, and for this reason
mistaken for fitchets themselves.

I am able, also, to record a case of the white ferret,
which is still more intolerant of cold, running wild and
outliving the winter. On the Warrage farm, lying con-
tiguous to Raglan Castle, Monmouthshire, an old and
large-sized “ hob ” of this variety escaped from its owner
by getting into a long covered field drain. For twelve
months after—and, therefore, the whole round of the

A Dangerous Trap for Terriers. 189

year—it was seen at intervals in different places, and
chased, but always managed to escape its pursuers. What
became of it eventually is not known; but, no doubt,
from its conspicuous colour, it fell a victim to the shot of
some ten-shilling licensed gun. For it is not likely that
the cold killed it, since it had already passed through
the rigours of winter unscathed.

A DANGEROUS TRAP FOR TERRIERS.

Under the heading, ‘‘A Curious Case of Badger-Draw-
ing,’”’ above, I gave an account of two fox terriers sent
into a badger’s burrow having to be dug after, and when
reached, both found dead; the badger being close beside
them alive, but, of course, killed by the diggers. In
the next entry I further recounted another incident,
where a Scotch terrier entering a badger’s “holt” in a
cliff behind my own house, after a fox which had taken
shelter in it, neither dog nor fox ever coming out again.
Instances of terriers being lost in this way are far from
rare, and I have now another to chronicle, the particulars
of which have been furnished me by one of my friends,
an eminent M.F.H., who hunts one of the Welsh border-
ing shires. It occurred at the commencement of the last
hunting season, and I give the account of it in his own
words, quoted from a letter lately written to me :—

«“ The first day we were out with the hounds (I think
25th October), we ran a fox to ground after a long day’s
run. The terrier, Old Cesar, as good a one as ever ran,
got in after him; and though we waited and dug till dark,
there were no signs of him or the fox. Next morning I

190 The Naturalist in Siluria.

sent over early, and they dug most of the day, and
found Czesar between a dead fox and two living ones!
The two heads have been stuffed and mounted on one
board.”

This occurrence is all the more inexplicable from the
dog and one of the foxes being found dead, while the
two others were alive. Might it be that the terrier and
chased fox, after a long exhausting run, were smothered
in the hole by their own hard breathing? If not, how
came they dead ?

TOO TOUGH FOR EVEN A BADGER’S TOOTH.

In the same letter my fox-hunting friend gives account
of another incident; curious, too, but this time more
comical than serious. Thus runs it:—

“On the 12th of December we found, and had a good
run, though ringing, and fox put into a drain close before
hounds. The terriers soon bolted what I at once saw was
a fresh fox; but hounds viewed him, and ran him to
ground by the side of the river. I at once took them
back to hunted fox, and found that two hounds and
terriers had killed him in the drain. On opening it, a
badger was also found in the drain; beside it a china egg,
no doubt taken from a farm close by.”

No doubt it was taken from the farm, and by the badger,
for how otherwise could it get into the drain? The egg
was one of those in common use as “ nest eggs ” ; and, as
is well known, these animals prowl around farmsteads by
night in search of real eggs, not counterfeits, and chicks
as well. The curious part of it is the badger not dis-
covering the counterfeit till he had carried it into the

Birds and their Nurslings. 191

drain. Then he must have done so, finding it a “nut too
hard to crack,” notwithstanding his sharp teeth and
powerful leverage of jaws.

BIRDS AND THEIR NURSLINGS.

Among the small birds there is a remarkable difference
in the mode of tending and feeding their young, which I
have just had an opportunity of observing. I have else-
where spoken of a tree pipit, whose brood was brought
to me for examination, the mother, in some mysterious
way, finding whither they had been taken, and, after a
time, appearing upon the scene. I fancied the cock also
came, as a second bird, resembling a pipit, was observed
hovering about; but if so, he went off again, and was
not seen afterwards. The hen, however, true to her
maternal instincts, stayed by her imprisoned offspring,
approaching as near to them as she thought safe, at
intervals uttering a tiny “ cheep ” of solicitude, to which
the youngsters gave response in much louder tone.

Placing them upon the grass, I withdrew to a distance
to note the result. Anda curious spectacle it was—the
manceuvring of the mother to get them away from what
she must have supposed a dangerous proximity. Alight-
ing on the ground, some distance beyond them, she
would run up till near enough for them to see her. Then,
as they fluttered towards her,—for, being almost fledged,
they could do this,—she would turn tail on them, and
draw off a little way, again to make stop till they came
up. This manceuvre was repeated time after time, till
she had coaxed them half-way across a field, in the direc-

192 The Naturalist in Siluria.

tion of the nest. But, wishing to make further observa-
tions as to her mode of feeding them, I had the little
fledglings brought back, and put into a cage, where they
were kept through the night.

I have said there were but two, one having received
some injury from being trampled on by a cow. In the
morning this one was found dead; the other lively and
active. The mother was flitting about in the neighbour-
hood, and had evidently fed it. The cage has a project-
ing shelf running all around its bottom outside ; and as I
watched her, she lit upon this with a large grub held
crosswise in her beak. In a trice it was passed through
the wires into the open mandibles of the youngster, when
she flew away, and was for a time absent. Only about
ten minutes, till she returned again, grub in beak as be-
fore, and, as before, gave it to the young bird—repeating
and continuing the supply at intervals of ten or fifteen
minutes throughout the whole of that day. And the
same through several days after ; for I kept the nursling
some time encaged.

I was surprised at the quantity of grubs it managed to
gulp down, in a single day devouring a bulk of them
that must have been as big, or bigger, than its own body!
And they were eaten alive, as many that “ missed fire,”
from the difficulty of the mother getting them into its
mouth through the wires, had fallen to the bottom of the
cage, and were there crawling about without sign of
damage done them. In the act of transference from beak
to beak, I observed no attempt at killing or crushing
them; indeed, the soft bill of the pipit would hardly
serve for that.

The dropped ones gave me an opportunity of seeing
that they were not all of the same sort, but of different

Birds and their Nurslings. 193

species, differing also in size. There were some from the
oak, others from the apple-tree, still others from the haw-
thorn; but the bright green caterpillar of the gooseberry- '
bush was more numerous than any; while a long-bodied
black fly, of a species unknown to me, formed part of the
varied diet designed for the all-devouring chick. No
doubt it was having extra rations—all the provender that
would have been supplied and otherwise shared by several
deceased brothers and sisters, killed by the cow. I no.
ticed that the flies, several of which lay at the bottom of
the cage, were all dead—this, no doubt, done to hinder
their escape while being passed into the beak of the
young bird; but, as already said, the insects in the larval
state were all living, as if there was no such fear about
them.

In the end my observations were cut short by the
young pipit escaping from the cage, through the “ turn-
stile” of the seed box, that had been left loose on its
hinge. It was evidently shown the way, and helped out,
by its painstaking mother; and I never saw either
again.

Not long, however, did the cage remain empty. In an
Trish yew close by was a nest of greenfinches, with young
also, well-nigh fledged ; and, curious to note their way of
tending their nurslings, I had them transferred within
the wires. The, finch being eminently a graminivorous,
hard-billed bird, I wished to compare its mode of feeding
the young with that of the soft-billed insect-eater.

In the very first scene there was a notable difference in
the behaviour of the two sorts. Though the greenfinch
may be called a home bird, usually nesting near the house,
the pair operated upon showed far more shy than the
pipit, whose haunts are afield. It was a long time before

)

194: The Naturalist in Siluria.

they would come near the cage; and, when they at length
did so, it was not to alight upon it till after many comings
and goings, now flickering around it, then flying off again.
In time, however, they got over their shyness, afterwards
showing less timidity than had the pipit. But a more
remarkable difference was in both the parent birds coming
after their offspring, and both bringing them food—the
one as often and as much as the other. When either
drew near, the caged youngsters would commence flap-
ping their wings, giving utterance to a note not unlike
the chirrup of young sparrows when near leaving the nest.
Altogether different was that of the old birds as they
made approach, being soft and plaintive; for it was only
put forth when some one drew near the cage, and they
supposed there was danger.

But the most notable difference I observed between
these two birds of distinct genera was in the mode of
feeding their young. While the pipit, as already said,
brought the caterpillers in her beak, and transferred them
direct and living to that of the nestling, the finches
carried whatever food they had for theirs in the crop;
thence delivering it somewhat after the manner of pigeons.
In all their comings and goings, I could see nothing in
their bills, either bud or grub. Moreover, their intervals
of absence were more prolonged; as though from having
the means of carrying a greater quantity it had taken
more time to forage after and collect it. I noticed, how-
ever, that the pipit frequently brought back two cater-
pillars at a time, and once three, all of different species,
as I could tell by their diversity in size, as in colour.

Hunting the Marten with Foxhounds. 195

HUNTING THE MARTEN WITH FOXHOUNDS.

It is painful to think that by the ruthless persecution
of gamekeepers the marten, or “ marten-cat,” as often
called, is fast approaching extermination in the British
Isles, Both species, Martes foina and M. abietum, are
now so rare that the capture of a specimen of either is an
occurrence so infrequent as to find triumphant record in
periodicals devoted to naturalist lore. Considering the
paucity of our indigenous four-footed fauna, it seems a
pity that-such a handsome quadruped should become ex-
tinct, and all through wreckless misconception on the
part of game-preservers. Perish the game, or a portion
of it, say I, rather than that these beautiful and interest-
ing aniwals should get totally extirpated, as ere long they
are likely to be. But the remedy is still in our hands.
Being, as all the Mustelide, of a highly prolific nature, a
protective statute would soon restore them to numbers
again, enough to make them, as they once were, a feature
of interest in our sylvan scenery. And for the destruc-
tion of pine or beech marten, as of eagle, kite, osprey,
or peregrine, the penalty should be a heavy one. Were
such an act passed, and rigidly enforced, we should yet
have the pleasure of oft witnessing the graceful and ma-
jestic flight of our grand Falconide, or, in a stroll through
the woods, observing the pretty “martlet” playing, squir-
rel-like, among the trees. Although both the species of
our martens (which some naturalists, without any valid
reason, deem only varieties) sometimes frequent treeless
situations among rocks, the tree is their real natural home
and habitat, a hole in it nearly always their breeding
place. The pine marten more especially confines itself

196 The Naturalist in Siluria.

to timber, and appears to be the better climber, though
both are eminently scansorial. Indeed, to talk of their
climbing is to use a very unfit phrase, since these weasels
are as much at home upon the branches as the squirrel
itself, and can not only run nimbly along them, but spring
from one to the other, even from tree to tree; a fact I
believe not generally known, at least I have never met
mention of it in zoological works. It is just for this
purpose nature has provided them with such a develop-
ment of tail, long and bushy as that of the squirrel; not
prehensile, but for balance and guidance, as the train to
a paper kite, or the pole of the rope-dancer. Aided by
this, and other anatomical peculiarities of structure, the
marten not only passes safely from one tree to another,
but, if needs must, can spring off from the highest, down
to the earth, unharmed, as though it had made the peri-
lous descent upon wings. Asis well known, this remark-
able, and indeed somewhat inexplicable, feat is common
to most species of squirrels. In the American forests I
have witnessed it hundreds of times; seen these creatures
precipitate themselves from the tops of trees nearly a
hundred feet high, drop lightly on the ground, and with-
out a moment’s pause shoot off like a “streak of
lightning.”

That our martens can do the same, or almost as much,
I have reason to know, from many instances in proof;
among others, one lately furnished me by a friend resi-
dent in a western shire, answering certain inquiries I had
addressed to him. As his letter gives some curious de-
tails of hunting the marten with hounds, I will lay that
portion of it before the reader, quoting his own words.
Thus writes he :—

“JT am sorry to say it is not in my power to give

Hunting the Marten with Foxhounds. 197

you much information about ‘ marten-cats,’ as we
have not seen or heard of one in this county for the
last eighteen or twenty years. Before that time they
were always to be found in particular localities, away
from keepers and preserves; and my uncle (who hunted
the L hounds for forty seasons) used to hunt marten-
cats very early in the season with the young hounds, and
a few old ones, to teach them to ‘ pack’ well. The scent
of a marten-cat is so strong that it is hardly possible for
hounds to loge it, and my uncle used to say that it drew
them together and taught them to pack well, so that
when they began fox-hunting later on it almost saved the
expense of an extra whip. Foxes were so scarce in those
days that we could not afford to go cub-hunting in the
early part of the season, or we should have had many
“blank ” days before the end. Of course, now that foxes
are more plentiful, young hounds can be entered to the
legitimate scent at the beginning. We used to find the
marten-cats in large coverts, and it was a common occur-
rence for one to give the hounds a run of three or four
hours in a thick cover, the animal every now and then
taking to a tree. From this it would be dislodged by
some one climbing up to it, when it would run along a
bough to the outside end, then drop into the cover, and
away again, although perhaps twenty couple of hounds
might be baying at it under the tree. J have seen one
‘treed’ at least a dozen times before it was killed.”

I question the correctness of my friend’s conjecture as
to the marten being extinct in the shire of which he
speaks. Indeed, I have evidence of its existence in that
county, though not in his neighbourhood. In my own,I
am happy to say, it is far from being extinct, many
recent cases of its capture having come to my knowledge.

198 The Naturalist in Siluria.

Only six years ago a poacher of my acquaintance killed a
beech, or, as sometimes called, ‘‘ stone,” marten within
less than a mile from my house. He found it while
“rabbiting,” his ferrets having run it out of a hole in a
hedge-bank, and far away from woods. No doubt it had
made an excursion thither on the same business as the
poacher himself.

But in many of the fastnesses around. the Forest of
Dean I know that martens, if not plentiful, are yet in
goodly numbers. One of the Forest keepers tells me
that, five or six years ago, he used to see many, and
shoot many, too, in the High Meadow Woods—a tract of
the forest which overhangs the river Wye; and there is
the skin of one stuffed and mounted in the house of a
farmer in that neighbourhood, which very recently fell to
agamekeeper’s gun, Again, a gipsy of my cognizance,
who tents in all parts of the Forest, tells me that he and
his tribe often meet with “ marten-cats,” which he affirms
to be far from uncommon in the woods near Blakeney
and Lydney, where there is some rather heavy timber.
He says they vary much in colour and markings—a re-
markable fact, if fact it be. But he has promised to
institute a search, and procure “samples” for me, if
possible. So I await the result of this Bohemian’s “ cat-
chasing ” with a very vivid interest.

The Hedge-Threader. 199

THE HEDGE-THREADER.

In early spring, the season of pairing and mating
among our native birds, one of the most silent of them
breaks out into song, to continue it at intervals, but still
sparingly, through the summer months. I speak of the
so-called hedge-sparrow, or hedge accentor (Accentor
modularis), though both the above trivial appellations, as
well as the scientific one, seem to me not only inappro-
priate, but somewhat absurd. Sparrow it is not in any
sense, having no relationship with the true Fringillida,
and the clumsy title, ‘* accentor ” is equally ill-bestowed
upon it, as also “ hedge warbler,” another of its names.
Still another, “ dunnock,” is too local, and of too obscure
signification ; “ shuffle-wing ” being better, as denoting a
characteristic habit of the bird. ‘ Blue Isaac” is one of
its designations in the Wye Valley, the name having
reference to the bluish tint of its plumage, in connection
with its quaint ways. As this bird is somewhat of a
favourite with me, I will venture to suggest for it a cog-
nomen which seems better than any of the above; viz,
“ Hedge-threader.” No one who has ever watched it
as it worms and threads about through stoles and bran-
ches in a hawthorn hedge will deny the appropriateness
of the suggested title.

The song of the Hedge-threader—I decline calling is
either sparrow or accentor—though not loud, is remark-
ably sweet; the bird, while giving utterance to it, stand-
ing perched on a spray, with open beak and shivering
wings, seemingly straining upon its legs, as if the song
cost it an effort. Not for its melody, however, does it so
much deserve being a favourite as for its quiet, unob

200 The Naturalist in Siluria.

trusive ways, and the confidence it shows in man. Even
the robin itself is not tamer or more familiar round many
a homestead. Still the Hedge-threader has its faults,
slight imperfections of character ; for though a soft-billed,
insectivorous bird, it is also graminivorous, and just
now does considerable damage in the seed-beds of the
kitchen garden, But for this it gives compensation, and
far more, by destroying swarms of other seed and leaf
consumers,

Viewed from a distance, the Hedge-threader appears a
bird of sober, even sombre, hue. But take it in your hand,
and you will discover a pretty mottling of colours, which,
though dull, by their pleasing, regular arrangement, com-
bined with the smooth trim set of its feathers, go far to
redeem their want of brilliancy. This bird is one of those
subject to erratic colouring of plumage, or, as commonly
called, Albinoism. A specimen I am possessed of is of a
beautiful buff from beak to tip of tail, with an edging of
white on the wing primaries and secondaries, as also on
the outside tail feathers. A very handsome bird it is,
and no one not told would think of its being a “ Blue
Isaac.”

Coming to the Hedge-threader’s eggs, if splendour has
been denied to the bird itself, these have it bestowed on
them to an incomparable degree, as every nest-robbing
boy but too well knows. There are few prettier sights
in nature than the nest, with its precious treasures,
rivalling the best blue of the turquoise.

Cuckoos and Wagtails. 201

CUCKOOS AND WAGTAILS.

The cuckoo appeared in the Wye Valley on the 11th of
April. It may have been there earlier without my ob-
serving it; but on the afternoon of that day 1 saw a pair
flying about not far from my house, at first taking them

CUCKOO,

for kestrels, as they gave out no note; but on nearer
view I recognised the veritable Cuculws canorus. It is
reported as having been seen, or, rather, heard, weeks
earlier elsewhere; the truth of which report I am inclined
to discredit, since the cuckoo’s call is easy of imitation.
Much has been written about the variety of birds

902 The Naturalist in Silwria.

which the cuckoo befools for her own purposes of pro-
creation, and certainly the species are many, but all more
or less insectivorous, Were it not so the young cuckoo
would have food given it on which it would poorly thrive,
or, rather, starve outright. Around my neighbourhood
the bird it chiefly selects to do its hatching is the grey
wagtail, and yet the latter is by no means plentiful there,
save in certain limited localities; while we have the
cuckoo in remarkable abundance. Some way or other
these find enough wagtails’ nests to serve their ends,
though for a pair of cuckoos it needs more than one, I
have note of four such nests around the same farmstead,
each with a cuckoo’s egg in it, and certainly laid or
deposited there by the same bird. Although hatched and
nurtured separately, and by different foster-mothers, I
think there can be no doubt about the cuckoo producing
several young at or about the same time, and that when
fledged and able to fly the individuals of this odd family,
nursed apart, become united under the guardianship and
tuition of their parents, remaining so till the hour of
autumn emigration. Of this fact I had satisfactory
evidence in the after-summer of last year, by seeing six
cuckoos in a gang, four being young birds, as could be
told by their colour and markings, so different from the
old ones, the other two evidently their parents. And
several days they kept together about my grounds,
unmistakably in family association.

The Rook an Observer of the Sabbath. 208

A NURSE UPON THE BACK OF HER
NURSLING.

Still another note anent the cuckoo and wagtail, fur-
nished by my friend Colonel R., who is resident near me.
Some years ago, stepping out upon his lawn, he was sur-
prised to see a hawk, as he supposed it, with a wagtail
sitting perched upon its shoulders. Drawing nearer,
however, he discovered that the supposed hawk was a
young cuckoo, and the wagtail, its foster-mother, feeding
it. Watching them for a time, he saw the latter go and
come, at each return bringing grub or worm in its beak,
and transferring it to that of the voracious young monster,
who ill deserved to be so assiduously catered for. On
several occasions afterwards Colonel R. was witness to a
repetition of this curious spectacle; and alike on the
following year, the wagtail, as he supposed, being the
same, the cuckoo, of course, different, but likely a
younger brother or sister of that the beguiled bird had
taken such pains to nurse on the preceding year.

THE ROOK AN OBSERVER OF THE SABBATH.

A clerical friend, a rector of long experience, who has
given much attention to the habits of rooks, tells me that
these birds quite understand the difference between
Sundays and week-days. He speaks more particularly
of those that breed about churches, and their behaviour,
noted by him scores of times, is fair proof of the fact,
however singular it may seem. Shy enough during the
other days of the week, on Sundays they will be compara-

204. The Naturalist in Stluria.

tively tame, permitting nearer approach, as though they
knew that on the Lord’s day there was no danger of their
being molested. I myself have noticed their air of fear-
lessness, or trusting confidence, on this day greater than
on others, and have no doubt of the fact. But how is it
brought about? Sagacious bird as is the rook, its
sagacity can hardly be equal to counting seven, or keep-
ing a calendar. That it can tell a gun from an umbrella
or walking-stick, or farm implement, is a fact well known;
bat its being able to distinguish Sundays from week-days
is a still greater stretch of reasoning intelligence.

My friend offers an explanation, which is, no doubt,
the true one: that the birds are made aware of the
sanctity of the day, or rather its safety to themselves,
by the ringing of the bells, and the assembling of the
people for worship.

It would be worth noting whether they also lay aside
their shyness on occasions when there is a funeral, or
week-day service in the church,

WHY DO ROOKS BUILD BY CHURCHES?

In relationship with the fact of the rook distinguishing
between Sundays and week-days is another of almost
equal singularity—their choosing trees in proximity to
the church as a nesting-place. For that they show this
preference seems unquestionable. Proof of it may be
seen at many country churches, where there are rookeries
established on scant halfa dozen trees of no great height,
and easily accessible to the bird-nesting boy ; while in the
near neighbourhood are clumps of tall ones, just the sort

The Jackdaw’s Connection with the Church. 205

one would expect rooks to build upon, showing not a
nest. Nor can it be shelter that rules the selection.
Often the trees by the church are in exposed situations,
and the nests blown off to their last stick during the
autumn equinoctials ; whereas on other trees, only a few
hundred yards distant, they would have remained
throughout the winter with but little damage done, and
so saved the labour of their rebuilding in spring.

It would seem, then, as though these birds have a
knowledge that proximity to a church affords them pro-
tection, which it usually does, both from gun and nest-
robbing boy, partly from the force of public opinion and,
at times, fear of the vicar.

THE JACKDAW’S CONNECTION WITH
THE CHURCH.

Whether the jackdaw be also a Sabbath observer I
cannot say, but its connection with the church—the
highest high—is unquestionable, and even closer than
that of the rook. The attachment in its case, however,
is of easy explanation, though it seems to puzzle the
author of a book called “ Wild Life in a Southern
County,” who makes it a text for much philosophizing,
as follows :—“ How came the jackdaw to make its nest
on church towers in the first place? . . . Archeologists
tell us that stone buildings of any elevation, whether for
religious purposes or defence, were not erected till a
comparatively late date in this island. Now, the low huts
of primeval people would hardly attract the jackdaw.

206 The Naturalist in Siluria.

It is the argument of those who believe in immutable
and infallible instinct that the habits of birds, etc., are
unchangeable, the bee building a cell to-day exactly as
it built one centuries before our era. Have we not here,
however, a modification of habit? The jackdaw could
not have originally built in tall stone buildings. The
jackdaw was clever enough, and had reason sufficient, to
enable him to see how these high isolated positions suited
his peculiar habits; and I am bold enough to think if the
bee could be shown a better method of building her
comb she would in time come to use it.”

Does this writer not know that jackdaws breed also in
cliffs, where they unquestionably bred before churches or
high dwelling-houses were built? So, too, does the
swift, swallow, starling, and some other birds which have
also taken to church towers and other tall buildings as
well. But what is there remarkable in this, or where
the adaptation to changed circumstances? Some modifi-
cation, it is true, but nothing more. These birds saw in
the church tower, castle’s keep, and chimneys of high
houses just such places of security as the cliff afforded;
hence their selecting them as a habitat, without any
change of habit worth commenting upon.

As to the writer’s analogy about the bee, though
professedly.conjectural, there have been facts recorded of
this insect proving on its part a much more remarkable
adaptation to changed conditions. Of all created things
one would suppose it to move along lines limited by
natural laws, with habits unalterable. Yet isit on record
that a hive of Ligurian bees, carried across the Atlantic
to tropical South America, and there set up as colonists,
in the first year produced full honeycombs, in the second
only half full, and the third none at all! The sagacious

A Rookery in Ruins. 207

insects had discovered that in a land where “the flowers
never fade, and the leaves never fall ” there was food
provided for them throughout the entire year, and no
need of their toiling to lay up store of it.

A ROOKERY IN RUINS.

Returning to the rooks. These birds, however other-
wise cunning, do not display this quality in the construc-
tion of their nests, which are so unskilfully put together
as often to be partially or wholly blown down soon as
built. Even an entire rookery has been known to go
“by the board” under a spring equinoctial. Sucha case
occurred some years ago witha rookery belonging to a
gentleman of my acquaintance in Worcestershire. The
birds had nearly or altogether finished building, when a
blast came that swept every nest out of the trees, scatter-
ing the sticks in litter all over the adjacent ground. The
owner of the rookery was present to witness its ruin, and
describes it as one of the oddest spectacles he ever
beheld ; from the forlorn, dejected air of the birds, as
they sate upon the branches in clamorous council, some
cawing loudly and in seeming anger, others in tone of
doleful lamentation, just as human beings might act
under a kindred misfortune. Indeed, their whole be-
haviour reminded him of the latter, the resemblance so
quaintly comical that he, and others with him, could not
keep from laughter.

208 The Naturalist in Siluria.

A PLAGUE OF INSECTS.

The summer of 1880 was prolific in insects of the
troublesome tribes, Short as was our apple and pear
crop, it was still farther minimized by swarms of wasps,
these handsome but pestiferous creatures abounding
everywhere. In an acre of orchard, with an undergrowth
of clover and rye-grass, nearly a score of their nests were
found at mowing time, the mowers and rakers having
much difficulty in getting on with their work, and more
than one of them coming in for a swollen head. A youth
handling the hay-fork had one of his eyes “bunged up”;
but, by the simple application of sweet oil to the part
stung, the pain was allayed, and the swelling soon dis-
appeared.

The nests were destroyed, with as many of the wasps
as were “at home,’—not solely from spite, or vengeful
feeling towards the insects, but more for an economic
reason. The combs, or rather the cream-coloured larve
contained in them, are regarded as the finest of poultry
food, especially nourishing to young chickens; and, as
most of the haymakers had hatches, this treasure-trove
was eagerly appropriated and carried home to their
cottages. My kestrels ate them with avidity; and it is
from this the so-called honey buzzard (Buteo apivorus)
has obtained its mistaken cognomen. :

The mode of taking the wasps’ combs usually practised
in these parts is to insert a piece of quarryman’s fuse
into the cavity of the nest. The fuse, set on fire, is
covered up with a sod, or shovelful of earth pressed hard,
to prevent the issue of the sulphurous smoke, which per-
vading the cavity, destroys the insects. The time usually
chosen for the operation is after sandown or late twilight,

A Plague of Insects. 209

when the wasps have returned from their wanderings
and gone to rest for the night, because then the job can
be done with less danger of being stung by them. The
comb-gatherers universally assert that a single individual
of the hive, much larger ‘than the common kind, and
which they call “ the main wasp,” is always found keep-
ing sentry at the entrance of their subterranean dwelling.
Despite severe frost, these yellow gentry are still active
among my pears, though not in such numbers as at an
earlier period.

I do not remember an autumn in which the harvest
bug (Leptus autumnalis) has made itself more felt. Seen
it is not, or very rarely, since only sharp eyes, actually
searching for it, may detect its presence. When seen it
reminds one of a minute particle of Cayenne pepper more
than anything I can think of, for it is just the colour of
Chilé colorado. It is exceedingly like the chica of the
Mexican tropic-land, better known as the “‘jigger,”—a
corrupted synonym of the West Indian negroes,—and it
is certainly the British representative of this dreaded
little beast. The jigger, however, usually confines its
attentions to the feet and toes, while the harvest bug
ranges higher, inserting its poisonous proboscis into the
ankles and legs, up to the hips. The inflammation pro-
duced by its bite, or sting, if not painful as that of the
wasp, is far more prolonged, lasting for days, and, alas !
also nights, the victim of it often tossing to and fro for
hours on a sleepless bed. The torment is over now, with |
the season for its activity; but many a skin will still show
purple spots—sonuvenirs of its baneful presence. Specially
affecting wooded districts, it is nowhere more plenteous
than on Wyeside.

Just now another insect pest has replaced it, also of

P

210 The Naturalist in Siluria.

minute dimensions—so small as to be barely visible. A
winged insect this—the little grey midge, which here
and there hovers in swarms, as gnats. Unlike the harvest
bug, it directs its attacks against the upper extremity of
the person, alighting upon, and biting, the exposed parts
of the neck and face, more especially the ears and fore-
head. It will even penetrate through a close crop of hair,
and make itself felt on the skin of the head, if hatless.
The irritation is such that the finger-nails are freely used,
till “ bumps” show all over the head and behind the ears,
the ears themselves red from repeated rubbings. Even
the weather-hardened cuticle of the rustic is not proof
against its envenomed darts; and labourers engaged in
outdoor work, when under trees, or in the farmyard, are
often grievously annoyed by it. This year the midges
are more than usually numerous, and more than ever
virulent.

So also have been two species of large flies that afflict
horses and cattle. ‘‘ Have been,” for luckily the cooler
atmosphere has long since routed them. One is the
forest, or horse, fly (Hippobosea equina), an ugly brown
insect; the other of bluish colour, locally known as the
“bree fly.” Cows bitten by the bree will throw up
their tails, and gallop about, bellowing as if mad, and
breaking through fences they would not otherwise face;
while one fastening upon a horse, especially if a fine-
blooded, thin-skinned animal, will cause him to bolt in
harness, if the reins be not dexterously handled.

The Wood Mouse. °° 211

THE WOOD MOUSE.

The Wood, or long-tailed field, Mouse (Mus. sylvaticus)
is quite common in this neighbourhood.’ » The naturalist
of Selborne seems to have been unacquainted with it;
therefore I suppose it must either be rare in that district
of country or altogether absent from it. Here it is too
plentiful, having this year done some damage to my
potato crop, in the digging of which, the other day, my
men turned up a nest from among the weeds and haulm.
It was empty, the young, full-grown, having gone out of
it. But remaining in proximity, two unfortunates fell.

a ae

aa A ace ny =
LONG-LAILED FIELD MOUSE,

victims to the ruthless diggers, who never allow animals
of the order Muridce to escape. On examining the life-
less pair, I found one to be an “old buck,” no doubt the
father of the family ; the other a young individual, of the
same sex, with like certainty the son. The old mouse
measured seven and a half inches from snout to tip of
tail—the tail being exactly one-half, or just the length of
the head and body. The squirrel or dormouse colour,
which the Selborne naturalist speaks of as characterizing

212 The Naturalist in Siluria.

the harvest mouse (M. minimus), is also a characteristic of
this species over the upper and back portions of its body,
asis the fine silvery white below, and the well-defined
horizontal line separating the shades. Indeed, White’s
description of the harvest mouse will stand good for the
Wood in all save dimensions, both differing essentially
from the third British species—he of the house (M.
domesticus). From it they also differ much in habits,
while in these closely assimilated to one another. The
nests of both are of spherical shape—a hollow ball of
‘grass without visible entrance; that of the lesser species
being of smaller size, but firmer. The leaves, not the
stalks, of grasses are employed in this curious construc-
tion, those on the outside being broader and coarser, the
lining composed of blades which have seemingly been
split to render them finer, as there is evidence of gnawing
and tearing at the ends. As is well known, the nest of
the harvest mouse is placed high up on the stalks of
thistles, wheat, or other corn, attached to and supported
by the culms; that of M. sylvaticus resting by their bases,
though still above the surface of the ground. The two
species are not alike prolific, the smaller one producing
as many as eight to the litter, the larger never more than
six; at least, in several nests examined by me there were
but this number of young.

The legs of the long-tailed mouse, as seen in the speci-
men before me, are almost snow-white, and the length of
the hind foot nearly an inch. This points out a pecu-
liarity, an affinity with the squirrels and jerboas—the
power to sit erect on its hind quarters—which it has. It
is altogether a handsome quadruped, larger than its
domestic congener; while its ruddy colour, and grand
black, glistening eyes, with ample high-peaked ears, give

Trees Leafing Twice in the Year. 218

it an aspect very different from that so repulsive in some
other members of the family.

I have seen it somewhere stated that the Wood Mouse,
as also the harvest species, occasionally eats insects. I
doubt there being any truth in the statement. Its denti-
tion is essentially of the rodent character, and my
“ Mexican” potatoes, gnawed here and there around the
neighbourhood of the nest, give proof that the pair taken
have been for some time past indulging in a diet purely
vegetable. In their stomachs I could detect nothing
recognisable save by chemical analysis.

TREES LEAFING TWICE IN THE YEAR.

Unobservant people may think it strange when told
that many, indeed, most species, of our deciduous trees
in certain years produce what might be called two crops
of leaves. Not of themselves, naturally, but forced to it ;
though the forcing is also due to nature, through the
larve of insects feeding upon, and often totally destroy-
ing, the first output of foliage. The spring of 1881 in
many places gave striking illustration of this, whole
patches of woodland, especially oaks, throughout the
month of May showing leafless as in midwinter. But
the “midsummer sap”—for it is this which renews the
foliage—brought them about; and in after summer they
were again green, with a leafage as full and luxuriant as
those which the caterpillars had left unscathed.

214 The Naturalist in Siluria.

TREES OPENING THEIR LEAVES AT DIFFER-
ENT DATES.

With trees the time of budding and leaf-expanding, of
course, depends very much on the species; some, as the
chestnut and willow, being much earlier than others, as
the beech and oak. This every one is aware of; but it is
not so generally known that trees of the same species put
forth their leaves at irregular periods, with days, some-
times weeks, between, even when growing side by side
in the same copse or wood. Just now I have an instance
of this before my eyes, in a hanging wood which forms a
background to my house. The trees in it are for the
most part oaks; and, strange to tell, some of these are
now (April 17th) nearly in full leaf, while others show
bare branches, or only with inconspicuous buds on them.
Tam inclined to think that these earlier leafers are the
ones which last year suffered devastation by the cater-
pillars, and had to put on a second dress. Judging by
their place in the wood it would seem so; but, unfortu-
nately, I made no exact note of this, and about such a
matter memory is not to be relied upon.

THE FLOW OF SAP IN TREES.

Glancing into a novel I chanced lately to lay hands on
—Vixen,” by Miss Braddon—lI was rather amused at
reading as follows :—

“The moon had risen, a late October moon.

Here and there a sturdy young oak, that had latidy
been stripped of its bark, lay among the fern like the
naked corpse of a giant. Here and there a tree had

The Flow of Sap ww Trees. 215

been cut down, and slung across the track ready for
barking.”

Reading Miss Braddon’s books, one is disposed to
believe her almost omniscient; but if this be a specimen
of her knowledge, I fear it is not always reliable. Bark-
stripping in October would not only be an anachronism,
but a difficult operation; and, had Miss Braddon the
“strippers ”’ to pay, she would find it a costly one. But
to the romantic writer, I suppose, there is nothing im-
possible. Dropping criticism, which is meant in no
hostile spirit, I come to speak of bark-stripping, a busi-
ness now, in mid-April, about to commence. Nor do I
here intend giving account of the operation itself; only
in its relation to one of the phenomena of nature. As
all know, at this time of the year the sap in trees is
fluent, or, as commonly expressed, “running”; which
gives the bark-stripper his opportunity; otherwise the
task of removing the rind would be well-nigh impossible.
But perhaps few are aware of the fact that there are
three runnings of the sap, or three “ saps, as the strippers
term them; their respective times of flow being quite
distinct from one another. The earliest, or “spring sap,”
as called, is longest of continuance, lasting for a month
or more, and is the one made most of by the strippers.
A second flow succeeds later on, after an interval of stag-
nation; which is the poorest and deemed of least account
for their purpose. Still later, about the last week in
June, comes the “ midsummer sap,” of somewhat longer
duration; when again the oak can be conveniently divested
of its rough coat, and the stripper returns to his task for
a short and final spell. But in favourable years his work
is nearly, if not altogether, continuous, the three “saps”’
succeeding one another by intervals of only a few days.

216 The Naturalist in Siluria.

THE ANNUAL FORAY OF THE PHOTOPHAGI.

Last year trees of nearly every sort suffered much
from what is commonly called “blight,” whole tracts of
woodland, especially where oaks abounded, showing bare
branches in May and June, when they should have had on
their brightest livery of green. It is a popular belief
that this blight is due to atmospheric influences—“ some-
thing in the air,” as I have heard country people say of
it; and, in truth, the air has something to do with it,
but not in the sense understood or fancied by them. The
entomologist, of course, knows the real cause, in which
there is no atmospheric mystery, but a simple operation
of nature, though irregular in its workings, or, rather,
the amount of work done by it in the different years.
This irregularity alone is to be accredited to the atmos-
phere, the blight itself proceeding from the larve of
certain species of insects belonging to the order of leaf-
eaters, and chiefly of the family Cynipide. It is a
numerous family, the oak itself being the foster-mother,
as it were, to many of its members, the more notable ones
being nursed in what are indifferently called “ oak-
apples” and “ oak-nuts,” but more properly “ oak-galls.”
And I may here remark that the famed “Dead Sea
apples”’ are similar excrescences, created by an insect of
the genus Cynips on the leaves of a species of Syrian
oak,

There are few insects whose life and ways are more
interesting than those of the Cynipide, even the ants not
excepted ; and I hope, later on, to have an opportunity of
giving further and fuller details about them, the present
note being only meant to chronicle some facts which have
just come under my observation. In the Forest of Dean

The Annual Foray of the Photophagi. 217

enclosures, not far from my home, I had heard that
there were places where “grubs” were hanging so
thickly from the trees no one could pass underneath with-
out having coat and hat covered with them, the hideous
creatures also coming slap against the cheeks, and there
adhering, to the annoyance and disgust of the wayfarer.
On paying a visit to the place, I found things as repre-
sented, and that the suspended grubs were of Cynipide
in their larval form. On some of the silk-like filaments
on which they dangled, thin as a spider’s thread, I
counted as many as a dozen, showing the great strength
and tenacity of this curious material. But they were not
all swinging about; instead, a number, and the greater
one, had descended to the earth, and were all over the
grass, evidently browsing upon it. Some young birches
that grew under the oaks were also thickly beset by
them, and I saw they were feeding on the leaves of these
as well—a proof that, as with termites and locusts, no
vegetable substance comes amiss to them. Several of
the young birches were already defoliated, others only
half stripped of their leaves, with the work of devastation
going on, and still others where it was just commencing.
Breaking off a spray from one of the last, and closely
scrutinizing it, I was able to make out no less than
eleven distinct species of these insect larve, and of nearly
as many different sizes—from that of a cheese-mite to
grubs over an inch in length. They were alike varied
in colours, too, green of several shades predominating ;
though among them were none of the vivid green species
which affects the gooseberry bush. There were some
quite black, and others of a dull, dirty brown, all ugly
enough. And to watch them moving about over the
leaves and branches, in their peculiar jerking way, now

218 The Naturalist in Siluria.

one standing upright on the edge of a leaf, or stretched
out horizontally to its fullest extent, feeling about for
other support; now two or three, and of different kinds,
meeting, wriggling together, and crawling over one
another—all this was an interesting spectacle, though
not avery pleasant one. For no form of animated nature
would be much more repulsive than that of the cater-
pillar. I could not see that there was any antagonism or
hostility between the different species ; indeed, all seemed
on an amicable footing, and engaged in the common pur-
pose of leaf-eating, to prepare themselves for the next
stage of their curious existence—that of chrysalis.

A somewhat interesting fact in relation to these insect
larvee has been communicated to me by a man who keeps
sheep in the forest. He says that in places where the
grubs get upon the ground the sheep shy away from
them, and will not touch the grass so infested; all of
which is quite natural and comprehensible. And this
leads to consideration of another fact, more difficult to
comprehend, if, indeed, possible—that in a wood where
these caterpillars appear, instead of scattering all over it,
they do their work of leaf-eating in a regular way, taking
the trees in belts, often with well-defined edges, just as
do human beings at bark-stripping.

A CASE OF BIRD EVICTION.

It is stated by some ornithological writers that the
-starling occasionally takes possession of the green wood-
pecker’s nest, evicting the owner by force. If the state-
ment be true, then is the fact a strange one, since

A Case of Bird Eviction. 219.

neither in size nor strength is the starling a match for
Picus viridis, whose sharp pick-axe of a beak should be
armour sufficient for either attack or defence against a
far more powerful adversary. But I doubt the fact of
this alleged dispossession, notwithstanding that an in-
stance of starlings having appropriated the nesting-place
of green woodpeckers came under my own observation.
It was the same I have spoken of as in my orchard,*
where the woodpeckers brought forth the brood that
disappeared so mysteriously. This was in the summer of
1879 ; and revisiting it late in the following spring, to
ascertain whether these birds had come back there to
breed, I found the tree cavity occupied by a pair of
starlings, who had nested in it, and were in the act of
incubation. Left in undisturbed possession, they brought
out their young, successfully rearing them, and again
another brood in the succeeding summer—1881.

I might have believed it a case of forcible dispossession.
but for a fact which goes far towards contradicting this
view of: it, if not altogether disproving it. In the long-
lying snow of January, 1880, a green woodpecker was
found dead in the orchard near where the pair had nested,
in all likelihood one of the old birds. If so, this would
account for their non-return to the nesting-place, without
the starlings having anything to do with it. Besides, it
wight be that, after all, my haymaking lad robbed them
of their young, which would be sufficient reason for their
never more caring to make nest in that apple tree, “‘ under
the mistletoe bough.” So the starlings are doubtless
innocent of having evicted them, and but took possession
of a home they found untenanted and ownerless.

* Pages 43, 44,

920 The Naturalist in Siluria.

A PAIR OF UNFORTUNATE BIRD MOTHERS.

Although among the family of titmice, or tits, there is
much similarity in general habits, there are, nevertheless,
some remarkable points of difference in what may be
termed their moral characteristics. In most of their
ways no two approach nearer one another than the great
tit, or oxeye, and the little blue; yet between them I
haye of late witnessed an incident illustrative of these
traits of distinction. Sitting out in my grounds some
days ago, I observed a great tit fly into a hole in an old
laburnum tree, which has got decayed at the heart.
Approaching the place, as anticipated, I found there was
a nest, and the bird sitting upon eggs. To ascertain
their number, and whether she was in the act of hatch-
ing, or only laying another, I inserted the end of a rod
into the cavity; when, after a little persuasion, she flew
off, escaping by a lateral orifice in the bark.

The eggs proved to be nine in number; and after
counting them I returned to my chair, and sat watching
for the bird to go back to her nest, for I had ascertained
that the eggs were all laid, and incubation had com-
menced. Instead of returning, however, immediately, as
I expected, she remained absent; neither could I see nor
hear anything of her. At the time there were some men
doing garden work near by, who, seeing me so interested
about the tit’s nest, said they believed there was another
in the wooden casing of a rain-water pipe, which they
pointed to. This was in an angle of the house walls,
about twenty feet from the laburnum, the top of the
casing being nine or ten above the ground. It had
a wooden cap, where a small aperture was observable,
into which the men had seen the tit enter. A ladder

A Pair of Unfortunate Bird Mothers. 221

being brought and the lid lifted off, just under it a tit
was discovered upon her nest; not the Parus major, but
the little “nun” (P. cerulows). She was within six
inches of the boy’s eyes who went up the ladder, and
had to be touched several times before she would move
off. This, however, she at length did, when the eggs were
counted—eleven. But now the behaviour of the bird
claimed my attention, so different from that of the con-
generic species. Instead of flying afar off, and altogether
disappearing, she remained in the immediate neighbour-
hood, showing excited and solicitous about her egg
treasures, and proclaiming it by an almost continuous
utterance of her cherring note. The male bird was there
too, having joined her on the instant; and the pair went
flitting about from place to place, but still keeping near
the nest. As the wooden cap had been replaced, the
ladder removed, and every one had gone back to their
work, I looked to see the hen tit now return to her nest.
Which she did, but not till after many approaches and
returnings, in all occupying twenty minutes’ time. But
still the other incubator had not come back to her nest
in the laburnum, nor could I see anything either of her
or her mate, though I remained watching for nearly an
hour; then left the place, having been called away from
it. Curious to know whether she was still absent from
her nest, I returned to it shortly after, to find her there
sure enough, close squatted over the eggs. This time
she was left undisturbed, and I had the satisfaction of
having discovered a moral difference between the two
species, evinced by the behaviour just observed.

Three or four days after, passing the laburnum, which
stands by the edge of a gravelled walk, 1 glanced into
the cavity, expecting to see the tit on her nest, this

229 The Naturalist in Silurta.

being but five feet above the ground. Instead, I saw
only the eggs, and supposed she was off them for a
moment in search of food. But going back again some
hours after, I noted that she was still absent; and, as my
visits were several times repeated, with the same result, I
came to the conclusion the bird had abandoned her nest.
The eggs were there, all nine of them, but cold to the
touch, as though they had not been lately sat upon.
This, in fine, proved to be the fact; and now, knowing the
nest abandoned, I broke one of the eggs, to ascertain
how far they had been hatched. The embryo bird was
in process of taking shape, which betokened an incuba-
tion of some days. But why had the mother forsaken
her brood so soon to be? She had only been once dis-
turbed, though several times looked at by passers-by.
Was this the cause of her defection? For some time I
supposed it might be, knowing that several species of
birds have the habit, not only of deserting their eggs,
but young, when the nest has been too often visited. As
it turned out, however, the explanation seems to be
different, my gardener three days after having found a
dead tit on one of the walks, the hen bird of Parus major,
no doubt the mother of the unhatched brood in the
laburnum. But there is still a mystery unsolved,—as to
how she came by her death,—since there was no wound
nor other sign of injury—not a scratch of skin or ruffle
of feather upon her! My narrative of these two incuba-
tory birds, I am sorry to say, is not yet at an end, having
to record a still more painfully tragical fate for the little
nun. Wishing to ascertain whether the eleven eggs had
been all fruitful, I had the ladder re-erected, and the boy
sent up again. On lifting off the wooden cap, he saw the
mother bird, as before, sitting on the nest, but in a

A Pair of Unfortunate Bird Mothers. 223

somewhat unnatural attitude, a little away. At the touch
she refused to fly off or stir; and, no wonder, as she was
dead !—cold, stark, and stiff, with the eggs still un-
hatched under her.

Now came the question, What had killed her too?
Examining the body, I could find no wound, though there
were traces of scouring around the vent. But what
could have caused this? And, if so conditioned, why
had she remained on the nest, seated upon her eggs—to
die? The only explanation I can think of is that my
servant, on the first occasion, replacing the cap of the
wooden casing, had pressed it down closer than it was
before, so narrowing the passage to the nest; and the
bird, having squeezed herself in, was never able to get
out again. I had noticed that she seemed to have some
difficulty in effecting an entrance. The poor thing must
have been dead for many days, no doubt dying by inches;
asad fate to reflect upon. But there is something even
sadder to come. My gardener had told me that he
several times saw the cock bird clinging to the head of
the wooden casing, by the entrance to the nest, and
tapping upon it with his beak; as the man supposed,
bringing food to the hen inside, and so signalling to let
her know it was there. The fact had greatly interested
me; but, alas! I now knew that the tapping must have a
different and more painful interpretation—the male bird
knowing its mate, that should soon have become a
mother, imprisoned, hopelessly shut up, as it were, in a
living tomb !

224 The Naturalist in Siluria.

A LAMB WITH TWO MOTHERS.

A somewhat curious case of sheep maternity, display-
ing instincts of the cross purposes kind, occurred in my
flock during the past year. About the middle of March, a
young ewe of the Welsh mountain breed—a yearling, and
quite black—gave birth to a ram lamb of the same colour.
As the yeaning came off in a corner of the pasture field
shaded with trees, where the ground was damp and cold,
I directed my shepherd to remove mother and young to
a drier and sunnier spot, about 100 yards distant;
which he did, taking up the lamb a few minutes after it
was dropped, and by a series of manceuvres coaxing the
dam to follow. She followed, showing great reluctance,
however ; and after reaching the new ground, turned and
ran back to the place of parturition. This she did re-
peatedly, though coaxed away from it again and again,
till at length the lamb had to be left there with her.
‘And then occurred the first scene in a chain of incidents,
which I think may be pronounced not a little singular.
When the lamb, directed by instinct, approached to
suckle her, the mother would not allow it; and, instead
of showing the usual solicitude, absolutely repelled it,
butting it off whenever it attempted to take hold of the
teat. This she did over and over again, and her hostile
temper continuing, it became necessary to have her
caught and held while the lamb suckled her. To save
repeated chasings and catchings, I had her brought into
the ornamental grounds by the house, and there tethered ;
the young one with her, but left loose. On its part there
was no lack of filial fondness, though still the unnatural
parent refused to give the nourishment due to it, and had
to be held every time it suckled her. And held hard,

A Lamb with two Mothers. 995

too, as on each occasion she made violent struggles to
escape.

Three days were passed in this forcing process, when,
by chance, another yeaning ewe of the same flock
and breed, but a white one, dropped a dead lamb,
the lamb being also white. So, partly to prevent the
swelling of her udder, as partly for experiment’s sake, I
had this white mother also brought upon the lawn, and
tethered just outside the rope radius of the black one.
Then the lamb was put to her, and although so different
in colour from her own dead one, which had been with
her some time, she not only suckled the blackamoor
willingly, but appeared greatly pleased with it.

For several weeks the two ewes were thus kept picketted
on the lawn ata little distance apart, the lamb running
loose between them. And during all this time its black
and real mother would not let it have a drop of her
milk without being held, instead always “ bunted ” it off
angrily; while the white foster-mother fondled and freely
gave itallshe had. Still the filial instinct remained true
to nature, though the maternal one was false; and the
little creature, despite all repulses, kept closer to, and
seemed fonder of, its own unkind mother than the one
that had so kindly adopted it.

Concurrent with this call on its divided affections, there
were other claimants to a share in them. Being a
beautiful creature, it was often taken up in the arms
of a fair lady, and brought inside the house, where it
made the acquaintance of a white bull-terrier, and a
Persian cat of the same colour. In common with these
it was allowed the run of both dining and drawing-room;
and scores of times have I seen the three quadrupeds,
types of an internecine hostility—tiger, wolf, and sheep

Q

226 The Naturalist in Stluria.

—lying peacefully asleep side by side on the hearth-rug,
with legs across and heads pillowed on one another.
And as often the three playing at romps together, to the
serious detriment of carpets.

There came a time when this must necessarily cease,
by the lamb, alas! threatening to become a sheep; then
it had to be relegated to its proper sphere, the pasture
field. And, no longer needing sole sustenance trom the
teat, its two mothers were released from their tethers,
and set adrift in the field with the rest of the flock. And
now another odd incident of the series. Out afield and
free, the foster-mother continued her affectionate atten-
tions, standing for the lamb to suckle her, and caressing
it the while. But the real mother, as all along, still re-
pulsed it whenever it attempted to take hold of her teats;
yet strangest thing of all, she would keep close to and
run after the little creature, even to following it through
the mazes of the flock! Watching their movements, day
after day, I could not avoid the conviction that there
was bitter jealousy between the mother and the nurse,
though, so far as I saw, no fighting took place.

For awhile the petted lamb permitted itself to be
caught; and when carried into the house would acknow-
ledge its old canine and feline acquaintances, though no
longer disposed to play with them. Soon, however, it
became shy, indeed, wild as any of the other lambs, its
new associates, and was caught up no more.

In due time it was made a wether, and as the rutting
season approached, early in October, I had my white
sheep separated from the black ones, and put into fields
far apart. This, of course, parted the lamb from its
nursing mother, leaving it with the real one, who still
refusing it milk, it had to take wholly to the grass. The

A Singular Instance of Canine Sagacity. 22¢

separation lasted for two months, till the last week in
December, when the black sheep were brought back
into the field where the white ones had been left. And
now was I witness to another strange episode, the last of
the series. Soon as the flock of black sheep entered at
the gate, all “baaing” and bleating, as were the white
ones inside, the two-mothered lamb—now grown sheep
size—made a rush open-mouthed for the nurse from which
it had been so long separated, and seized hold of her milk-
less teats. But she now repelled it too, though not un-
kindly, evincing by looks and gestures that she not only
recognised her foster-son, but perfectly understood the
situation !

A SINGULAR INSTANCE OF CANINE
SAGACITY.

I have a sheep-dog whose sagacity is truly surprising;
he seems up to everything short of articulate speech. But
think he can, and clearly, as testified by. the expression
of his eyes, and the display of cunning with great capa-
bility in his actions.

He is of a strain somewhat remarkable, the bitch, his
great granddam, having borne whelps to a dog fox, one
of which was his grandsire. This singular cross occurred
among the mountains of Breconshire, in a wood adjoining
the sheep-farm where the bitch belonged. And the bring-
ing forth was in the fox’s burrow, inside which the pups
were suckled by their dam, and there kept till able to run,
about. Then these half-bred canines were caught and’
brought home to the farmhouse, the mother following.
It was a curious instance of cross-breeding between the

228 The Naturalist in Stluria.

tame and the wild ; animals, too, so specifically distinct,
besides, usually at bitter war with one another! Still
not unprecedented, many similar cases having been
recorded.

Whether his semi-vulpine ancestry has done anything
to sharpen the wits of my sheep-dog, I know not;
though like enough it has. Still there is nothing vulpine
in his nature, no fierce or ravening instincts, as might be
expected from such a strain; instead, he is remarkably
gentle and affectionate. And never so happy as when he
sees a flock of sheep in the far-off field, and stands await-
ing the order to fetch them to the fold or up to the foot
of the shepherd. ‘Then his eyes fairly dance in delight,
his whole body quivering with anticipated pleasure. On
getting the word “ go,” he is off like an arrow from the
bow, or a greyhound unleashed at a hare. But not with
like evil intent, for he treats the ovines tenderly as may
be. Necessarily, now and then, with his snout, he bowls
over one that is obstinate and will not run the right way,
but never to bite nor tear it.

He is up to all sorts of sheep-dog doings, and that is
being up to a great deal, since some of these are positively
astounding. One I was witness to the other day fur-
nished as clear evidence of mental ratiocination as could
well be. A flock of sheep was being driven along the
road with, besides the driver, two dogs attendant. One
of these kept behind the sheep, the other in advance of
them, and at each open gate or break in the bordering
fences, the latter would take stand, and stay there as a
sentinel on post of guard till the headmost of the flock
were fairly up, with the certainty of their passing on.
Then would the knowing animal start off, and rush ahead
again, to look out for any other opening there might be

A Singular Instance of Canine Sagacity. 229

along the double line of fencing. Nor was this all; a still
greater degree of sagacity on the dog’s part remaining
to be recorded—a very subtleness of reasoning, for to
call it instinct were to palter with words. When ‘there
was a hole or “glat” in the fence, doubtfully big enough
to give passage to the body of a sheep, I saw the dog
stand regarding it, evidently pondering on the possi-
bilities of the sheep getting through, and at length,
satisfied they could not, trot on to examine the
next!

But Bob—as my own beautiful canine is called—can
do all this, with the other sheep tricks, and something
more; a thing I should have been loth to believe without
actually witnessing its accomplishment. As all know,
the tick is a troublesome pest to the poor sheep, oft
irritating them exceedingly, and a good shepherd will
now and then do his endeavour to rid them of the annoy-
ance by picking the insects off. Several times when
mine has been so employed have I seen Bob helping
him ; the dog burying his snout in the sheep’s wool, and
nosing about till he came upon a tick; then catching and
“scrunching ” it between his teeth, in a most business-
‘ke manner, when he would drop the ugly beast, and
proceed in search of another !
~ I make no comment on this curious proceeding, further
than to say that, when I first witnessed it, I was struck
with astonishment. Who could have been otherwise ?
And after that, who is the sceptic to deny to dumb
animals the possession of intellect, altogether apart from
instinct ?

230 The Naturalist ain Sdurta.

A BIRD’S INSTINCT, OR SAGACITY, WHICH
NEEDS EXPLAINING.

In The Live Stock Journal I once gave an account
of a tree pipit (Anthus arboreus) that had discovered
its young in a cage where they had been put, after
being carried off from the nest, and so transported that :
the parent birds could not possibly have seen whither
they were taken. I can now record a still more singular
case of a similar kind, the despoiled nest being that of

CUCKOO AND WAGTAIL.

a wagtail, and the abstracted bird a young half-grown
cuckoo. The latter, taken away from the nest, where it
was a usurper, was carried inside a farmhouse, into one
of the rooms, there deposited in an empty blackbird’s
cage, and was for a time left to itself. He who so placed
it, returning in an hour or two afterwards, found it no

A Heron Tickled with a Trout Rod. 231

longer alone; instead with one of the wagtails, its
foster-mother, clinging against the side of the cage,
and feeding it! The window was open, and through
this she had entered; but how it knew of the young
cuckoo being there is the puzzle, for the place of the
nest was some way off, and when the chick was taken
out no wagtail appeared to be about. The only plausible
explanation is, that some signal note may have been
sounded through the open window, heard and mutually
understood by the wagtail outside and the young cuckoo
within. I may add that the wagtail came regularly
afterwards into the room, and fed her foster-child till
the latter was full grown.

A HERON TICKLED WITH A TROUT ROD.

One of my friends, an ardent disciple of “Izaak,” with
home near Abergavenny, gives me relation of a curious
incident that occurred to him some time ago. He was
out angling in the Usk, and while working along the
river’s side came upon a small but deep inflowing stream,
a brook with high banks, across which passage had to be
made by a plank. As it chanced, this slender bridge,
through some accident, had got displaced, one end of the.
plank being down in the water, so forcing the angler to
the alternative of a round-about or wade. That, how-
ever, was matter for after-consideration, since what he
saw at the moment engrossed all his thoughts—this a
heron standing upon the plank, near to the point where
it went under the water. With eyes intent on something
subaqueous, the bird neither saw nor heard him, as he

HERONS.

232

Why Wage War Against the Hawks? 238

had approached with noiseless tread over the soft, grassy
turf. In like silence coming to a stop, he took survey of
the long-legged bird—piscator as himself—continuing to
regard it for more than a minute. It might have been
longer but for a fancy occurring to him, and yielding to
this, he extended his trout rod, and with its tip touched
and tickled the heron on the back of the neck. The
bird, taken by surprise, seemed absolutely astounded, so
much that for some seconds it made no movement, but
stood as if dazed aud unable to stir from the spot. At
length, however, it recovered itself, and, spreading its
huge wings, rose up into the air, with a fluttering, eccen-
tric flight and manner so comical that the angler, though
alone, could not restrain himself from loud laughter.

WHY WAGE WAR AGAINST THE HAWKS?

No doubt the disciples of zstheticism would back me
in the advocacy of protection to our birds of prey—
especially the Fulconide. So would any one with a spark
of sentiment who has ever watched kite, kestrel, or pere-
grine winging its way through the “ambient air.” The
wheelings and spiral windings; the pause on quickly
pulsing wings, as if the bird were settled upon a perch,
then the rapid downward shoot, as arrow from bow, are
all displays of graceful motion,—the very perfection of
it,—while the presence of the falcon itself adds an in-
describable interest to the scene. Yet, for the sake of a
few pheasants or partridges—so few as to be scarce worth
consideration—a fellow in a velveteen shooting-coat is
empowered to wage constant war upon these beautiful

934: The Naturalist in Siluria.

birds—one or more such destroyers in every parish—to
the danger of their extirpation and the damage of our
scenery !

The whole thing is a stupid mistake, calling for reme-
dial legislation, and loudly too. I am no advocate for
the abolition of our Game Laws; quite the contrary.
Were they done away with, we would soon have no game
to legislate for, and the nation would be the loser thereby,
if only in the grosser sense of food produce, to an amount
few have any idea of. But there are other tastes to be
gratified than that of the palate—other cravings to be
considered besides those of the stomach—and, without
fearing to be taken for a “ too utterly,” I venture on
saying that, to a man of true refinement and appreciation
of the beautiful, the spectacle of one of our Falconide in
flight through upper air were worth more than all the
pheasants and partridges it is ever likely to “ stoop”
down upon.

THE FLIGHT OF BIRDS—HOW TURN THEY
SIMULTANEOUSLY ?

Speaking of the flight of falcons leads to thinking about
that of other birds; and I am reminded of a large flock
of starlings, with another of lapwings, I lately saw close
together when out for a drive. I was forcibly struck,
though not for the first time, with that peculiarity in the
flight of both species, which I believe has never been
explained, if indeed ever understood. I mean the whole
flock changing course at exactly the same instant, no
matter how quick or abrupt the turn, or whether the
evolutions be upward, downward, to right or to left.

The Flight of Birds. 985

With wild swans and geese one might suppose the former
guided by the whoop or whistle of their leader, and the
latter by the well-known “ honk,” as soldiers by word of
command. But no such note seems to direct the move-
ments of either starling, or lapwing, in their wheelings
and turnings. Then what does? A question, so far as
I am aware, unanswered, if answerable. Will electricity
explain it—some biological chain of mind or instinct,
binding the birds together, and acting on. all simul-
taneously, or with that rapidity by which the electric fluid
runs along the wires?

Whatever be the nature of this singular and unex-
plained phenomenon, it is not alone confined to birds.
Quadrupeds also give illustration of it, as often witnessed
in cattle on the American prairies. A herd of a thousand,
or more, will be tranquilly browsing—perhaps lying down
quietly chewing their cud—when, presto! all spring up
together, and start off in stampede, as if each and all
had been stung by gadflies at the self-same instant of
time. .

Every one who has been to sea must have observed
“schools ” of fish—herrings or mackerel—act in a similar
fashion ; while in the insect world we have many examples
of the same—notably among ants, and bees at their
hiving time. How little do we yet know of nature’s
workings, even of those that are every day, and in clear-
est daylight, under our very eyes!

236 The Naturalist in Siluria.

HAWK AND HERON,

To shoot or otherwise kill a Heron should, in my
opinion, be made punishable by a fine heavier than any
imposed upon poaching. Otherwise this bird will ere
long disappear from our islands, as has its beautiful con-
gener, the great white egret. Yet a Heron winging its
way through the high heavens, or on a moonlight night
standing contemplative by stream or tarn, is a most
interesting sight. Alas! one is every day becoming
rarer from the bird being popped at by every creature
who carries a gun.

In the days of faleonry the Heron was accounted noblest
of quarry ; the species of Hawk usually flown at it being
the peregrine falcon—a fine bird also getting fast exter-
minated by the misdirected zeal of the gamekeeper.
Rarely was a single peregrine engaged in the chase, but
a pair, or cast; as otherwise the would-be victor would
often be vanquished. Even when the two assailed it
they did not always come off unscathed, the Heron trans-
fixing one or other on its long bayonet-like beak. This
would occur when the quarry was brought back to
ground; and the first thought of the falconer, after
sounding his “ whoop!” of triumph, was to whistle off
his Hawks, to save them from such impalement. But
sometimes, also, in the air has the Heron proved itself
the better bird, when the fight was a fair one, and with
only a single antagonist. A poetical description of a
combat so terminating is appended, with a moral I can
recommend :—

SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS.

A Heron flew out of the forest, from the top of a withered pine,
ae eee away, like a shadowy cloud, to the west, in a s:anting
ine ;

Hawk and Heron. 237

Over the creek, and over the moor, with its drifts of grey lichen
stone,

Away for the reedy swamp, where he’d oft brooded lorn and
lone.

A Hawk flew out of the forest, from his perch on a naked bough,

Battling his flight in illuminate air, with no longer a look below,

Dashing in spiral circles the beams as the phosphorent waves of
the bay.

Till with pencils of light his quivering plumes glittered as star
in the day.

The Hawk was earl of the forest, and feudal chief of the berne,

No parvenu, but a Norman lord; so, when quarrie he did
discern,

On the rights divine of Falconide Sir Peregrine took his stand,

And stooped as a lordly emperor stoops on a feeble frontier land.

Wheeling, the Heron, with point to the foe, eye steady, and
ready stroke,

Watched well and smote, as the flashing Hawk through the
dazzling sunlight broke,

Struck him inside his carte and tierce, and ere he could parry
the glance,

Spitted him as a Tartar impaled on a Polish lance.

“ Sic semper Tyrannis!” Thus immutable fate decrees;

Hawk, headlong over and over, falls into the ripple of trees, *

While the Heron spreads its pinions, and leisurely crossing the
creek

Relights on the branch of the withered pine, and wipes the blood
from its beak,

INDEX.

*

Bachelor Bird, 66-73.
‘ a Friend to Fruit-
growers, 71,72. ,
Badger, 123, seq.
» -drawing, Curious Case of,
182, 183.
Badger’s Tooth, Too Tough for,
190, 191.
Bark-strippers, 214, 215.
99 oS Suspected, 150-152.
Berries, Wild, 170, 171.
Bird, An Overpraised, 178-180.
» Eviction, A Case of, 218, 219,
Birds and Their Nurslings 191.
» Flight of, 234, 235.
“a Geographical Distribution of,
10.

Birds, Local Distribution of, 11.
» Mothers, A Pair of Untor-
tunate, 220-223.

Bird-Music, Month of, 176-178.

“Bob,” 227-229.

Bottle Bird, Nest of, 156-158.

Brood Under Mistletoe Bough, 43,
44,

Bug Harvest, 209.

‘Caesar, Old,’ 189, 190.
Canine Sagacity, Instance of,
227-229.
Cats, Wild 143-148.
» A Pair of Possible,
143-146.
Cats, Tame, Turning Wild, 146-
148.
Chaffinch, 66-73.
i Partial to Newspapers,
72, 73.

Chiff-Chaff, 73.
i Early Appearance of
4

74.
Cirl Bunting, 162.
Crow Carrion, 77-79, 83-85.
» Abrupt Disappear-
ance of, 84, 85.
Crow, Carrion, a Cleanly Bird, 83,
84,

Crow, Carrion, a Family Bird, 82.
83

Crow, Carrion, Nest of, 79-82.

Cuckoos and Wagtails, 201-203.

Curious Instance of Scansorial In-
stinct, 44-49.

Dabchick, 152-154.
Dead Sea Apples, 216.
Dipper, 161.
Dog and Fox Fight, 184 185.
Dormouse, 98-105.
a9 Ways of the, 98-102.
ss Caged 102-105.
Dove, 21.
», Cushet, 21, 35.
» Ring, 25.
» Rock, 26, 27, 29, 30, 32-34,
» Stock, 24, 25, 29, 31-34,
» Turtle, 28,
Duck, Wild, 122,

Ferrets, 123, seg., 164-167.
4 Favourites with Poachers,
164.

Ferrets and Wild Birds’ Protection
Act, 164-167.

Ferrets, Wild, 186-189.

a tees Goldfinches Feeding on,

Index.

Fish Fry, Devourer of, 161.
Flocks of Wild Pigeons, 35-38.

Garden Mole, 134.

“ Garrulus Glandarius,”’ 96, 97.

Gipsies and Hedgehogs, 171, 172.

Goldfinches Feeding on Fir Cones,
169.

Grebe, Little, 152, 153.

Greenfinch, 191-194.

Grosbeaks and Crossbills, 74, 76.

n in Greater Numbers,

154-156.

Hare, with Two Sets of Sucklings,
149, 150.

Harvest-bug, 209.

Hawfinch, 74-76.

Hawk and ‘Heron, 236, 237.

is » Why Wage War
Against? 233, 234.

Hedge-Threader, 199, 200.

Heron Tickled with Trout Rod,
231-233.

Hoont, The, 124-142.

Insects, Plague of, 208-210.
Instinct, A Bird’s, 230, 231.

Jackdaw’s Connection with Church,
205, 206.
Jay, 56, 94-96, 98.
», a Cannibal Bird, 95, 96.
», @ Carrion Feeder, 94, 95.
» With Both Legs Broken, 98.

Kingfisher Killed by Perch, 168, 169.

Lamb with Two Mothers, 224-227.
Liliputian Combat, 159-161.
Little Grebe, 152, 153.

Magpies, 34-91. '
» Abrupt Disappearance of,

Magpies—Are they Gregarious?
88-90.
Magpies in a Mad-house, 90, 91.
- Nesting of, 91.
Martens, Hunting, with YTox-
hounds, 195-198,

239

Marten,. Stone, 112.
Midge, 210.
Mole, 124-142.
» @ Conferring Benefactor,
128-131.
Mole—Can it See ? 140-142.
x», Garden, 134.
>, in Month of March, 133-134.
» Mooting of, 131-133, 135,
x, Out and About, 135-138
» BRomancing About, 124-128.
Mouse, Harvest, 212.
»» Longtailed¥212. «
x» Wood, 211-213.

Nightingale, 175, 176, 178-180.
Nuthatch, 54-62.

Ps Tapping of, 53, 59.
Nut-jobber, 59.

Oak-apples, 216.
» nuts, 216.
» galls, 216.
Old Red Sandstone, Vegetation on,
12.
Otter, 112.
Photophagi, Annual
216-218.
Pigeon, 19-38.
3, Cushat, 21, 35.
x» Dove, 21.
» House, 33, 34.
vy «©. Quest, 21-23, 25, 35, 36.
» Ring, 25.
» Rock, 26, 27, 29, 30, 32-34.
3, Stock, 24, 25, 29, 31-34.

Foray of,

» Turtle, 28.
» Wild, 35-28.
Pine, 112.

Poachers in Petticoats, 167-168.
Pipit-tree, 172-174, 191-193.
Polecat, 112, 185, 186.

Rabbit, Ferret, and Badger, 123,
124

Rabbit, Wild, Wonderfully Prolific,
148, 149.

Redbreasts, Nine in One Brood,
180, 181.

240

Rooks, 91, 205,
» in Court of Law, 92-94.
» Nesting of, 91, 92.
» Observers of Sabbath, 203,
204.

Rooks—Why do they Build by
Churches ? 204, 205.

Rookery in Ruins, 207.

Sagacity, Instance of,
227-229.
Slow-worm, 181, 182,
Sparrow, Tree, 154.
Squirrel, 105-112.
» Hut of, 109-110.
» Pestin Plantations, 111,
112.
Stoat, 112, 119.
+ White, 119, 120.
Stone Marten, 112.

Canine,

Terriers, Dangerous
189, 190.

Thrushes, Missel, Abundant, 65,
66.

Trap for,

Thrushes’ Song, Scarcity of, 63-65.
Titmice, 220-223.
Trees, Flow of Sap in, 214-215.

» Leafing Twice in Year, 213.

Index.

Trees, Leaves Opening at Different
Dates, 214.

Vegetation on Old Red Sandstone,
12.

Wagtails and Cuckoos, 201-203.
Waterhen, 122.
Weasel, 112-122.
» Our Stair of Six Steps,
118-119.
Weasel, Prolific, 120, 121.
» and Rabbit, 116-118.
», Wild Duck, and Waterhen,
122.
Whitethroat—Its Flight and Song,
158.
Woodcock, Singular Capture of,
163.

Woodcracker, 59.
Woodpecker, 38, 49.
Great Black, 46, 47,
ss x Spotted, 46, 47,
48, 49.
Woodpecker, Green, 54.
ne » Fallacies Re-
lating to, 50-54.
Woodpecker, Lesser, 46, 48, 49.
” Tapping of, 49.

Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.