Among the Birds in Northern Shires
by Charles Dixon · English · Gutenberg #46055 · 411,304 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Among the Birds in Northern Shires
Author: Charles Dixon
Illustrator: Charles Whymper
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Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AMONG THE BIRDS IN NORTHERN SHIRES ***
Transcriber Note
Emphasis is denoted as _Italic text_.
AMONG THE
BIRDS IN NORTHERN SHIRES
[Illustration: (M618)
Bird-haunted Handa.]
AMONG THE BIRDS
IN
NORTHERN SHIRES
BY
CHARLES DIXON
Author of "Rural Bird-life" "The Game Birds and Wild Fowl
of the British Islands" "British Sea Birds" "Curiosities of
Bird-life" "The Migration of Birds" "The Migration of British
Birds" "Bird-life in a Southern County" &c
_WITH COLOURED FRONTISPIECE AND FORTY OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS
BY CHARLES WHYMPER_
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND DUBLIN
1900
PREFACE.
The present volume must be regarded more as a popular introduction to
the bird-life of our northern shires than in any way as an exhaustive
faunal treatise, although at the same time we believe almost every
indigenous species has been included. For twenty years we lived
surrounded by these northern birds, so that we may fairly claim to have
served our ornithological apprenticeship amongst them. With the birds
of South Yorkshire and North Derbyshire we are specially familiar;
whilst repeated visits not only to the Lincolnshire, Yorkshire, and
Northumbrian littoral, but farther afield into Lancashire, and various
parts of the Lowlands and the Highlands of Scotland, have enabled us to
acquire much personal information relating to the avifauna of many a
northern shire.
The difference between the avifaunæ of the northern and southern shires
is strongly marked in many respects. Their study makes a record of
avine comparisons of the most intense interest. The important effects
produced by latitude and climate upon the bird-life of these widely
separated areas make material for fascinating investigation, and have
been fully dwelt upon as opportunities were presented. This variation
in avine phenomena is not only far too often entirely ignored, but is
apt to lead the student of bird-lore astray; due allowance has to
be made in many cases for this difference in latitude, and all that
it involves. The present volume, then, to a great extent a study of
ornithological comparisons, will, we trust, be of some service to the
bird lover or the bird student in his task of making allowances.
Unquestionably these northern shires from an ornithological point
of view are much more interesting than the southern, and especially
the south-western counties. Their avifauna is richer, and presents
far greater variety, notably during the breeding season; whilst the
marvellous phenomenon of Migration there unfolds itself each season in
a manner that is never remarked elsewhere.
CHARLES DIXON.
Paignton, S. Devon.
CONTENTS.
Chap. Page
I. By Upland Streams 11
II. On Moorlands and Roughs 35
III. On Mountain and Loch 74
IV. On Heaths and Marshes 105
V. In Forest and Copse 131
VI. In Farm and Garden 158
VII. By River and Pool 186
VIII. On Sea and Shore 209
IX. On Crag and Sea-cliff 236
X. Migration in the Northern Shires 261
Index 295
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Page
Bird-haunted Handa _Frontispiece_
The Dipper 15
The Gray Wagtail 25
The Common Sandpiper 28
The Red Grouse 38
The Twite 49
The Ring-ouzel 53
The Merlin 58
The Lapwing 67
The Ptarmigan 76
The Raven 77
The Dotterel 91
The Red-breasted Merganser 96
The Black-throated Diver 96
The Nightjar 107
The Stone Curlew 118
The Short-eared Owl 123
The Black-headed Gull 128
The Common Buzzard 135
The Woodcock 145
The Black Grouse 150
The Greater Spotted Woodpecker 153
The Rook 161
The Brambling 165
The Whinchat 174
The Yellow Wagtail 179
The Kingfisher 188
Titmice 190
The Tufted Duck 199
The Lesser Tern 211
The Ringed Plover 211
Sheldrakes 215
The Lesser Black-backed Gull 219
The Eider Duck 225
Gulls and Terns 229
The Razorbill 241
The Gannets 245
The Fork-tailed Petrel 255
The Fulmar 257
Migrants at a Lighthouse 270
The Hooded Crow 274
The Chiffchaff 287
The Wheatear 287
Fieldfare and Titmouse 292
AMONG THE BIRDS IN NORTHERN SHIRES.
CHAPTER I.
BY UPLAND STREAMS.
There are few things more interesting to the lover of bird-life than
the comparison of ornithological phenomena as they are presented
in various localities, separated, it may be, by but few degrees of
latitude. Not only does this apply to the species themselves--for even
in our own islands the geographical distribution of birds conforms
a good deal to latitude,--but to their migrational movements, their
resumption of voice, their seasons of reproduction, their gatherings
and movements generally, and finally to not a few habits that appear
to be confined within narrow territorial limits. We have already
dealt with bird-life in its many aspects in southern haunts with a
view to the comparison of avine phenomena with that of more northern
localities; we now propose in the present volume to review the most
salient ornithological characteristics of certain favoured northern
shires, especially with the object of bringing them out in contrast by
their comparative study. The ornithologist with a southern experience,
studying bird-life in a northern county--say in Yorkshire, for
example--will soon find that the avifauna of the two areas, although
it possesses much in common, is in many respects different. Birds that
he was wont to find common in southern haunts are rare here; others
that were scarce in the south, and which he was apt to regard even as
rarities, are quite common. Not a few species are met with that are
seldom normally seen in southern haunts, and opportunities are afforded
him of studying the nesting economy of species, the breeding areas
of which are decidedly boreal. Then, again, the change of latitude
involves a change of climate, especially in winter; slight, perhaps,
it may be, comparatively speaking, but yet sufficient to influence
the habits and movements of birds in quite a different way from those
prevailing in the milder atmosphere of southern haunts. Birds that sing
all the winter through in these southern shires are silent here at that
season; others that are sedentary there are of migratory habits in the
wilder and colder north--in obedience to those climatic influences
that act upon the food supply, and so on. The farther north he goes
the more acute will the contrast in avine phenomena become; and in
species common to the two areas--to northern and southern counties
respectively--he will find differences of from one to two months in
the ornithological calendar. Lastly, he will meet with a multitude of
interesting forms, both in summer and in winter, that are normally
strangers to southern localities at one season or the other, or at both
seasons.
We will commence our observations by an investigation of the bird-life
along the upland streams--not in their lower and quieter reaches,
but at some elevation up the hillsides where the waters hurry and
tumble along over rocky beds and between more or less precipitous
banks fringed with alders, mountain-ashes, bracken, and brambles. The
southern counties can boast no such streams; and even in the wilder
south-west of England the becks are wanting in that grandeur that
characterizes most of these turbulent northern waters. For twenty
years or more we lived surrounded by them and within ear of their
noisy clamour; whilst the birds upon their banks were our constant
companions summer and winter alike. To our mind the ideal upland stream
is one of the most picturesque features in the Peak district. They
may be grander and wilder farther north, but with experiences of them
in the remote Highlands and the Hebrides in mind, for romantic charm
and wealth of bird-life these Derbyshire and Yorkshire brooks, in our
opinion, remain unequalled. Almost every valley in the Peak can boast
a streamlet of some kind. Some of course are more imposing than others,
drain larger areas of upland, and contain a much greater volume of
water. Some plough their way across the open moorland, their bed in
summer being dry or nearly so; whilst others purl down wooded valleys
and along well-timbered bottoms, between the ridges of millstone grit
that are such a prominent feature in this particular kind of country.
In their higher and wilder reaches such rivers as the Dove, the Wye,
and the Derwent--all beloved by the angler for trout and grayling--may
be taken as very excellent examples of upland streams. The Rivelin,
with its charming branches of Blackbrook and Wyming brook, and itself
a tributary of the now polluted and ill-used Don, upon which grimy
Sheffield is partly situated, were all favourite streams of ours rich
in ornithological associations. So, too, was the Sheaf, with once
picturesque Meersbrook, especially in its upper waters between the
villages of Dore and Hathersage.
[Illustration: The Dipper.]
Were we asked to name the most characteristic bird of these upland
streams we should unhesitatingly answer, the Dipper. Not that the bird
can be regarded as plentiful anywhere; and we know not a few streams
where this engaging species has dwindled seriously in numbers during
the past twenty years, due partly to the senseless persecution of
keepers and others, and partly to the much greater number of people
that wander along the banks nowadays compared with years ago. Be this
as it may, the Dipper is still sparingly dispersed along most of the
streams suited to its requirements. Its exclusive habits tend to
characterize it as rarer than it actually is, and its peculiarity of
keeping a length of water reserved for itself and its mate creates an
impression of absolute scarcity which in many cases does not actually
exist. No wonder the old school of naturalists were at a loss to assign
a place in their classifications to this curious bird. Brisson included
it among the Sandpipers and called it Tringa merula aquatica; but
Linnæus, with more discernment, associated it with the Passeres in
his genus Sturnus, which is now restricted to the typical Starlings.
Modern ornithologists have fared little better, and the poor Dipper,
even in quite recent years, has been tossed about from one group to
another utterly regardless of its true affinities. In some modern books
we find it associated with the Thrushes, in others with the Wrens, but
with neither group falling naturally. There may be some of its special
characteristics, as, for instance, the coat of down that more or less
covers the body below the feathers, due to its peculiar habits and
economy; but, on the other hand, the very peculiar character of its
nest and eggs (which we regard as of some importance in determining
its taxonomic position) seems to suggest that the small group of birds
of which the Common Dipper is typical, is not very closely allied to
any other existing group, and fully to warrant the separation of these
birds from other Passeres into a family apart. Small as this family is,
the dozen species of which it is composed are scattered over a very
large proportion of the earth's surface. Dippers in one form or another
are found over the greater part of Europe, Asia, and North Africa; they
occur on the upland streams of the Himalayas, and in the mountains of
Formosa. Across the Atlantic they inhabit the hill streams of the
Rocky Mountains and the Andes.
Our British Dipper, as probably most readers at all familiar with the
bird may be aware, is one of the most sedentary of our indigenous
species. Both here and in those parts of continental Europe which
the typical species frequents, as well as the slightly different
northern form from Scandinavia, the birds keep closely to their
native streams summer and winter alike, only wandering from them in
the very exceptional event of the torrents becoming frost-bound. Such
a peculiarity has resulted in the establishment by variation and
isolation of an almost endless number of local races or sub-specific
forms. To a slight extent this may be remarked even in our own islands,
birds from various localities exhibiting differences of coloration,
but when we come to review the Dippers of the entire Palæarctic region
the amount of variation amongst them is much more pronounced. The
scope of the present little volume forbids a scientific revision of
the genus Cinclus; but a glimpse of the sprightly little brown and
white bird bobbing up and down like a fleck of foam amidst the whirling
waters of a northern trout stream suggests a passing allusion to these
interesting facts.
The English local names of the Dipper are not without interest. It
is somewhat curious to find that the local name of Water-crow has
been applied to this bird not only in Cornwall but almost universally
in Scotland. The names Water-ouzel and Dipper are of very ancient
application. That of "Dipper" was not "apparently invented in 1804",
as Professor Newton suggests in his _Dictionary of Birds_ (p. 151), by
the author of the letterpress in Bewick's _British Birds_ (presumably
Beilby); for we find it used many years previously (in 1771) by
Tunstall in his _Ornithologia Britannica_, a work which was reprinted
by the Willughby Society in 1880 under the editorship of Professor
Newton himself! There can be no doubt whatever that the name had been
applied much earlier still. The derivation of the words Water-crow and
Water-ouzel is not difficult to determine; but that of "Dipper" is open
to considerable doubt. To us it seems just as reasonable to presume
that the bird received this name from its unique habit of "dipping" in
the stream as from its singular dipping or bobbing motion when perched
on some stone or rock in the bed of the torrent, as is suggested in
Bewick's work on British birds. In some parts of the Highlands the
Dipper is known locally as the Kingfisher.
Although we have had not a little experience of the Dipper on the
streams of a southern county we are bound to confess that the bird
seems somewhat out of place upon them, possibly because we have
been so accustomed to his society amidst wilder surroundings in
much more northern shires. We picture him best upon the wild trout
streams of Yorkshire and Derbyshire, or as a tenant of the dancing
burns of the Highlands and the Western Isles. Here he is one of the
most characteristic species of the stream, constantly attached to
the turbulent foam-flecked waters, part and parcel of the scenery
itself. As a musician the Dipper does not take a very prominent place
in the avine chorus, but his music is in full harmony with its wild
surroundings, though often overpowered by the noise of the torrent--a
low-pitched jerky and uneven carol, not very long-continued if uttered
at frequent intervals. Perhaps we might not be strictly accurate in
describing the Dipper as a habitual perennial songster like the Robin,
nevertheless he warbles now and then during the winter months, and is
one of the first birds to resume regular music in the early spring. We
are assured that the Dipper sings at intervals during all the rigour
of a Scotch winter, proof of his robustness and hardy temperament.
In Devonshire his winter song might be naturally expected; for there
the Song Thrush and the Sky-lark are musical enough at that season,
although mute, or nearly so, in northern shires. We have listened to
his wild uneven music on some of the Yorkshire streams during winter
when icicles a couple of feet in length have draped the rocks, or
when the surrounding country-side has been covered deep with snow.
Unfortunately, almost everywhere the Dipper somehow has got a bad
name--a reputation amongst anglers for destroying the spawn of sporting
fishes. Like the poor Owl, and not a few other feathered outcasts, he
is universally persecuted for these imaginary misdeeds. But in reality
he is one of the actual preservers of the ova he is accused of eating,
for his food largely consists of larvæ of certain insects which in
that stage of their existence are particularly destructive to the
spawn. We have dissected a great many Dippers at one time and another
from many different localities, and have always been much impressed
with the uniform similarity of the contents of their stomachs--a
little grit and the remains of insects and worms. We have, however,
known the Dipper in exceptional cases to prey upon small fish, but
are convinced, by the experience of a lifetime, that such food is
taken so rarely as scarcely to deserve mention at all. Whenever we
pause to watch the aquatic gambols of this sprightly bird, we feel
less inclined to wonder why a past generation of naturalists included
it amongst the water-fowl. The way it enters the quiet pools or the
swifter running reaches of the stream, dashing beneath the surface
from some water-encircled stone, and rising again some distance away
just to take breath and then again to disappear, is never without a
certain element of surprise, accustomed as we are to the habits of
this bird. We can recall a northern stream--situated in the Rivelin
valley close to Hollow Meadows--specially favourable for watching the
actions of the Dipper. In some parts it was confined by lofty banks,
upon which we could lie concealed and look right down into the clear
water, and here, when the pair of Dippers that frequented the spot
were on the feed, we might watch their every movement whilst they were
under the surface. This stream is used as a conduit to convey the water
from one large reservoir to another, and was consequently often in
flood. We have often remarked that the Dippers were exceptionally busy
in searching for food on these occasions, doubtless because insects
and larvæ were disturbed by the unusual flow of water. Such times,
however, were not favourable for observation. We liked best to watch
the ways of these charming birds when the stream flowed slower, when
the water was clearer, and certain reaches were almost undisturbed by
the current. The Kingfisher, as most readers may know, has but one
method of feeding, by plunging into the water and returning to the
air almost at once. The Dipper, on the other hand, in his quest for
sustenance, is as much aquatic as a Grebe or a Moorhen. He is quite as
much at home in the water as in the air or on dry land. Sometimes he
walks deliberately from the bank or from a sloping moss-covered stone
into the water; at others he takes a short flight over the stream and
drops suddenly down into the pool; whilst yet again we have often seen
him arrest a long-continued flight--which, by the way, follows every
bend of the brook--and, fluttering for a moment, poise and disappear
beneath the surface at once. The Dipper only maintains his subaqueous
position by much evident exertion of his wings and legs and feet.
Generally the wings are kept in motion whilst the bird searches the
bed of the stream, but sometimes these may be seen at rest, and the
body is kept beneath the water by the feet clutching the big stones
and the strands of moss and other aquatic plants. Not only does the
bird float buoyantly enough upon the water, but it swims well, often
for many yards at a time. Dippers are exceedingly attached to certain
reaches of the stream and to favourite nesting sites, using the latter
year after year, often in spite of much disturbance. In this special
valley we always used to find the nest in one particular spot--wedged
under an overhanging rock on the bank of the stream. The nest of this
species is a very characteristic one, and cannot readily be mistaken
for that of any other British bird. In external appearance it bears
some resemblance to that of the Wren, being of the same globular
form, but a cursory examination will soon set any doubt at rest. In
a great many--we might almost say the majority of--cases the nest is
made outwardly of moss (sphagnum always by preference), amongst which
a little dry grass is interwoven, especially round the entrance hole.
This mossy globe is lined with grass roots and sometimes fine twigs,
and then again lined with an enormous quantity of dead leaves all
arranged very neatly layer over layer. There is never any lining of
wool or feathers, and the five or six white eggs are almost exactly
the same size as those of the Song Thrush. The Dipper is an early
breeder even in the northern shires, commencing to build at the end of
March or early in April, and rearing several broods during the course
of the season. The young birds are most interesting little creatures.
We retain many vivid remembrances of the actions of broods of Dippers
that we have unexpectedly disturbed. The tiny creatures, when only able
to fly or flutter for a few yards at most, will take to the water to
escape pursuit just as readily as the chicks of a Grebe or a Moorhen,
and are equally as alert and active in that element. We have upon more
than one occasion known the four or five youngsters flutter out of the
nest one after the other, and at once tumble into the stream below,
where all efforts at capture have usually been unavailing. Not only do
the nestlings dive and flutter about the water, but they are adepts
at concealing themselves amongst chinks of the rocks or under the moss
and herbage growing in the stream. When required for examination, we
always found the best way to secure them was with our landing-net.
The song of the Dipper declines considerably as spring merges into
summer. The cock bird warbles most frequently whilst sitting on some
water-encircled stone or rock, but we have known him to perch and sing
in the alder-trees growing by the water-side. We always consider him
to be in finest voice during March and April--a habit fully in keeping
with his robust temperament, and one which instantly puts us in mind of
a louder and sweeter singer, the Missel-thrush. The Dipper is the one
constant avine dweller on the upland streams, consequently we must in
fairness regard him as the most characteristic bird of these localities.
[Illustration: The Gray Wagtail.]
Another and daintier species, however, is almost his equal in this
respect, and that is the Gray Wagtail. This bird is more susceptible to
the changing seasons, and at the approach of winter deserts the higher
streams altogether, or comes down to the lower and more sheltered
reaches of others. The Gray Wagtail is a familiar bird along all our
Yorkshire and Derbyshire streams and rivers. We look for him quite as
a matter of course when we reach the rocks, and the alder and birch
and mountain-ash trees, just as we expect there to find the Dipper.
But this is in summer mostly; in winter he becomes far more familiar,
and during that season comes much nearer to the busy haunts of men. We
have often seen Gray Wagtails in the bed of the grimy Don and Sheaf in
the very heart of smoky Sheffield during mid-winter; and we know the
bird as a winter resident about all the streams and sluices and dams
in the series of Endcliffe Woods. The bird seems, however, closely
attached to the stream in its upland solitudes, and at the first sign
of spring goes back to favourite haunts among the moorlands and hills.
We can recall many a romantic reach of the Derwent, the Wye, and the
Dove, where the Gray Wagtail, the Dipper, and the Kingfisher might be
watched together, the former bird, daintiest and most charming of its
kind, deftly poised on a rock in mid-stream vigorously beating its
long tail, looking like a single feather until it was opened as the
startled bird took flight; the two latter species flying alarmed away
arrow-like, following the winding waters, the one as a particoloured
ball, the other as a blue undefined streak of refulgent light. So
likewise has the Gray Wagtail oft been our sole bird companion on many
a Highland water, both on the mainland and in Skye. We never tire
of watching its sylph-like actions, the dainty way it poises on the
stones or flits along before us stage after stage in undulating flight
uttering its cheery _chiz zit_ as it goes, or of admiring the exquisite
blending of its showy yet delicately coloured plumage. We have often
made his acquaintance upon more southern waters, far away in the remote
south-west of England, but somehow he never there evokes the same
feelings with which we greet him in northern haunts. The Gray Wagtail
visits these upland streams for the purpose of rearing its young. Not
every wanderer by the water-side is fortunate enough to get a peep
at this bird's domestic arrangements. It has, fortunately perhaps, a
happy way of concealing its nest under some large stone or overhanging
rock, or in a quiet nook, not necessarily in a secluded spot, but often
close by the wayside, where the very audacity of the selection proves
a source of safety. A scrappy little nest it is, dry grass and roots
and such-like litter thrown carelessly together, and lined with hair
or more rarely a few feathers; artless, yet possessing a rustic beauty
if wanting that elaborate finish of more painstaking nest-builders.
The five or six eggs are as unassuming as the nest that holds them,
grayish-white freckled with brown, and perhaps with here and there a
scratch of darker hue. The bird is an early breeder, making its nest
in April, although we have remarked that in Scotland it is a little
later in its operations. This pretty Wagtail still further endears
itself to us by its attachment to a certain breeding-place, returning
in many cases year by year to build its nest in one particular spot.
Unfortunately the Gray Wagtail can claim but low rank as a songster.
None of our British Wagtails are singers of much merit, and all confine
their melody to fitful and short snatches of rambling song, almost
invariably uttered as the bird hovers and flutters in the air. The Gray
Wagtail's charm rests in its pretty dress, its graceful actions, and
to some extent in its loneliness, for there are few other small birds
to arrest attention in the haunts it loves. It can claim our almost
undivided admiration on the streams of the uplands from one extreme
corner of Great Britain to the other. Certainly of few other birds can
we say so much; although such an extended distribution is entirely
due to physical conditions--to the presence of mountains and uplands
throughout that area.
[Illustration: The Common Sandpiper.]
The Dipper and the Gray Wagtail are the two characteristic birds of
the upland brook and river-side, rarely if ever seen anywhere else
under normal circumstances, and, so far as our observations go, their
happy lives are passed in much the same manner on the streams of both
northern and southern shires, with the one exceptional movement to more
sheltered areas on the part of the latter species in boreal localities.
There is, however, another charming bird of the mountain streams which
we cannot pass unnoticed, and that is the Common Sandpiper, or "Summer
Snipe" as it is called in many districts. But this species is by
no means exclusively confined to the banks and waters of the upland
streams; neither is it a permanent dweller in such localities. It is
a frequenter of our rivers and streams during summer only, the season
of their greatest attractiveness; speeding south to Africa like the
Swallows when autumn creeps over the uplands. From Cornwall to the
Shetlands, wherever there are mountain streams and upland pools we may
meet with the Common Sandpiper between the months of May and September,
but it is in the northern shires that the bird becomes most abundant,
say from the Peak district onwards. Our experience of this engaging
bird has been a lifelong one. Each succeeding spring we used to note
its arrival in the old accustomed haunts on the banks of the Yorkshire
streams and moorland pools towards the end of April. It appears upon
our Devonshire and Cornish waters nearly a fortnight earlier, yet
farther north, in the Highlands, it is seldom seen before the first
or second week in May. The return journey varies in a corresponding
manner, August and September marking its southern departure from the
north; but in the south it lingers into October, November, and even
December--not, however, by the stream side, but on the sea-shore. The
persistency with which this Sandpiper returns each year to certain
localities, and its habit of nesting in the same spot summer after
summer after a prolonged absence of seven months and a double journey
of thousands of miles, are not the least attractive portions of its
economy. For more summers than we can now recall, the streams and
reservoirs at Hollow Meadows and Red Mires--within an hour or so's walk
of Sheffield--were visited by many pairs of Summer Snipes, and their
nests came under our observation with unfailing certainty. Two pairs
of these birds were remarkably conservative in their nesting-grounds,
and used to return each summer to one spot of ground no larger than our
writing-table, and there make their nests--one pair on the steep banks
of a conduit between the reservoirs, the other on a few square yards
of gravelly ground beside Wyming brook. We could always depend upon
finding the nests of other pairs within a hundred yards of the stream
banks on certain lengths of the water. We would hazard the conjecture
that descendants of these birds continue to do so to the present day.
During summer the Sandpiper was quite as familiar an object along these
northern streams as the Dipper or the Gray Wagtail. Many a time have
we seen the three species by the water-side together. Farther north,
in Scotland, this Sandpiper becomes even more numerous, and in some
parts of the Highlands is, or used to be, most unaccountably mixed up
with the Dipper. The latter term included both species, the keepers
not distinguishing between them. We have heard the Sandpiper called a
"Water-crow" in various parts of Skye especially. Few birds evince more
anxiety at the nest, or when their helpless chicks are just abroad.
For the newly-laid eggs we cannot recall an instance of this species
displaying any concern; but when those eggs are deeply incubated or the
young hatched out the behaviour of the female bird especially becomes
very different. She will feign a broken wing or lameness, or endeavour
to draw all attention upon herself by running just out of reach of any
observer foolish enough to give pursuit. But once the young birds have
concealed themselves the parent flies away, or circles about in the
air, generally being joined by her mate. The four handsome pear-shaped
eggs--pale buff, splashed and spotted with rich brown and gray--in
their scanty nest, usually made beneath the shelter of a heath tuft or
bunch of grass, require no special protection from the parent, for they
harmonize so closely in tint with surrounding objects that discovery
is difficult in the extreme, even when we know the exact location of
their resting-place. Curiously enough the Sandpiper is not aquatic in
its habits. It never swims nor dives save when wounded, but obtains
its food whilst tripping round the muddy and sandy portions of the
water's edge. In early summer, just after their arrival, the cock
birds may frequently be seen running along the tops of walls and fences
with outspread drooping wings, or even soaring into the air uttering a
shrill note, both actions being connected with courtship and love. The
usual note of the Common Sandpiper is a shrill _weet_ uttered several
times in succession, and heard most frequently as the bird rises
startled from the bank and pursues its way across the water, often so
low as to strike the surface with its wings.
There are many other birds, of course, that may be met with by upland
streams, but the foregoing are the characteristic species, each in
every way adapted to a life in, or by, the side of their turbulent
waters. These other species found by the mountain or upland waters may
be met with in even greater plenty elsewhere, so that a mere passing
mention of them will suffice in the present chapter. The Heron, of
course, is a visitor to the side of the upland stream; often flushed
from the quiet reaches where the trout and grayling hide under the
moss-grown stones. He is, however, just as much at home by the
margin of lowland pools and streams, or about the rocky coasts and
estuaries, and no exclusive dweller or sojourner in one locality more
than another. Then the Mallard, especially in the Highlands, shows
a strong preference for these upland burns, especially during the
breeding season; and we can recall instances of flushing the duck of
this species with a numerous progeny from these mountain torrents. On
one occasion we were tramping the moorlands in Skye in company with
a gamekeeper friend and a fine retriever. Suddenly we came upon a
brood of young Wild Ducks and their mother. The young birds scattered
in all directions, and hid themselves in holes and corners by the
stream and amongst the tufts of rushes. The old bird, however, would
not leave her brood notwithstanding the onslaught of the barking dog.
With bill wide open and wings expanded she refused to be driven from
the spot; so that, to save her life we were obliged to secure the dog
and to leave the spot, where doubtless she soon gathered her brood
around her again. Then the Redshank, one of the prettiest and most
graceful of our indigenous wading birds, is a by no means unfrequent
visitor to the sandy reaches about the eddies in the Highland burns.
This we have repeatedly remarked to be the case in Cromartyshire, in
the streams that flow into Loch Carron, and in the vicinity of Strome
Ferry. But more of all these interesting birds anon. Lower down the
hillsides, where the course of the upland streams is marked by a fringe
of alder-trees, we have avine visitors in some variety, especially
during the autumn and winter months. These trees are a favourite resort
of Redpoles, Siskins, and almost all the British species of Titmice
between October and March. The Kingfisher again should claim passing
notice in the bird-life of the upland stream. He, like the Heron, may
be often met with during a ramble along the banks of these romantic
water-ways, but inasmuch as he is also a dweller on all descriptions of
water from the hills to the flat country, we cannot fairly claim him as
a special feature in the bird-life of an upland stream. There are, for
instance, many pairs of Kingfishers that habitually nest in the steep
banks of the Derwent in its higher reaches among the hills and dales of
the Peak; there are others on many of the hill brooks in the vicinity
of Sheffield; whilst we have repeatedly seen this gem-like bird on many
a Scottish burn. Lastly, we might mention that the cries of Plovers,
Curlews, Grouse, and Greenshanks, the song of Ring-ouzel, Twite, and
Titlark, the bleating of the Snipe, and the gag of Wild Geese may often
be heard mingling with the babble of these upland torrents, and the
birds themselves met with on their banks, or within a short distance
of their waters; but all these species more correctly belong to other
localities, and must be dealt with elsewhere.
CHAPTER II.
ON MOORLANDS AND ROUGHS.[1]
In a previous volume, dealing with bird-life in a southern county,
we expressed disappointment not only with the miniature moorlands of
Devonshire, but with their lack of feathered inhabitants. Tame these
lands must ever seem by comparison with the typical moors, and from an
ornithological point of view wanting in interest to persons familiar
with the grand expanse of heath and mountain waste in the north. For
many years we lived within little more than an hour's walk of the
Yorkshire and Derbyshire moors. At one period we used to visit them
several times a week in quest of ornithological information, varying
our experience by occasional much more extended excursions over them.
We know them in the heat and the brightness of spring and summer; in
the autumn, when their rolling expanse is aflame with a glow of purple
and brazen bloom from the heath and gorse; as well as in winter, when
the wind sweeps across them in resistless fury, and the snow covers
them with a dazzling pall, levelling the hollows and drifting into
fantastic wreaths. We retain vivid memories (supplemented with copious
notes) of the constantly changing aspects of bird-life upon them.
Farther afield we are well familiar with some of the wildest and
grandest of the Highland heaths. Monotonous as these vast wastes may
seem, relieved by little or no sylvan variety, a detailed examination
will not fail to reveal that the impression gained by a casual scrutiny
is an erroneous one. The configuration of their surface is subject
to as much diversity as more pastoral or arboreal country. We find
lofty eminences, spacious valleys, rolling billowy tracts, extensive
plains, hills, and dales--all for the most part devoid of timber, yet
presenting considerable variety in the vegetation according to the
nature of the soil. The heather (of various kinds) is of course the one
predominating shrub, but mingled amongst it are more or less extensive
tracts of bilberry and kindred plants, of bracken, bramble, briar, and
a host of others, the botanical names of which we need not stay here to
specify. This is upon the drier ground; where marshy conditions prevail
we find grasses of various kinds, rushes, large patches of sphagnum,
variegated here and there with sundew and clumps of bell-heather,
the latter easily identified by its large pale-pink blooms. Here and
there the monotony of the moors is relieved by lofty crags and ridges
of millstone grit, the slopes below them studded with boulders of
varying size right down to the stream. In some parts the soil is deep
and peaty, almost black; in others it is scanty, and the bed-rocks peep
through the stone-strewn ground, where the sturdy ling and wire-like
bilberry have a hard struggle to maintain themselves. Roughly speaking,
each description of moorland ground has its own peculiar birds. Some
species there are, it is true, that distribute themselves more or
less universally throughout the moorlands, but others are confined to
well-defined limits. Then, again, these moors are inhabited by two
very distinct avifaunæ--a limited one which is practically sedentary,
and a more extensive one composed entirely of migratory species. As
might naturally be expected, the birds that can exist upon these
bleak storm-swept moorlands during winter are extremely few; possibly
we might reduce the number to a single species, and even this is
occasionally partially driven from its heathy haunts by the inclemency
of the northern winter. Of the avine visitors that flock to the moors
each recurring spring-time, and just as surely depart in autumn, there
are close upon thirty species--a goodly list, and which is slightly
increased by a few passing migrants. From this it will be seen that
these uplands, with their universal reputation for barrenness, are
by no means devoid of bird-life, and that in summer especially they
abound with interest to the ornithologist. The lover of birds, however,
will in many, if not in most cases, find that his quest for knowledge
is hampered by not a few restrictions. Almost everywhere these moors
are jealously guarded from the intrusion of strangers, however harmless
they may be. Keepers are ever on the look-out to warn intruders off the
sacred breeding grounds of the Red Grouse; the hillsides and plains are
systematically swept by the keeper's telescope in quest of trespassers;
innumerable notice-boards threaten the innocent wayfarer with all
the rigours of the law should he chance to wander from the scarcely
discernible footpath or the public highway. To ornithologize in comfort
one must make our peace--usually purchasable at a certain price--with
the custodians of the moors, and then all is plain sailing. There is
much to be said both for and against such restrictions. On the one hand
the Grouse represent vast sums of money to the owners of the moors, an
income in not a few cases to many an otherwise impoverished landlord;
considerable expense is incurred in maintaining a staff of keepers
and watchers, and there is no small outlay in many other directions.
On the other hand, there are those that argue that the public have
a legitimate right to wander at will over these noble expanses of
heather, that they should be free to all, and that no vested rights
should be allowed in such an utterly wild bird as the Red Grouse.
Unfortunately there can be little doubt that if the bird were not
strictly preserved, and its shooting an expensive luxury, there would
soon be no Red Grouse left. Of the two evils we would prefer the former
after all, for every naturalist worthy of the name would deeply deplore
the extermination of such an interesting species, found as it is in no
other part of the world except on the British moorlands. Let us keep
the species strong and vigorous and abundant, by whatever means, rather
than see it meet the same wretched fate as the Great Auk and scores of
other interesting avine forms that have vanished from this world for
ever as a direct result of man's crass stupidity and wanton slaughter!
[Illustration: The Red Grouse.]
Practically there is but one species confined to the moors all the
year round, absolutely indigenous to them, and found in no other
localities. This is the famous Red Grouse, a species familiar by
name if not by appearance to most people. The abundance of this bird
in the game-dealers' shops from the 12th of August onwards to the
middle of December renders it familiar enough with the multitude; but
comparatively few people know the bird in life amidst its wild and
breezy upland haunts. Not that it is a species that takes much finding,
or that secretes itself in the remoter parts of its wild home; it is
obtrusive enough, by no means shy, and may generally be seen in plenty
from the highways. Very frequently half a dozen or more Grouse may
be seen sitting upon the top of the rough stone walls that separate
the heath from the road; tame enough, too, to allow an observer to
approach them within a few paces before they take wing with noisy cries
and hide themselves among the brown heath. Or again, the wanderer
over the moors who keeps a sharp look-out may detect plenty of Grouse
among the heather, craning their necks above the vegetation, ready
to fly off to safer quarters if too deeply alarmed. Then, in spring
especially, their very peculiar and unmistakable notes never fail to
arrest the attention; and not unfrequently the birds will startle one
as they rise, calling loudly, from the herbage at our very feet by
the wayside. Or very often the big brown birds may be approached very
closely during a fog. In these districts fogs frequently come on with
absolutely startling rapidity. Not the yellow soup-like abominations
that are so familiar in London and other big cities, but dense shrouds
of white vapour that chill one to the very marrow, obscure every
landmark, and render the moors practically impassable for the time
being. Often have we been so caught in these moorland fogs and been
compelled to wait amongst the heath until they cleared. On other
occasions they have overtaken us upon the highways across the moors,
and then we have remarked the apparent stupidity of the Grouse amongst
the mist. We have approached the birds as they sat bewildered in the
stunted thorn and birch trees by the wayside, or upon the walls, and
often remarked how loth they were to take wing, allowing us to come
within a few feet of them without showing the slightest concern. The
poacher would make the most of such splendid opportunities, but his
fraternity are scarce upon the moors, and the keepers are not much
bothered by such gentry. He has perhaps the most to fear from the
wandering gypsy--that curious mixture of itinerant tinker, hawker,
horse-dealer, and romany, that scours the country-side nomad-like,
with a retinue of scraggy horses, dirty children, tilted wagon and
tent. This man takes every Grouse egg that he can with impunity, and
every bird that comes in his way. We well remember how one of the most
disastrous moorland fires in South Yorkshire was attributed to these
gypsies. Some of their number, we believe, had been prosecuted for
poaching or egg-stealing, and out of revenge the moors were fired. For
days the heather burned in all directions in spite of every effort to
subdue it, and vast numbers of Grouse were destroyed in the flames, and
their ancient strongholds reduced to a blackened waste. The fire, which
we could see from our residence at Heeley, was a most impressive sight
by night, and must have cost the owner of the moors a large sum even
in the mechanical labour of arresting its progress, to say nothing of
the destruction of the long heather which takes years to replace and
become suitable cover for Grouse. As some readers may be aware, the
heather is systematically fired, usually in spring, so that a supply of
tender shoots from the resprouting ling may be furnished as food for
the Grouse. Great judgment and care are required, or vast tracts of
cover may be ruined for years. We have known farmers so destroy many
acres of valuable Grouse cover purely to secure pasturage for sheep.
The Grouse loves to frequent this long, well-matured ling; it affords
a splendid shelter during winter, whilst the buds and tender tops
form favourite food. Next to the Ptarmigan, the Red Grouse is by far
the wildest of British game birds, and the least dependent upon the
protection of man. Owing, however, to the ever-increasing value of the
bird for sporting purposes (a sovereign per brace shot being considered
by no means an exorbitant price), the preservation and propagation of
Red Grouse now receive more care and consideration than ever. Grouse
breeding is becoming as important in one direction as Pheasant and
Partridge breeding is in another. The birds are not kept up to their
present numbers, notwithstanding the inroads of the sportsman and the
periodical epidemics of disease, without the exercise of great care and
skill, not only in the preservation of a necessary amount of breeding
stock, but by the improvement of the moors by surface-draining,
burning, and so on.
The Red Grouse is much more of a ground bird than the Capercailzie or
the Black Grouse, although it may be seen perched in trees from time
to time. This is all the more interesting because its near ally, the
Willow Grouse--the Lagopus albus of ornithologists--is greatly attached
to trees, roosting in them, and is chiefly met with amongst birch or
willow thickets. Another interesting fact concerning the Red Grouse
is its strictly monogamous habits, and, as is almost universally the
rule in such cases, the male resembles the female in colour much more
closely than in Grouse where polygamous instincts prevail. Marvellously
protective in coloration is the plumage of the Red Grouse in both
sexes and at all times of the year. The birds are seen only with
the greatest difficulty as they skulk amongst the heath and other
moorland vegetation; the sitting bird upon her nest is one of the most
impressive object-lessons in protective coloration that we have, whilst
the eggs and chicks themselves are tinted in colours that harmonize
most beautifully with the objects around them. Very early in spring
the crow of the cock Grouse proclaims the approaching breeding season.
This, however, varies to some extent, the birds on the highest and most
exposed moors being later to nest than those dwelling on more sheltered
heaths. Late snow-storms often destroy many nests, even on the English
moors; and we have seen nests in April in South Yorkshire buried in
snow and the eggs frozen. Farther north, on the Scottish moors, the
young birds sometimes suffer considerably from late snow-storms, whilst
persistent wet is almost as fatal to them. The nest is scanty enough,
and always made upon the ground amongst the ling and heather, being
merely a hollow scratched out by the hen bird and lined with a little
vegetable refuse, such as bents, withered sprays of heath, and fern
fronds. Many nests are made quite close to the highways and footpaths.
We have known nests within half a dozen yards of the turnpike road
along which traffic of some kind was continually passing. The number
of eggs varies a good deal according to the season, age of the hen
bird, and situation of the moor. Few of our British eggs are handsomer,
being cream-white in ground colour, thickly marked with brown of
varying shades from red and crimson to nearly black. The colour,
however, is by no means a "fast" one, and may be easily washed off, so
that they require to be taken as soon as laid, and handled and kept
for some weeks at least with care, if their beauty is to be preserved
in the cabinet. Although the Red Grouse is not polygamous, the cock
bird does not assist in the duties of incubation, still he assists
the hen in bringing up the brood. During autumn and winter the life
of the Red Grouse is by no means a happy one, that is to say in some
ways. From the 12th of August to the 10th of December he has to run the
gauntlet of the gunner; and now that the deadly practice of "driving"
is almost universally resorted to, on the Yorkshire moors at all
events, even the wary old birds are shot down practically at will. Then
when the shooters are done with him the Grouse has all the hardships
of a northern winter to go through. Snow-storms of unusual severity
often drive Red Grouse from the moors to the lower and more sheltered
valleys, even to the nearest farmyards, where we have known them search
for food with the poultry. During some winters the Grouse have been
so hard pressed as to quit the heather in numbers, and we have then
known them actually to be taken in the streets of Sheffield! With a
moderate winter, however, the birds manage fairly well, snow-storms
being always the most fatal to them. Upon the return of spring, given
an absence from disease, the birds soon get into prime condition again;
most of the weakly ones have been weeded out, and the surviving stock
of vigorous birds are ready to propagate their kind.
But we must now leave the Red Grouse crowing so lustily to each other
amongst the heather, and devote a portion of our space to the many
other feathered dwellers upon the moors and heaths. Perhaps it may be
best to clear off the few Passerine species first. These are all birds
of migratory habits, although some are greater travellers than others.
Beginning with those that journey the shortest distance, we may notice
first the Meadow Pipit. Although by no means an exclusively moorland
bird, the Meadow Pipit is almost universally distributed over these
wastes between spring and autumn, wherever the ground is wet. Almost to
a bird these Pipits leave the South Yorkshire moors during September
and October. We used sometimes to meet with odd birds on the rough
grounds below the moors during winter, but, speaking generally, the
migrational movement is pretty complete. Meadow Pipits always give us
the impression of being somewhat sad little birds, taking life very
seriously, as even human dwellers on these moorland solitudes are apt
to do. We may illustrate this by a comparison of the cheery Wren with
these Pipits, and then the reader will quite understand our meaning.
The melancholy complaining note of the Meadow Pipit is one of the most
characteristic small-bird notes on the moors between April and October.
Every marshy spot is almost certain to contain a pair or more of them,
and their nests are the favourite nursery of the Cuckoo. The song of
this species is a pleasing one, uttered as the bird descends from a
short flight into the air. All through the genial days of a moorland
spring the birds may be watched rising and falling, shuttlecock-like,
from the heath and cotton-grass. Then, when the nesting season is
past, the young and old join into flocks of varying size and betake
themselves to the lower ground, appearing in autumn in large numbers
in turnip-fields and potato patches. The breeding season of this Pipit
varies considerably according to latitude. On the southern uplands, in
Devonshire for instance, the nest is made in April; in the Highlands
it is from one to two months later. The migrational movements are
about the same date in Yorkshire as they are in Devonshire; and the
journey extends in both localities from the high inland moors down
to the marshy meadows and saltings of the coast. We have found nests
of this Pipit in the Rivelin Valley built absolutely in shallow pools
of stagnant water, the moss of the foundation being saturated with
moisture. These nests contained the usual complement of eggs and the
birds were sitting upon them.
[Illustration: The Twite.]
Another characteristic bird of the moors, and one with almost exactly
the same migrational movements as the Meadow Pipit, is the Twite. This
unassuming species is the one Finch of the wide undulating expanses
of heather. It may be readily identified by the merest novice. Like
a Linnet in general appearance, but wanting the exquisite carmine
flush that adorns the more homely bird, as well as the ruby-coloured
patch on the crown, its distinction is its bright yellow bill. The
Twite, most appropriately called in many districts the "Heather
Lintie", is but a bird of summer amongst the heather, retiring in
autumn to the lowland fields, where we shall meet with it again amidst
much more pastoral surroundings. Usually one meets with it sitting
on some tall twig of ling, uttering its monotonous note, which the
imagination of ornithologists has syllabled as _twa-ite_; hence the
bird's trivial name. It will thus sit and call monotonously until our
nearer approach disturbs it, and it rises and flits in a drooping
manner just above the heather to another perching-place a little
farther on, to repeat its call and again to await our advance, when
once more it rises to drop upon some twig and renew its plaint. The
Twite gains an additional interest when we remember how rare a bird it
is in the south; we know it as a by no means common winter visitor in
Devonshire, notwithstanding the fact that there are many localities
where one might expect to find it in summer; whilst even in treeless
Cornwall--a wild rugged land enough--the bird is so rare that Rodd
knew of but a single example, and that was obtained near Penzance.
Then again the bird is confined during the breeding season exclusively
to the British moors, with the exception of the coast districts of
Norway. From the midlands of England northwards to the Shetlands,
the Twite has its only summer residence with us. We fear that we
never appreciated the Twite sufficiently when we lived so close to
its haunts and considered him too common for any special notice or
admiration. It is only after we have dwelt in districts where he is
unknown that we have begun to regard him with exceptional attention;
and now, profiting by past experience, we never see him flitting about
the heather without giving a thought to his localness. After all, he
is a most interesting little bird; and his pretty nest, cunningly
concealed amongst the tangled heath, possesses a rustic beauty that
well rewards one's patience for the often toilsome search. It is a
cup-shaped structure, made externally of grass bents, twigs, and moss,
the inside warmly lined with down from willow catkin and cotton-grass,
wool from the sheep that graze upon the moors, and feathers. The five
or six eggs are very similar to those of the Linnet, pale bluish-green
spotted with reddish-brown and gray. The Twite gets back to the moors
in April, and its domestic duties, accompanied by its weak little
song, are performed in April and May. In the Highlands the birds
nest later than in Yorkshire, but not much, for we have seen flocks
of young birds strong on the wing in Scotland in June. The moorlands
are finally deserted for the winter during September and October--a
vertical migration as interesting, if not so extensive, as the
Swallows' flight to Africa. A passing glance should also be given at
the Wheatear. This bird is by no means confined to the moors, yet it
is very characteristic of many parts of them, especially in the far
north. In Yorkshire it is by no means uncommon about the old quarries
and pits on the moors; farther north it becomes more numerous, although
scarcely attached to the heather in the same way as the Twite. Like
its congeners it is a dweller among the stones, a trait which has not
escaped the notice of the Highland peasants, who call the Wheatear a
"Clacharan", a "Stone-clatter", or a "Little Mason". This may possibly
be because his note resembles the clicking noise made by two pebbles
struck together, as well as from his propensity for the rocks and
stones. On the Scottish moorlands we have found this bird specially
common about the peat-pits and stacks, and in these latter we have
often found its nest--a somewhat untidy structure made of dry grass and
sometimes lined with hair and feathers, usually containing five or six
pale-blue eggs. The migrations of the Wheatear must be performed very
quickly. In Devonshire we note its arrival towards the end of March,
and yet by the first half-dozen days of April it has penetrated even
as far as the Orkneys and the Hebrides! Passing mention should here
also be made of the Sky-lark and the Stonechat--neither bird strictly
a moorland one, yet both found in the locality. The Stonechat, we
remember, used to be, and may be now, fairly common on the rough broken
ground, not exactly true moorland, in the valley of the Rivelin at
Hollow Meadows, half a dozen miles west of Sheffield.
Our last moorland Passere is the Ring-ouzel, a prime favourite with
us, and a species with which we have been exceptionally familiar from
boyhood's days. This bird always impressed us to a remarkable degree,
possibly because it is such a bold and assertive one. With a lifelong
experience of this handsome Ouzel--he is known to the country people
in South Yorkshire and North Derbyshire as the "Tor Ouzel", _i.e._
Mountain Ouzel--we should unhesitatingly state that it is commonest
in the district of the Peak. He breeds upon the Cornish uplands, and
in Devonshire upon Dartmoor, as we have repeatedly remarked; then we
find him on the uplands of Somerset, and increasingly common over the
Welsh mountains northwards to the vast solitudes of the Pennine chain.
Farther north in Scotland he is found, but our experience is that the
bird is local, and common nowhere in the latter country. The moors
west of Sheffield, for some reason or another, are specially sought by
the Ring-ouzel; and nowhere in that district is the bird more abundant
than in the Rivelin Valley and between Stanage Edge and Derwent Edge,
and on the Bamford and Bradfield moors. South of Sheffield we may meet
with this Ouzel in fair numbers about Dore, Owler Bar, and westwards
over the Hathersage uplands.
[Illustration: The Ring-ouzel.]
As most readers may know, the Ring-ouzel is a spring migrant to the
British Islands, and the only migratory Thrush that comes to that area
to rear its young. Like some other northern migrants, its passage is
by no means a slow one. It arrives in South Devon sometimes as early
as the end of March, more usually the beginning of April, and what is
rather remarkable, this date is practically coincident with its arrival
in South Yorkshire. For many years we paid special attention to the
migrational movements of this bird, and should give its date of arrival
as the first week in April in that district. This seems to indicate
beyond question that Ring-ouzels migrate direct to their breeding areas
after landing on our southern coasts. They journey in flocks, often
of considerable size, and several seasons we were fortunate enough to
observe them in companies numbering several hundreds of birds, on the
very day of their appearance in the Rivelin Valley. These flocks soon
disband; in a day or so they break up, and the birds scatter themselves
in pairs over all the suitable breeding-places. The cock bird is not
only a handsome one, but very distinctively marked, easily recognized
as far as the eye can reach by his pure white gorget; otherwise he very
closely resembles the Blackbird in general appearance. The resemblance
does not end here, though, and in its habits and movements generally,
as well as in the nest and eggs, we have an equal similarity.
Whilst in flocks the birds are wary and wild enough, but when breeding
they become bold and venturesome to an astonishing degree--in these
respects exactly resembling their ally, the Missel-thrush. We remark
this Ouzel's habit of elevating the tail after alighting, just as
the Blackbird does; we also cannot fail to notice its exceeding
noisiness just prior to seeking a roosting-place; neither shall we
fail to observe its very Blackbird-like way of feeding, ever alert
and watchful. Soon after their arrival, but never, so far as we have
observed, before the flocks or travelling parties have disbanded,
the cock birds regain their vernal music characteristic of the love
season. With the resumption of song the bird loses a good deal of its
wariness, a fact we may notice in not a few other species. He will
sit and warble on the big boulders of granite or millstone grit, or
when perched on the top of a rough wall or some bending spray of ling
or gorse, just as sweetly as when sitting in the higher branches of
some birch or mountain-ash. His music is not of that rich excellence
that marks the song of the Blackbird, nor has it the variety so
characteristic of the Thrush; yet there is a wild beauty in harmony
with the surrounding scene that makes ample recompense for its failings
in other ways. Unfortunately the bird continually spoils his music
by introducing a series of inharmonious harsh notes. Like that of
the Blackbird the song is all too short, and even lacks the redeeming
feature of continuous flute-like melody, short as it is, that saves
the Blackbird's from being classed as commonplace. To our mind, the
Ring-ouzel always increased in interest during the breeding season.
Many scores of nests of this bird have we kept under observation, not
a few of them from the time the first twig was laid until the four
or five nestlings left them for ever. The birds are much attached to
certain spots, and return to nest in them with wonderful pertinacity.
Then, again, how often have we remarked their absurd attachment to
a nest in the course of building. We have known Ring-ouzels show
more concern for a handful of nest material--by no means a finished
nest--than scores of other species display over the absolute loss of a
nest and eggs. The Ring-ouzel is the Stormcock of the moor--ready to
do battle with much noisy clamour the moment its nest is approached.
This nest is not always made amongst the ling and heather; numbers are
placed in low bushes on the outskirts of the moor, and on the banks
of the streams and by the sides of the roughly-formed cart-tracks,
especially where the banks are steep. In early autumn Ring-ouzels
again become more or less social and gregarious; they then begin to
wander off the moors to the nearest fruit-gardens, and so gradually
work south in parties and flocks. Gilbert White, whose pleasure at
his discovery of the migrating Ring-ouzels across the Sussex Downs
may easily be surmised by the reader of his ever-charming letters,
tells us that he used to see these Thrushes--more than a hundred
years ago--in little parties about Michaelmas, and again in April,
and remarked their tameness. The birds are not so common in that area
now; times have changed and many species are gone, for in the same
letter (No. VII) he tells us that there are Bustards on the wide downs
near Brighthelmstone! Perhaps we might here take the opportunity
of mentioning that flocks of Snow Buntings sometimes appear on the
Highland moors, but our own experience of this charming arctic stranger
relates to more southern shires, and where we hope to meet with it
again later on in the present work.
[Illustration: The Merlin.]
The birds of prey that haunt the moors are all more or less migratory
in their habits, as might naturally be expected, because the species
upon which they depend for food are non-resident too. The Red Grouse,
it is true, is sedentary, but no raptorial bird frequents the moors
that preys exclusively upon that species, and it chiefly suffers
during the breeding season when the young chicks and poults are about.
The Merlin is the most deadly enemy of these. It is a spring migrant
to the moors, and is not known to breed with certainty south of
Wales. It may just possibly do so on Exmoor, but certainly does not
on Dartmoor; in fact, to Devonshire it must be regarded as a rare
visitor in autumn and winter. We have always found the Merlin to
be fairly common throughout the moors of North Derbyshire and South
Yorkshire. It is ruthlessly persecuted by the gamekeeper, and its
numbers consequently have declined almost to the vanishing point in not
a few districts. We never saw much of the Merlin on the moors between
Castleton and Sheffield before April. There are many favourite haunts
on these moors in which the bird may be found breeding every summer;
and curiously enough, although pair after pair may be destroyed, others
come and settle in the district the following season. We are glad
to be able to record that the bird has not been so severely hunted
down in one or two places, and consequently its numbers seem to be on
the increase. The spirited dash of this pretty little Falcon is not
exceeded by that of the Peregrine itself. Times without number have we
witnessed its fatal chase of the smaller birds of the moor--Twites,
Ring-ouzels, Meadow Pipits, and less frequently of Plovers, Grouse,
and occasionally Cuckoos. In the higher valley of the Rivelin, we once
watched an exciting chase by this bird of a Common Sandpiper, which
had been flushed from the heath-clad bank of one of the reservoirs at
Hollow Meadows. Pursuer and pursued strove their utmost, the Sandpiper
doubling, rising, and turning from side to side, and the relentless
Merlin following closely every movement as though each bird were
guided simultaneously by a common impulse. The chase was continued
over the large reservoir, and we had a fine uninterrupted view of each
bird's powers of wing. The Sandpiper, after the water was crossed,
gained a brief respite by hiding amongst the rushes on the opposite
bank; but the Falcon, undeterred, hovered above the spot and once more
flushed its quarry. The poor little Sandpiper wheeled rapidly round
and then flew off across a rough bit of rock and heath-strewn ground,
but its strength was exhausted; the Merlin's superior powers of flight
and endurance asserted themselves, and the Sandpiper, with a piteous
_weet weet_ of terror, was struck down. But the various birds of the
moorlands are by no means the Merlin's only food. Like most, if not all
the smaller Falcons, it subsists largely on certain insects. Whether
the bird's good offices in this direction counterbalance its tax upon
young Grouse we need not stay here to enquire. Perhaps in this case
they do not, for the insects caught can do little or no damage in such
localities; but on the other hand, we must remember that the Falcon
assists in keeping up the Grouse to a strong and vigorous standard by
killing off--if amongst others--a certain percentage of weakly and
unfit birds. There is some evidence to show that Grouse disease appears
in regular cycles on most moors--say every seven years--and competent
observers have attributed it to old birds spreading the contagion.
Now, had the larger Raptores not been so ruthlessly exterminated in
these localities, surely it is only reasonable to suppose that they
would have thinned out many of these birds, not perhaps preventing an
epidemic, but thus assisting in rendering it of a milder character than
otherwise prevails. Depend upon it, man seldom or never meddles with
the delicately-adjusted balance of nature without unfortunate results
in some direction. But to return to the Merlin and its economy. Like
the Sparrow-hawk and many other raptorial birds, this pretty species
selects some spot or spots in its haunts to which it conveys its
captures to devour them in peace. The nest is almost invariably made at
no great distance from these "dining-tables" or "larders", where the
bare and often rock-strewn ground is sprinkled with feathers, bones,
pellets, wing-cases and wings of insects, the remains of the Merlin's
food. These haunts, as previously remarked, are tenanted yearly with
wonderful regularity, and the nest each season is made in much the
same locality as in previous years. This nest is of the simplest, and
always, so far as we know, upon the ground. "Nests" have been recorded
in Scotland in the old nest of some other bird in a tree;[2] whilst in
some foreign countries a ledge of a cliff is said to be selected. Our
experience is that it is invariably upon the ground, and generally on
a rather bare spot amongst the heather or ling, often on an eminence
of some kind. Here in a slight hollow, with no lining as likely as
not, the four or five pretty red eggs of the Merlin are laid. They are
absolutely indistinguishable from those of the much commoner Kestrel,
but their terrestrial resting-place should prevent the novice confusing
them _in situ_. In autumn the Merlins quit the moors. It is difficult
to say how far these birds indigenous to our own moorlands migrate;
there is evidence to suggest that the movement is limited to a trip
to the lowlands, extending even to the coast. On the other hand, the
bird is certainly a species with a strongly marked and regular passage
in most parts of its extra British range. A word as to the plumage
of this interesting Falcon. The cock bird, with his slate-gray upper
parts, rufous nape, more or less distinctly barred tail, dark wings,
and rufous under parts streaked with dark brown, is possibly familiar
to most readers. The hen bird, so far as we can determine, is not only
slightly bigger than her mate, but much less handsome in colour. She
is dark rufous-brown on the upper parts, each feather with a paler
margin, the buff nape patch is paler and much less distinctly defined,
the tail is browner, and the under parts are dirty white streaked with
brown. This plumage closely resembles that of the young male. During
the past quarter of a century we have examined a great many skins of
the Merlin, and almost without exception the sexual differences in
colour were as described above. There are authorities, however, that
maintain that the adult plumage of the female of this Falcon is very
similar to that of the male. In this we are disposed to concur, for we
have examined an adult female obtained by Dr. Scully in Gilgit (and
his sexing of specimens is most reliable, as every naturalist who has
had the pleasure of seeing them will agree, the sexual organs being in
most cases sketched on the labels attached to the skins), in which the
sexual differences of colour were most trifling. It is said that the
females are shot off in this country before they can obtain their fully
adult dress. In fairness, however, we must state that there is always
the possibility of very old females assuming the male plumage, and
their apparent rarity may be due to this fact.
Unfortunately the other moorland birds of prey are now rare almost to
the verge of extinction; indeed, we regret to say the Merlin itself
in not a few localities is fast approaching the same condition. The
species that we shall allude to here is the Hen Harrier. This bird,
like nearly all the other birds of the moors, is a migratory one,
although there is some evidence to suggest that in our islands the
movement is to some extent confined to a journey to the lowlands and
the southern counties. Formerly this Harrier was a fairly familiar
bird on the moors of the south-western counties, where, however, its
local names of "Blue Hawk" and "Furze Kite", indicative of old-time
abundance, are nearly all that is left to us. We may remark in
connection with this bird that a century ago the male and female (being
so much unlike each other in plumage) were almost universally regarded
as two distinct species, the latter known as the "Ring-tail" Hawk.
Montagu cleared up the confusion by rearing a brood (doubtless from
a Devonshire nest), and clearly demonstrated that the two supposed
species were in reality the opposite sexes of one. About the South
Yorkshire moors the Hen Harrier is practically unknown. Our limited
experience of the bird was obtained on the moors of Skye, where we
believe it still continues to nest. We have there seen it beating along
the hillsides in a slow deliberate manner just above the tall ling,
amongst which, in this island, it almost invariably makes its nest,
placing it upon the ground. The four or five very pale-blue eggs are
often destroyed by sheep; in fact, we were assured by an intelligent
keeper in Skye that to this cause alone its diminishing numbers must
be attributed. This Harrier reaches the moors in April or early May,
and nests during the latter month and the first half of June. The cock
is a beautiful bird, with gray upper parts, darker on the throat and
breast, the remainder of the under parts and the upper tail-coverts
pure white, the primaries black. The hen is somewhat larger, dark-brown
above, paler brown below, streaked with rufous-brown; the upper
tail-coverts are, however, nearly white as in the male, which fact
seems to suggest that they are a recognition mark (Conf. _Curiosities
of Bird Life_, p. 249). The principal food of this Harrier consists of
small animals, such as moles, mice; of frogs, lizards, and insects. The
bird is also a great egg eater, robbing the nests of other moorland
species. Although to some small extent it may prey upon birds, there
is nothing in its habits to cause uneasiness to the owner of a Grouse
moor; the bird's comparative harmlessness should secure for it greater
immunity from gun, trap, and poison than it at present receives. There
are one or two other Raptores we may just allude to here as dwellers
on or fairly regular visitors to the moorlands. On the South Yorkshire
moors the Kestrel is, we are glad to say, still a fairly common bird.
It is fond of the outskirts of the moors, the rough grounds often
crowned with ridges--ranges of low cliffs--of millstone grit, and
in these it habitually nests. Then the Sparrow-hawk is a frequent
visitor to the heath-clad wastes, but chiefly to the borderland and in
localities where there are plantations of larch and fir, in which the
bird can find seclusion and a suitable nesting haunt. We have often
remarked that these moorland Sparrow-hawks quit such areas during
winter when small birds are absent. The Rough-legged Buzzard passes
over many parts of the South Yorkshire moors on migration, especially
in autumn. We have examined many fine examples of this bird, obtained
on the Ashopton moors and about Derwent, chiefly birds of the year. The
two species of British Eagles must also be mentioned as visitors to the
Highland moors, although not exclusively indigenous to them. They are
better described as mountain birds, and shall receive more detailed
notice in our chapter devoted to the avine characteristics of such
localities. (conf. p. 81.) So also may we remark that the Raven will be
dealt with in the same chapter. In Devonshire the Raven is still to be
found on Dartmoor--one of the few inland localities that it frequents
in England nowadays; but elsewhere on the English moors, so far as our
experience goes, the bird is but a casual visitant.
[Illustration: The Lapwing.]
The moorlands, being as they are the least changed districts in the
British area, continue to be the resort of a large number of shy birds
of the Plover and Sandpiper tribe during the breeding season. In some
places no doubt the number of these birds is visibly diminishing, but
in the wilder districts there still remain sufficient to constitute
a decided ornithological feature. One of the best-known of these is
the Lapwing. Fortunately we can still class the Lapwing as a common
and even abundant bird in suitable districts, and now that its eggs
are protected by law in not a few spots we may hope to see a welcome
increase. This beautiful Plover--one of the handsomest of the entire
group--is by no means confined to the moors; it is a most adaptive
species, and makes itself at home on arable land as readily as in
wilder areas, still it is a prominent feature in not a few moorland
scenes. Who does not know the sad mewing cries and the restless
uneven flight of this Plover, as it rises startled from the ground and
commences its plaintive protest against our intrusion? Large numbers of
Lapwings breed on the North Derbyshire and South Yorkshire moorlands,
as well as on the rough grounds in their vicinity. We remember on one
occasion--we have a note recording the fact--seeing a pair of Lapwings
drop quietly to the ground just behind a stone wall that separated the
moor from the highway. Creeping carefully up to the spot we looked
through a chink in the wall and saw the two old birds with four chicks
which could not have been hatched many hours. The scene was a charming
one. The downy long-legged little creatures were running about picking
here and there, their parents standing guard, alert and watchful, yet
totally unconscious of prying human eyes not a dozen feet away from
them. After watching this family party for some time we intentionally
came into view, when the scene instantly became more interesting than
it was before. Both old birds rose into the air and commenced wheeling
and rolling about just above our head, the female by far the most
venturesome of the two. Then she alighted a yard or so away, and with
both her broad wings sweeping the ground dragged herself along for a
few paces, striving her hardest to get us to follow. But we confined
our attention for a time to the chicks. All four of these artful
youngsters at the first alarm scattered in as many different directions
and hid themselves amongst the heath and grass almost with the rapidity
of thought. Search as we might we could find but two, although we knew
full well the others were concealed on a patch of ground no larger than
an ordinary table. These two chicks we pocketed for specimens, but we
were so touched by the way the old Lapwings followed us over the moor
crying so plaintively that more humane feelings got the better of us,
and we returned to the spot and placed both young birds where we had
found them. Such little episodes as these go so far, we always think,
in making ornithology so very attractive.
Another allied species breeding on most of our northern moors (and
in some few instances in the south-western counties) is the Golden
Plover. There are few more handsome birds of this order than the Golden
Plover in wedding plumage. The upper parts--as they are all the year
round--are thickly spotted with golden yellow on a dark-brown ground,
the under surface is black as jet. We begin to see these Plovers back
upon their moorland breeding-places in March; in April they become more
numerous. Like most of the other birds found on these moors in summer
they spend the winter upon the lowlands; in this case frequenting
the flat coasts and marshy meadows and saltings near the sea. They
love the swampy portions of the moors--the spacious hollows between
the hills, where the wet ground is clothed with a dense growth of
rushes, cotton-grass, and sphagnum, amongst which the heath and ling in
scattered patches mark the drier portions of the ground. At the first
alarm the ever-watchful Plovers rise one after the other from all parts
of the waste, and then begins a chorus of flute-like whistling cries,
bird after bird taking up the chorus and alarming all other and less
demonstrative species within hearing. Here and there a Golden Plover
may be seen quietly standing upon the spongy ground. But it needs sharp
eyes to see them, so closely does their spangled backs harmonize with
the golden sphagnum and other vegetation. May is their breeding season,
and their four large pear-shaped eggs are deposited in a scantily-lined
hollow, often beneath the shade of a tuft of rushes or cotton-grass.
These eggs are very much the same in general appearance as those of
the Lapwing, but the tints are richer and brighter. Of the Sandpiper
or Snipe tribe there are at least half a dozen more or less common
species that visit the moors in spring to breed. Most of them are
never met with on our south-western uplands at this season, although
the Snipe, the Curlew, and the Dunlin are more cosmopolitan in their
choice. The two former species are by far the commonest and most
widely dispersed on the Yorkshire moors, the remaining four or five
are rarer, more local, or absent altogether. The peculiar drumming or
bleating of the Snipe is one of the most characteristic of avine sounds
upon these moors in spring; the quavering whistle (uttered always, or
nearly so, whilst the bird is upon the ground), or the better known
and somewhat mournful _curlee_ (heard whilst the bird is careering to
and fro in mid-air) of the Curlew is little, if any, less familiar.
On the Hebridean moors, as well as on those of Orkney and Shetland,
in the neighbourhood of the sea, the Whimbrel breeds sparingly. It
is extremely local, but its habits and economy generally are very
similar to those of the larger and better known Curlew. It differs,
however, in its migrations, and is a summer visitor only to the British
Islands, the greater number passing over them to still more northern
breeding grounds in the Faroes, Iceland, and elsewhere. The Dunlin,
notwithstanding the fact that it nests on some of our south-western
uplands, finds its favourite breeding grounds on more northern moors
up to the Orkneys and the Shetlands. Here again we have a species
donning a jet-black belly for the nuptial season. It also displays a
very decided preference for the swampy portions of the moors in which
to perform its nesting duties. Then there are the two species of
Totani, the one easily distinguished by its orange-coloured legs (the
Redshank), the other by its green legs and slightly upturned bill (the
Greenshank). The latter, however, is much rarer than the former, and
is only known to breed in the Highlands. The Redshank is fairly common
during summer on our northern moors, but this species, like one or two
others, is as much at home in more lowland haunts. You may meet with
it during summer amongst scenery of a directly opposite character--the
fens and broads of the eastern counties. Redshanks are alert and noisy
birds, rising from their moorland haunts when alarmed, and keeping up
their shrill double note with almost irritating persistency. As numbers
often breed in the same district, the din from the frightened birds
soon becomes general. The Greenshank visits its breeding grounds in
April and May, coming from over the sea like all our strictly summer
visitors, and departing in September and October with its young. This
bird again is a noisy one when disturbed, and careers about the air in
excitement until left in peace. All these birds breed upon the ground,
lay four eggs possessing very similar characteristics in colour and
shape, and their nests are found with some difficulty, owing to the
protective tints of their eggs.
Of the Duck family the Mallard is by far the commonest and most widely
dispersed. It loves the pools and streams and marshy spots upon the
moors, but as it breeds as generally in more lowland localities we can
scarcely describe it as a typical moorland bird. The same remarks may
be said to apply to the Teal, the Wigeon, and some few others. Then
in the moorland fastnesses of the Hebrides, and in some parts of the
mainland Highlands, the Gray-lag Goose still finds a haunt sufficiently
seclusive, although we are assured that its numbers are decreasing.
We know from personal experience that it breeds amongst the ling and
heather on some of the Outer Hebrides, making a huge nest of branches
and twigs, rushes, and other dry vegetation which is finally lined
with down. The six to eight eggs are creamy-white in colour. This bird
again is by no means a typical moorland one, for it formerly bred
in the fens of East Anglia, and would do so to this day had it not
been exterminated. Of the Gull tribe, perhaps the most characteristic
moorland species are the Skuas, two species of which are summer
migrants to certain of our wildest Highland moors. Where the moors
extend down to the coast in various northern districts, such birds as
Terns, Sheldrakes, and Eider Ducks may be found breeding upon them, but
we can scarcely regard such species or such localities to come within
the scope of the present chapter.
CHAPTER III.
ON MOUNTAIN AND LOCH.
Mountain bird-life, if scarce, is not without its charm. That of the
loch, taking one season with another, is more varied and abundant; so
that combining the two districts together--and they are in most cases
inseparably associated--we shall have abundant material to interest
us. The mountain bird-life of England--except, perhaps, in the extreme
north--is comparatively limited, especially nowadays when persecution
has worked such havoc amongst certain species. That of the loch is
peculiarly of a Scottish type inasmuch as the present chapter is
concerned. The bird-life of these two districts is essentially of a
northern type, belonging, like the mountains and lochs themselves, to a
wilder and more rugged scenery than any the southern shires can boast.
Many of the avine forms belonging to these localities are strictly
boreal or even arctic in their distribution, finding a suitable habitat
by altitude rather than latitude; many of them are but winter visitors
or abnormal wanderers to the south. In some cases these particular
localities are the home of representative species that take the place
of more southern types, and afford us a fine series of ornithological
comparisons of the deepest interest. The naturalist familiar with
bird-life in the southern counties only, will, in investigating the
avifauna of mountain and loch, enter upon an entirely novel series of
avine phenomena.
[Illustration: The Ptarmigan.]
[Illustration: The Raven.]
From the moorlands to the mountains and lochs is in many localities a
transition of an almost imperceptible character. In not a few cases the
moors terminate in mountain summits beyond the borderland, where the
two species of heather cease to climb, or the most sturdy and tenacious
ling that clothes the hillsides for still another thousand feet or
more. In a similar manner the lochs are usually situated in hollows
among the hills, or penetrate in winding fiords from the sea between
towering highlands or heath-clothed wastes that at higher altitudes
terminate in bare and wind-swept mountain summits. As with the avifauna
of the moors and heaths we shall find that the birds of the mountains
are more or less a shifting population. Indeed the similarity is
made even more complete by the fact that in both regions--moor and
mountain--we find but one sedentary species. Upon the moors we found
the practically resident Red Grouse; upon the mountains we shall find
the Ptarmigan, a bird that clings to the bleak summits throughout the
year. In some respects the Ptarmigan is a more interesting species
than the Red Grouse; there is more variety in its economy, and the bird
itself is one of the most beautiful examples of protective coloration
that the entire range of organic life can show. Our first acquaintance
with the Ptarmigan was made nearly twenty years ago, near the summit
of the Cuchullin Hills in Skye. Although the time was May, patches of
snow were lying in the hollows and a cold piercing wind swept along the
hillsides. Lower down the slopes we had lingered to watch the gambols
of a pair of Ravens that were haunting the rocks; whilst a Peregrine
Falcon had just swept by. Upon a small piece of level ground we flushed
several Ptarmigan, one after the other, that had been lying concealed
on the stony face of the mountain. They were readily identified by
their white wings. After the first bird had risen we scanned the ground
carefully for others, but none were seen until they rose in noisy
flight and sped away. It is interesting to remark that the Peregrine
we had seen a short time before must have flown right over the spot
where these Ptarmigan were crouching. Possibly the recent appearance
of the Falcon had made them lie closer than usual, and rendered them
loth to take wing. With the exception of a few weeks in the very depth
of winter, the Ptarmigan is more or less changing in colour throughout
the year. In mid-winter, as most readers may know, the bird is pure
unsullied white, with the exception of a jet-black patch in front of
the eye in the male, and the outermost tail-feathers, which are black
in both sexes. In early spring, sometimes it is said by the middle or
end of February, the first signs of the coming summer plumage are seen
on the neck, and during the three succeeding months the birds undergo
a complete transformation, the feathers on the breast, it should be
noted, being assumed last of all. It is a significant fact that the
parts of the plumage least exposed, such as the flight feathers and
the feathers on the belly, present the smallest amount of change
from the white winter dress. This is more apparent in the male than
in the female, doubtless owing to the fact that the latter is more
liable to injury whilst brooding on the nest. Broadly speaking, in
the male in summer plumage the upper parts and the breast and flanks
are dark-brown, more or less mottled, and barred with gray and buff;
whilst in the female the upper parts are darker, practically black,
mottled with gray and rufous, and the under parts are chestnut-buff
barred with dark-brown. This plumage prevails during June and July,
although subject to some change by sun and abrasion, whilst towards
the end of the latter month signs of the autumn livery begin to be
apparent. In this dress again the sexes are similar, as we might
naturally expect to be the case, now that the breeding season is over,
and both male and female are exposed to the same conditions of life.
The upper parts, the breast and flanks, are gray, vermiculated with
black. By the end of August this autumn dress is fully attained. It is
worn for nearly a couple of months, subject of course to some change
from abrasion and sun. Then comes the transition to the white winter
plumage, which in most cases becomes complete by the middle of November
contemporaneously with the snow that lies upon the mountains for the
next three months or more. This beautiful arrangement of nature becomes
even more impressive by certain comparisons. For instance, the Red
Grouse, living as it does amongst the ling and heath, and in a region
where snow seldom covers the ground for many days at a time, retains
a brown dress throughout the year; in this species also the flight
feathers are constantly brown in hue, just as those of the Ptarmigan
are white. But the nearest ally of the Red Grouse, the Willow Grouse
(the Lagopus albus of ornithologists), inhabiting the tundras of the
arctic regions right round the world, assumes a pure white plumage for
the winter (readily distinguished, by the way, from the Ptarmigan by
the absence of the black patch before the eye), and in this case again
the flight feathers are constantly white--a dress that is admirably
protective amidst the winter snows of its northern home. Here, then,
we have two birds distantly related, like the Ptarmigan and the Willow
Grouse, donning white plumage in winter for protection, whilst the Red
Grouse, so closely allied to the Willow Grouse, and resembling it in
many details of its economy, remains practically the same in appearance
summer and winter alike. The retention of the white quills is a very
interesting fact. These Grouse moult their flight feathers but once in
the year, in autumn; and probably the reason they are constantly white
is because this tint is no disadvantage to the species, being always
concealed except during flight. As we know, these birds take wing most
reluctantly, always endeavouring to elude observation by crouching
close to the ground. Similarly, the central tail-feathers of the Willow
Grouse and Ptarmigan are the only ones that change in colour with the
seasons--varying from white in winter to brown marked with gray and
buff in summer, and gray mottled with black in autumn--the remainder
being constantly black, and when the tail is closed of course concealed
by the central pair.
Ptarmigan are nothing near such noisy birds as Red Grouse, and their
usual note is a hoarse and guttural croak. Otherwise there is much
in their economy of general resemblance. They pair in spring, make
a scanty nest upon the ground, and their eggs very closely resemble
those of the more familiar species, but the markings are larger and
not so heavily dispersed--characters that are in perfect harmony with
the different nature of the ground upon which they rest. The eggs are
generally laid in May. Then again we remark the same tendency to flock
in autumn, as in the Red Grouse. As previously remarked, this single
species practically exhausts the resident avifauna of the mountain
heights. There are a few other species still to be noticed, but none of
them are confined to these localities, although they may be met with in
them at any season. Some of these birds are migratory, others wander
about visiting lower ground, and are therefore in no sense permanently
indigenous to the mountain tops, or even to their lower slopes.
Dealing with the resident species first, we have the two species of
British Eagles that in spite of persecution have managed to retain
their place in our avifauna. They owe their survival most probably to
the inaccessibility of their haunts. Time was when the Golden Eagle
frequented the Peak district of Derbyshire, and when the White-tailed
Eagle regularly bred in the area of the English Lakes and even in
the Isle of Man; whilst farther south still we find records of its
nest in Lundy Island and the Isle of Wight. Persecution has succeeded
in exterminating these Eagles in all such lowland haunts; even the
South of Scotland has proved no safer refuge, and at the present
day the mountains of the north are the sole locality in which they
are normally found. We can vividly recall our first meeting with
the Golden Eagle. We had spent many days amongst the Highlands in
fruitless quest of this fine bird, but all that rewarded us were a few
heads and feet, time-worn and ancient, nailed here and there to some
stable or kennel door of a gamekeeper's premises, and any number of
tales told by shepherds and keepers of how the species had been shot
and trapped without mercy. At last our search was rewarded by the
discovery of an eyrie in a magnificent cliff. We shall never forget
how we watched the big black bird soar out of the rocks and circle
overhead, and how we stood gazing in admiration as it swept down from
the air towards its nest, with its mighty wings held up and expanded
to their utmost, just as we had often seen the Kestrel do, or tame
Pigeons, to give a more familiar instance. We have seen a good many
Eagles--of both species--since that eventful morning nearly twenty
years ago, but never with such excitement as then. We are glad to say
that the Golden Eagle in one or two localities seems to be increasing.
This is specially the case in certain deer forests, where the bird is
held (and justly so) to be harmless. There is, however, plenty of room
left for the preservation of this fine bird, and we should like to
see the placing of poisoned meat made illegal. The White-tailed Eagle
is perhaps the most familiar species of the two, but this bird loves
the hills near the sea, and its favourite resorts at the present time
are amongst the grand mountain scenery of the Hebrides, the Orkneys
and Shetland. We have often watched the magnificent aerial movements
of this Eagle from the mountain tops in the haunt of the Ptarmigan
and the blue hare. Like the larger Gulls and the Vultures, it will
remain in the highest air for long periods, sailing round and round in
spacious circles, ever and anon gliding obliquely down, then resuming
its ordinary flight. We often used to meet with it high up the hills
in Skye, a district which we believe still continues famous for this
Eagle, and we knew of several nests or eyries scattered over the
island. Both these eagles breed very early in the year, long before
the ordinary stream of tourists flows northwards; but this, we regret
to say, does not prevent many an eyrie being robbed of its eggs by
shepherds and others, in the pay of the collector or dealer from the
south. The last pair of Scotch Golden Eagles' eggs that we examined
had been forwarded unblown from the Highlands, roughly packed in a tin
box, and both were broken. One of these eggs, we believe, is now in the
Weston Park Museum at Sheffield. Eagles are somewhat sluggish birds,
resembling Buzzards in disposition, and exhibit none of that dash and
activity characteristic of the Falcons, or even of the short-winged
Hawks. They are also very unclean feeders, being little better than
Vultures in this respect. Of the two the White-tailed Eagle is the
worst; he is a regular scavenger of the shore, and in not a few cases
we have known him lured to his doom with a mass of stinking offal,
a putrid lamb, or decaying fish. Healthy vigorous birds or animals
are seldom attacked by this Eagle; it confines its attentions to the
weakly and the wounded creatures that cannot move fast or offer any
serious resistance. The Golden Eagle is a trifle more fastidious in
its selection of food, and frequently captures living and healthy
creatures, such as Grouse and hares, but even he does not refuse to
make a meal on carrion. When we take into consideration the food and
the sluggish habits of these Eagles, we are at a still greater loss
to understand the ruthless war of extermination that has been waged
against them for so long. As birds of prey go they are comparatively
harmless, and should be left in peace. We have heard a good deal
about the destruction of newly-dropped lambs by these Eagles, but
there is much to be said on the other side. Lambs at this early age
are liable to many fatalities, and it is scarcely fair to attribute
their disappearance to the Eagles. Many lambs are drowned or killed by
storms, and by accidental falls over rocks and cliffs: their bodies
offer a welcome meal to the Eagles. Some of these fatalities are due
to the carelessness of shepherds and keepers, who take good care that
the sheep farmer shall be made to believe that Eagles are responsible
for them. Many years ago we were up the hills with a keeper and his
dog. The latter--a wild unruly brute of a retriever--chased a lamb, and
knocked it over a steep bank into a mountain loch. We recovered the
body, and then the keeper with a sly look informed me that he should
tell so and so that the loss of this lamb was due to an Eagle! It is
the tale of the lowland coverts over again. There a scarcity of game is
attributed to poachers or vermin, whilst in reality a dishonest keeper
has disposed of it to an equally dishonest dealer. In the Highlands
the loss of Grouse and lambs and deer calves is too often laid to the
Eagles' charge, but let us hope that such a custom will cease, and that
these beautiful birds will duly profit by the circumstance.
Another raptorial bird by no means unfrequently met with on the
mountains is the Peregrine. In some parts of the Highlands this Falcon
may be found breeding on the face of some towering storr rock amongst
the frowning hills. We had an interesting experience of such a nest on
the lofty storr at Talisker, in Skye. This charming little spot nestles
in a hollow in the hills, is surrounded by trees of goodly growth and a
wealth of other vegetation--literally an oasis among bare mountains and
upland moors. We used to sit out in the garden and grounds there and
watch the Peregrines about their nest, which was situated in a gaping
fissure perhaps two-thirds of the distance up the face of the cliff.
A pair of Ravens also had their nest in the same rock, together with
numbers of Jackdaws and Starlings. Whether the Peregrines respected
the lives of their more weakly neighbours we cannot say, but the
Ravens oft resented the near approach of these Falcons, sallying out
from the cliffs and buffeting them in mid-air. Time after time we
watched these Falcons dart down from the higher air with both wings
closed and enter the fissure which contained their nest. The late Mr.
Cameron, then residing at Talisker, informed me that these Peregrines
had frequented the rocks here for many years, notwithstanding the fact
that their eggs or young were taken every season. At such a vast height
the Peregrines looked no bigger than Jackdaws, whilst the latter birds
resembled Starlings flying to and fro before the rugged cliff. The
Raven, we are glad to say, is a familiar bird still among the mountains
of the north. The time has gone for ever when we could number this
fine species as a denizen of the mountains of the Peak and some other
English uplands, although we have heard that it still nests amongst the
hills of the Lake district. The hoarse croak of the Raven is one of the
most familiar bird-notes heard among the Highlands. Notwithstanding
gun, trap, and poison, the bird somehow or another still maintains its
position; possibly its excessive cunning and wariness are the chief
means of its salvation. This bird is one of the few species indigenous
to both the north and south of England that is still commonest in
some of the southern shires. In Devonshire, especially, it is by no
means uncommon, both on the central plateau of Dartmoor as well as
along the rock-bound coasts. Indeed, until within the past few years
it used to breed within a mile or so of Torquay. We own to a special
weakness for the Raven notwithstanding his questionable means of
getting a livelihood. He has been our sole companion in many a rocky
glen, and cheered us by his wicked croaking on many a lonely ramble
over the wild hills of the north. We specially recall his lively ways
at St. Kilda, when of an evening we used to wander up the heights of
Connacher to watch the Fulmars and admire the glorious sunsets that
canopied the lonely Atlantic. We can also remember how we were cheered
by his croak when wandering, lost and hungry and tired out, across
the mountain heaths enshrouded in a dense mist between Sligachan and
Talisker, just as night was falling, and when, after making up our
mind for a night on the hills, we had the good fortune to meet with
a shepherd and obtain from him our bearings. For a northern bird the
Raven is another early breeder; and it is interesting to remark that
there is very little difference between the date of nesting in the
extreme south of England and the Highlands, March being the month in
both areas. In the Highlands, Ravens' nests are invariably destroyed
whenever they are accessible; but fortunately the wily birds, in not a
few localities, select fissures and rock ledges quite inaccessible save
to a winged enemy. A dead sheep or other animal will almost without
fail attract Ravens from a large area, and we have on one occasion
counted no less than seven on such a carcass, sharing the prize with
the Hooded Crow. A keeper friend of ours informed us of a much larger
congregation at the body of a dead horse, the birds in time picking the
bones of every scrap of flesh. Speaking of Ravens brings us of course
to a passing notice of the Hooded Crow. In England we have plenty of
Hooded Crows during autumn and winter, especially in the eastern
counties, but they do not breed in the country (if we except possibly
the Isle of Man). In the Highlands, however, the bird is a resident
pest--like the poor, always with us, and, sad to relate, as little
welcome. Amongst the mountains of the north, especially in the littoral
districts, the Hooded Crow is certainly the commonest bird of the Crow
tribe. He practically replaces the Carrion Crow, the familiar species
of the southern shires. These Hooded Crows are wary birds; they need
to be, or their race would soon be exterminated in Scotland. But for
downright impudence and cunning commend us to the Hooded Crows of St.
Kilda. These gray-coated rascals would allow us repeatedly to approach
them within a few paces; indeed, they would sometimes allow us almost
to kick them out of our way, as the saying goes; but this was only as
long as we did not carry a gun. Had we such a weapon with us the crafty
fellows would invariably keep at a safe distance. This was all the
more remarkable, for at the time of our visit and stay on St. Kilda,
in 1884, there was not a gun on the island except the one we carried,
so that the birds could not have been taught to shun such an object by
experience. We might attempt an explanation of the fact by suggesting
that the birds became suspicious when they saw a person carrying an
unfamiliar object; but against this we have the behaviour of birds in
other localities where guns are common, being no more wary than these
unsophisticated crows of St. Kilda. The St. Kildans detest them, and
with good cause, for they commit sad havoc amongst their fields and
gardens, and are as keen "collectors" of eggs as the men themselves.
The Hooded Crow is a far more sociable bird than the Carrion Crow, and
we have remarked them gregarious at all times of the year. In winter,
of course, they become most so, and nowhere is this trait more apparent
than in the low-lying English counties. We shall have occasion to meet
with this interesting bird in a future chapter (conf. p. 276). This
brief list practically exhausts the typical land birds and Passeres
of the mountains, with the sole exception of the charming little Snow
Bunting. In not a few northern English shires this species is a fairly
well-known winter migrant, but it breeds sparingly on some of the
Scottish mountains, a few pairs finding an arctic climate by vertical
instead of latitudinal migration, but most of its kindred journey far
beyond our limits to rear their young.
[Illustration: The Dotterel.]
Our last mountain bird is the Dotterel. But this is a bird of passage
from the south, resorting only to the northern heights during summer.
Unfortunately, the species is not so common on our English mountains as
was formerly the case; its eggs are eagerly sought by collectors; the
bird itself is in great request for its feathers, which are used to
make trout and salmon flies. Although becoming rarer, it still breeds
on some of the mountains of Cumberland; whilst across the Border it is
more numerous, and we believe regularly nests on the Grampians and in
a few other places. It is late to arrive on these mountains in spring,
as might naturally be inferred, when we bear in mind their bleak and
barren character, reaching them in May, and quitting them in September.
We have seen eggs of the Dotterel that had been taken on the Cumberland
mountains in June. It would seem that the birds do not retire to the
elevated nesting-grounds directly they arrive, but frequent the more
lowland fields for a week or so ere ascending to them. The summer home
of the Dotterel is shared, in some instances at least, with that still
more mountain bird, the Ptarmigan. The Dotterel is one of the very few
species in which the hen bird is larger and more brightly coloured than
the cock, and the latter consequently incubates the eggs and takes the
greater share in the task of rearing the young. The hen is even said
to take the initiative in courtship, but we have yet to learn that the
"new woman" has quoted the fact in support of her advanced opinions!
But then the Dotterel is widely known by the accompanying and preceding
epithet of "foolish", and its English name is said to be the diminutive
of "Dolt"; whilst its Latin name of _morinellus_ is said by some to
have been derived from _morus_, a fool--facts which those interested in
so-called "sex problems" will also do well to bear in mind.
Now a few words respecting the bird-life of the lochs. These lochs,
so far as the present chapter is concerned, may be divided into two
distinct classes. First, we have the mountain pools--sheets of water
of varying size, often at considerable elevations, situated in hollows
among the hills, and an especial feature of many districts in the
Highlands. Second, we have at sea-level the marine lochs or fiords,
another almost exclusive Scottish feature, the nearest approach to
them, so far as our experience extends, being some of the charming
land-locked rivers or fiords in the south-west of England. Some few of
the birds that we meet with on or about these lochs may be seen in many
a southern shire at one season or another, but on the other hand there
is a predominating number of species that stamps the avifauna of these
northern localities with distinctness. Many of these lochs are grandly
picturesque, surrounded as they are with lofty mountains and rolling
uplands; their solitude in not a few cases is intense. No wonder that
some of our shyest birds resort to them, especially as they present the
additional attraction of abundance of food. Upon the shores of some of
them we have come across the rare Greenshank; on others in the Hebrides
the Red-necked Phalarope (gentlest and most trustful of all wading
birds) lives in colonies during the summer. From time to time the
various Plovers and Sandpipers resort to their shallow margin, coming
there to feed from nesting-places on the moors. Now and then in certain
favoured spots the shadow of the Osprey--rarest, perhaps, of all our
indigenous birds of prey--is reflected in the calm unruffled water as
the bird soars over, and perhaps drops down upon some surface-floating
fish. Our first introduction to the Osprey took place nearly twenty
years ago in Ross-shire, at the head of Loch Carron. We had been kept
rain-bound for a couple of days in the hotel at Strome Ferry, and a
most miserable and depressing time we had of it, the surrounding hills
hidden by clouds and the surface of the loch churned into foam by
the incessant downpour. The second evening the weather cleared, and
we started off for a long ramble along the loch-side; the sun shone
out brilliantly, and began to dispel the caps of clouds hanging on
the hills. The most abundant bird on the loch was the Common Gull,
respecting which we shall have more to say on a future page. We saw
several pairs of Redshanks near the swollen streams, many Plovers in
the distance, a few Dippers, Common Sandpipers, and Mergansers. But
the bird that interested us most was an Osprey, flying slowly over the
loch about thirty feet above the water. It was hovering with quivering
wings, the head almost hidden as the bird peered down in quest of prey.
Every few moments the bird flapped its long wings as if to steady
itself and gain fresh momentum for its flight. For some time we watched
it hovering above the shallow water close inshore, and then it poised
for a moment and dropped like a stone into the loch, the noise of its
plunge being distinctly audible more than a quarter of a mile away. It
rose in a few seconds, and then, after hovering a short time, went off
in a slow laboured flight to a clump of trees, and we saw it no more.
As we previously stated, the Osprey is one of our rarest raptorial
birds. A hundred years ago it is recorded as breeding in the English
Lake district, whilst at a still more distant date it is known to have
nested on the south coast of England. Although more than once thought
by competent observers to have become absolutely extinct as a breeding
species in the British Islands, the bird still lingers on and returns
to nest in one or two places in Scotland, the exact location of which
its best friends will desire to remain unpublished. Unfortunately,
the Osprey is a summer migrant to our area, and the poor birds in
travelling to and from their Highland haunts are exposed to much
persecution. A favourite situation for the eyrie of this bird is an
island in some secluded loch amongst the mountains, and in some cases
a ruin of some ancient chieftain's stronghold supports the nest. There
is no more harmless bird of prey in Scotland, for its food is composed
exclusively of fish.
[Illustration: 1. The Red-breasted Merganser.
2. The Black-throated Diver.]
The birds of these mountain lochs are all migratory, visiting them
chiefly in summer for the purpose of rearing their young; whilst a few,
chiefly Ducks, may be met with in their vicinity during open weather
in winter. Of course these remarks apply only to the fresh-water lochs
amongst the hills; the sea-water lochs have a perennial supply of
birds, because they are never completely ice-bound in our islands,
and furnish an abundance of food all the year round. Among the most
characteristic of the birds of these hill lochs we may mention the
Divers. Of these there are two species that breed near them, one
of them, however, the Red-throated Diver, being much commoner than
the other, the Black-throated Diver. These birds are more or less
migratory, and are only to be found upon fresh-water lochs during
summer. In winter they retire to the coasts, where the open sea
ensures a constant food supply, and then wander far south of their
breeding area. Possibly there are few other districts in the world
more depressing in continued wet weather than the Hebrides--a wild
savage land of rock and loch and ling surrounded by stormy seas, and
only too often shrouded in gray mist. During such weather the cries
of the Divers from the upland lochs sound more uncanny and melancholy
than ever--oft-repeated wails or screams, compared with which we
should describe the nocturnal lament of a tom-cat musical; and even
more impressive and unearthly do they become when uttered during the
few hours of darkness that characterize the night in summer in these
northern lands. These cries have irritated us too often for us to say
that we love them; still, they are not without a certain charm, imbuing
as they often do with life scenes where solitude otherwise reigns
supreme. Both these Divers rarely visit the land except to breed; they
are clumsy birds out of the water, but in that element are as much at
home as the fish themselves. They fly well and rapidly, and are perhaps
more frequently seen in the air than standing on the ground. Both
species may be found nesting on the lochs of the Outer Hebrides. The
nests are never made far from the water; in fact, we have seen the eggs
so close to the margin of the loch that the least rise in the water--a
frequent occurrence in such wet districts--must have washed them away.
In these cases there can be little doubt that the birds removed them
to a safer distance when they were threatened with such a danger. A
favourite locality is on some small islet in the loch. In some cases
little or no nest is made, but in others a substantial structure of
grass, weeds, and stalks of plants is formed. Very often the nest may
be discovered by the path the old birds make in going to and from
the water. The two eggs are much like those of a Gull in colour, but
are very elongated. There can be little doubt that both these Divers
consume a vast number of trout in the course of a summer. But the
supply of fish is almost inexhaustible; we know lochs that literally
teem with trout. The fish, however, are very small and scarcely worthy
of the angler's attention.
The Mallard or Wild Duck is another very common bird on these mountain
lochs during summer, especially on those that contain islands. Some
of these latter are clothed with a dense growth of heath and gorse,
and in such localities we have known several nests within a radius of
a few yards. But the Wild Duck is one of the most cosmopolitan of our
indigenous birds, breeding almost as commonly in the extreme south of
England amidst pastoral surroundings, as in the Highlands where its
solitude is seldom disturbed save by a wandering keeper or shepherd.
Its nest, however, varies considerably; neither is water essential to
its location. We have seen its nest amongst the bracken, far from
water, in the open parts of Sherwood Forest, we have taken it from the
rushes near a stagnant lowland pool, as well as from the knee-deep
ling, the bare ground on the hillsides, and the bramble-covered banks
of river and stream. Some nests are made of little else than down from
the female's body, others are much more elaborately constructed of
almost any kind of vegetation growing near. We may also mention that
this Duck breeds in some numbers near most of the tarns and pools of
the moorlands from the Peak district northwards. Here and there in the
more remote Highlands--Caithness, Sutherlandshire, and Ross-shire--a
few pairs of Scoters frequent the mountain lochs. The Teal, on the
other hand, is a much commoner species in these localities, whilst the
Red-breasted Merganser is even of wider distribution still throughout
the Highlands. We cannot well leave these fresh-water lochs without a
passing glance at the Red-necked Phalarope. This again is a migratory
species which arrives at the mountain pools in May. Its favourite
haunts are the clear tarns surrounded with rushes and sphagnum on the
moors, at no great distance from the sea. So far as we know, this
Phalarope nests on no part of the British mainland now; its summer
resorts are in the Outer Hebrides, in Orkney and Shetland. To these
pools the birds return each summer with unfailing regularity. Their
gregarious habits very largely increase their charm and interest.
We know of few, if any, birds more trustful and tame. When their
breeding-place is approached the pretty little birds either run or fly
to the neighbouring pool and there swim about in the most unsuspicious
and confiding manner, utterly regardless of danger. They make their
slight nests on the banks of the water, and lay four very pretty eggs,
olive or buff in ground colour, heavily marked with dark brown, paler
brown, and gray. Here again we have another instance in which the hen
Phalarope is more brilliant in colour than the cock bird, and not only
takes the initiative in courtship, but leaves the care of the eggs
and young chiefly to him. Possibly the females of these birds and
Dotterels hold strongly advanced views on the question of sex and its
rights and privileges; anyway, they must be ranked amongst the very
few female creatures that have partially succeeded in emancipating
themselves from the ordinary duties of their sex. Perhaps in the remote
future the principle will universally apply to civilized man himself,
for there are not wanting signs of this sexual evolution towards such
emancipation.
We will bring the present chapter to a close with a brief notice of
the bird-life to be met with on the sea-lochs. Many a charming essay
on ornithology is reflected in their clear waters; many a page from
the story of our native birds is graven along their rocky shores. We
have had the good fortune to explore not a few of these charming
Highland fiords, to dwell beside them for weeks at a time, and thus
become familiar with the birds upon them and with their most engaging
ways. One of the most familiar birds of these Highland lochs is the
Red-breasted Merganser, known throughout these localities as the
"Sawbill" (conf. p. 96). The drake is a very pretty bird, the duck
more soberly arrayed, yet both easily identified by their long narrow
bill. They are generally met with in pairs during summer, and their
actions in the water furnish us with many an hour's amusement. This
Merganser is a most expert diver, and every few moments either one or
the other of the pair disappears in quest of food. Rarely or never do
both birds dive at the same time, one always keeping on the surface
as if on the look-out. Sometimes, however, the birds will suddenly
commence to chase each other through the water in sportive play, and
then both may dive, churning the water into foam. When fishing, the
birds frequently, after diving, stand erect in the water and flap their
wings vigorously for a few moments. These birds are very regular in
their movements, especially on tidal water, and we have frequently
remarked how they would visit certain spots to feed at low-water,
flying up at great speed from different parts of the loch, their wings
making a peculiar whistling sound as they hurried along. Sometimes they
may be seen standing on some low, sea-surrounded rock basking in the
sun and digesting their meal. Each pair of birds seem attached to a
certain locality, and may be found in it from day to day right through
the breeding season. We have taken many nests of this Merganser, and
invariably found them made on islands in the lochs. In not a few
instances the first eggs are laid on the bare earth, usually under the
shelter of a rock, or in a hollow amongst the gorse or ling close to
the water's edge. These eggs eventually become surrounded with down
plucked from the female's body, but before this is arranged, when
there are but one or two laid, they are left bare and uncovered. The
much rarer Goosander may occasionally be met with on these Highland
sea-lochs, especially in the Outer Hebrides. Other birds of the Duck
tribe that frequent these lochs and the islands in them are the
Sheldrake and the Eider.
Needless to remark, these lochs are favourite haunts of Gulls and
Terns. Of the former the most interesting, perhaps, is the Common Gull,
a species that has no English breeding-place, yet in some of these
northern fiords it nests in abundance. In this case again islands are
invariably selected if any are to be had. This Gull we found nesting in
large numbers in Loch Follart in Skye, but owing to the relentless way
in which its eggs were taken we should presume that it has now become
much scarcer. Then on the islands again we may meet with colonies
of Arctic Terns. These graceful birds are quite a summer feature of
the lochs, their airy movements as they fish just off the shore being
highly interesting. The Common Tern is much more local, and yet there
are not a few colonies scattered up and down these lochs amongst the
Hebrides, at least as far north as Skye. Of the Terns we shall have
more to say in a later chapter (conf. p. 221). Where the cliffs are
steep by the loch-side, in not a few of these northern waters, we shall
be sure to find the Black Guillemot, a bird, as its name indicates,
almost uniform black in colour (during summer), with white wing-bars
and coral-red legs and bill. This bird is never seen in such numbers
together as the better-known and larger Common Guillemot; rather is it
found in scattered pairs, fishing close inshore where the rocks fall
sheer down into deep water. Its habits, however, are very similar;
it dives with the same agility, feeds on fry, crustaceans, and small
shell-fish, and is just as thoroughly marine in its tastes. We must
note, however, one important difference, and that concerning its
nesting economy. Like the Razorbill, it breeds in holes and fissures
of the rocks, makes no nest, and its eggs are very similar to those
of the latter species but much smaller, and two in number. As most
readers may be aware, the Guillemot and the Razorbill are content
to lay one only. Both these latter birds may be met with swimming
about the marine lochs, and there are many colonies of them scattered
about the Hebrides. These we hope to notice in greater detail in
our chapter devoted to the bird-life of the ocean cliffs (conf. p.
240). Of the wading birds that haunt these lochs mention may be made
of the Oyster-catcher and the Ringed Plover. The former bird is one
of the noisiest to be found in such localities, especially when its
nesting-places are invaded by man. It loves the stretches of shingly
beach, laying its three eggs just above high-water mark on the line
of drifted weed and rubbish that marks the limits of spring-tide. Its
so-called "nest" is worthy of special examination, the shells and
pebbles often being arranged very systematically round the eggs. Other
nest there is none, but in most cases a number of sham or empty "nests"
or hollows in the shingle will be found close to the one that contains
the eggs. Many of these birds wander far southwards from these northern
lochs during winter, and at that season are found in localities which
they just as regularly leave as spring returns.
CHAPTER IV.
ON HEATHS AND MARSHES.
The title of the present chapter, to some readers, may seem rather a
misnomer, especially the first portion of it. We have already made a
brief survey of bird-life among the heather, but then a moor is not
exactly a heath. For the purpose of the present volume the definition
of the word "heath" must be taken to be a small area of uncultivated
ground, covered with bracken, brambles, gorse, and briars, with patches
of heather here and there, studded with stunted trees and bushes, and
in not a few cases surrounded with woods, arable lands, and pastures.
There are many such delightful bits of waste ground in the northern
shires, not only inland, but at no great distance from the sea. Of
the bogs and marshes we may claim a fair share, although drainage and
reclamation have reduced their area considerably in not a few cases, or
removed others entirely. The fens of the low-lying eastern counties--of
Norfolk and Suffolk--scarcely come within our limits, whilst those of
Lincolnshire exist almost only in name. The bird-life of these heaths
and marshes is characteristic and interesting, although perhaps there
is greater similarity between the species and those of more southern
localities than we have hitherto found to be the case.
[Illustration: The Nightjar.]
Heaths have always been favourite places of ours. They are never of
such barren and forbidding aspect as the moorlands, even in mid-winter;
vegetation is more generous; trees, in which we delight, are not
altogether absent; and most important attraction of all, bird-life in
considerable variety may be found upon and near them throughout the
year. Although many bits of heath known to us have been cleared and
brought into cultivation, there are not a few still left where birds
of various species linger unmolested. For instance (to indicate but
a few), there are such areas in the Sherwood Forest district; here
and there in north Lincolnshire, in north Derbyshire, and in south
Yorkshire, especially in the vicinity of Wharncliffe Crags, a few miles
north-west of Sheffield. One of the most interesting birds found upon
these heaths is the Nightjar, or perhaps even better known by the name
of Goatsucker. Like most birds possessing some peculiarity in note or
appearance easily remarked by the multitude, the present species has
many aliases, some of which at any rate are as undeserved as they are
disastrous. Thus, that of "Night-hawk" brings the bird into evil repute
with gamekeepers, and it is shot down in many localities under the
firm belief that it preys upon young Pheasants and Partridges! That
of "Goatsucker" is even more widely prevailing, not only in our own
country, but it has an equivalent in almost every European language,
in some cases dating from a very remote antiquity. Needless to say
that this appellation has proved even more fatal, and has caused the
poor bird needless persecution in many other countries than ours,
owing to the absurd superstition it describes and fosters of the
Nightjar's utterly fictitious habit of sucking the teats of cows and
goats! Lastly, it has been the long-suffering possessor of the names
of "Fern Owl" or "Churn Owl", one relating to its haunts, the other
to its singular note, and both suggestive of birds that have been
sorely persecuted by man, in most cases for purely imaginary offences.
Anything flying under the name of "Owl", whether with "fern", or
"wood", or "barn", or "horned" attached, is considered harmful, and
fair food for powder and shot, so that the poor Nightjar has suffered
with the rest. To his habits and appearance most, if not all, his
misfortunes are due. He flies about at dusk and during the night-time,
and has a way of flitting round the cattle in the meadows close to
the heath in quest of moths and cockchafers; his plumage is soft and
pencilled and Owl-like, whilst his enormous mouth, to the ignorant
countryman, seems capable of swallowing anything! And yet there is no
more harmless bird in the British Islands than the Nightjar. It preys
upon no single creature that man might covet (if perhaps we except
the entomologist, who does not like to see rare moths and beetles
disappear like magic in the evening gloom), but, on the other hand,
rids the fields and groves of countless numbers of injurious insect
pests. Apart from any concrete injury that it may be thought to do, it
also falls under the ban of the superstitious, its weird and curious
notes, together with its crepuscular habits, being very apt to inspire
dread in the credulous countryfolk, who are firm believers in omens,
prognostics, and the like, notwithstanding the unprecedented extent to
which the schoolmaster has been abroad during the past twenty years
or more. We ought also to mention another name bestowed upon the
Nightjar, and which, like most of the others, has caused the poor bird
not a little senseless persecution. This is "Puckeridge", a term also
applied to a fatal distemper which often attacks weanling calves. The
Nightjar was thought by the ignorant countryman to convey this disorder
to the calves whilst flitting about them. Poor little Nightjar! The
wonder is that there are any of its species left to struggle under
such an overwhelming burden of bad names begotten of superstition
and ignorance. In some districts this bird is known as the "Eve-jar"
or "Evening-jar", and in others as the "Wheel-bird"--names innocent
enough, suggestive of no ill-deeds, but eminently expressive of its
habits and its notes combined. In Devonshire it is known locally as
the "Dor-hawk", from its habit of catching dor-beetles or cockchafers;
also as the "Night-crow", possibly the least applicable in the entire
series, unless we interpret it as being derived from the bird's habit
of calling (crowing) at night. It is possibly a fortunate thing for the
Nightjar that it only spends a few months out of the twelve in Europe,
amongst such a crowd of civilized enemies of all countries and creeds,
finding fewer, if any, human persecutors amidst the dusky heathen
races of Africa, whither it retires after visiting us. It is one of
our latest birds of passage, not even reaching the southern parts of
England before the end of April or early May--a date which is not quite
coincident with its arrival in the northern shires, which it does not
reach much before the middle of the latter month. The life-history
of this pretty and much-maligned bird is packed full of interest.
Unfortunately the Nightjar is only abroad of its own choice during
hours when darkness renders observation difficult; we must perforce
crowd most of our scrutiny into the twilight hour, and just before
the rising of the sun. The bird, like the bat and the Owl, sleeps
during the daytime, either crouched flat upon the ground under the
bracken or underwood, or seated lengthwise on some broad flat branch
of a tree where dense foliage gives the shade and gloom it seeks, and
where its beautifully mottled and vermiculated plumage harmonizes most
closely with surrounding tints. It is said that the Nightjar sometimes
comes abroad during mid-day, and that it even calls at that time, but
such has never been our experience of this species, and we should be
inclined to think that when seen out and about at such a time it had
been disturbed from its diurnal resting-place. At the approach of
evening, however, the sleepy bird rouses itself, and, hungry and alert
and active enough, leaves its daytime haunt and commences its evening
peregrinations in quest of food and enjoyment. As the sun sinks lower
behind the western hills and the shadows intensify, the Nightjars
become more lively. The most impressive thing about them is their
curious music. It is a song that appeals to the most casual listener,
compelling recognition by its very singularity. Whilst on the wing
circling to and fro the note is an oft-repeated cry, resembling the
syllables _co-ic_, _co-ic_, _co-ic_; but when the bird drops lightly
down on to some wall or fence or gate, another and still more curious
sound is produced. This is the familiar "churring" or vibrating noise,
long continued, and putting one in mind of the monotonous reel of the
Grasshopper Warbler, so far as its pertinacity is concerned. This
latter noise is never heard unless the bird is sitting. The bird also
makes another sound whilst in the air, produced by striking its wings
smartly together; otherwise the flight of this species is remarkably
silent and Owl-like. It is by no means shy, and will hawk for insects
round our head, dart to and fro on noiseless pinions, or circle about
in chasing and toying with its mate, with little show of fear. The
wings of the male bird are marked with three white spots, one on each
of the first three primaries, and these are very conspicuous during
flight, as are also the white tips to the outermost tail-feathers.
This even applies to young males in their first plumage, although the
spots are buff instead of white. It is possible that these markings are
sexual recognition marks, enabling the female to follow or discover
the whereabouts of her mate in the gloom. The Nightjar breeds in May
or June, a little later in the north than in the south. It makes no
nest, but the hen bird lays her two curiously oval eggs on the bare
ground, sometimes beneath a spray of bracken or a furze bush, less
frequently on the flat low branch of a convenient tree. These eggs are
very beautiful, and he who finds them cannot confuse them with those
of any other species that breeds in our islands. They are generally
white and glossy, the surface mottled, blotched, streaked and veined
with various shades of brown and gray. The young are covered with
down--in this respect showing affinity with the Owls--but are otherwise
helpless, being fed by their parents not only during infancy, but for
some time after they can fly. The old birds show great solicitude for
them should they be disturbed, fluttering round the intruder's head,
and seeking to attract all attention to themselves. The Nightjar leaves
the northern shires in September for its winter quarters in Africa,
although it is by no means uncommonly observed quite a month later
in the extreme south and south-west of England. It is said, by the
way, that the Nightjar captures cockchafers with its feet, and that
its serrated middle claw is for this purpose. But this we have never
noticed, although we have had a life's experience with the bird, and
it seems more than doubtful when we bear in mind the extremely short
legs and comparatively weak feet of this species--so unlike those of
the Kestrel, which we know frequently catches these insects with its
feet. But we have lingered too long already with the Nightjar, and must
pass on to a notice of other birds upon the heath. The unusual interest
attaching to it must be our sole excuse.
Another very interesting little bird not unfrequently met with upon
the heaths, especially those where the soil is sandy and trees are
numerous around them, is the Wood-lark. Unfortunately the bird-catcher
has literally exterminated this species in not a few localities, the
bird's lovely song being the attraction. Here we have a species that
becomes rarer and more local in the northern shires than it is farther
south. The Wood-lark is not only a most industrious and persistent
singer, but is almost a perennial one. That is to say, in the south;
up here amongst the northern shires it seldom warbles during winter,
unless tempted into voice by exceptionally mild weather. Its regular
breeding song is not resumed so early in the year up here, and we
should say there is a month or more between the nesting season in north
and south respectively. We have known of Devonshire nests as early as
March, of Nottingham ones as late as May. Possibly this Lark is only
double-brooded in the more southern portions of its British range. The
birds seem much attached to certain spots, and, like the Tree Pipit,
seldom wander far from their nesting-grounds throughout the breeding
season. Unlike the Sky-lark, which very exceptionally indeed perches
upon a bush or a tree, the Wood-lark may be constantly seen high up
the branches. Indeed, like the Tree Pipit, the cock bird selects some
favourite branch, and here early and late he sits, and ever and anon
flies out and upwards to warble his rich and joyous song. There are
those who maintain that the song of the Wood-lark is even superior to
that of the Sky-lark. It may be to some extent a matter of taste, and
possibly they are right; but on the other hand the song of the Sky-lark
is far better known, more popular with the multitude, and we always
thinks it seems more cheerful, as it certainly is somewhat louder. The
Wood-lark has more flute-like music in his voice, more melody, and
even more continuity. There are not a few persons that confuse the two
birds together, although the Wood-lark may be readily distinguished by
its short tail, more rounded wing, and its habit of perching in trees.
One has only to watch the aerial songster long enough to notice the
latter peculiarity without fail. When once the bird has been surely
identified, the difference between the songs of the two species will
soon be impressed upon the listener, even though the species until then
had been unfamiliar to him. The bird will also warble just as sweetly
and just as continuously not only whilst sitting on the branches, but
when standing on the ground. We may also mention that the Wood-lark is
not so aerial as the commoner species, never ascending to such vast
elevations during the course of its song. This Lark becomes gregarious
in autumn like most, if not all, its congeners, and then wanders more
or less from its native heath. It builds an unassuming little nest upon
the ground, usually under the shadow of some bush or inequality of the
turf, composed of dry grass and lined with hair. In this it lays four
or five eggs, the markings on them being more distinct and scattered
than is the case with those of the Sky-lark. The latter species is
by no means an uncommon one upon the heaths, but after what we have
already said there need be no confusion between the two.
There are various other Passerine birds to be found in these
localities, due attention being given to the predominant vegetation.
The silvery-throated Whitethroat is a regular visitor each spring-time
to the thickets of briar and bramble; the Grasshopper Warbler may be
heard where the vegetation is most tangled, reeling off his seemingly
interminable chirping song, if in reality it is worthy of such a name
in the company of so many more sweet-voiced choristers. The Stonechat,
gay in his black-and-white and chestnut livery, perches on the topmost
sprays of the cruel-thorned gorse and eyes us suspiciously, with a
flicking tail and a harsh tac of welcome or resentment. The equally
beautiful Linnet, with swollen carmine breast, bears him company
amongst the gorse; whilst the Yellow Bunting may not unfrequently
be noticed crying his few monotonous notes time after time, and as
often answered by some rival near at hand, both of them perched as
high as possible on the stunted thorns or the silver-barked birches.
All through the early summer the cheery notes of the Cuckoo (not a
Passere, by the way) are a familiar sound on or near these heaths, and
now and then the blue-gray bird himself, looking all wings and tail,
may be seen skimming across to the distant belt of trees, or his mate
may be watched poking about the thickets in a suspicious sort of way
seeking some unprotected nest in which to drop her alien egg. One bird,
however, we miss from these northern heaths in particular, and that is
the Dartford Warbler. He seldom penetrates as far north as Yorkshire,
although we have taken his nest in a gorse covert within a few miles
of Sheffield. But that was long ago, and, truth to tell, we failed to
recognize the importance of our discovery for years afterwards, and
when nest and eggs had been lost. This Warbler is said to breed in
Derbyshire, but we have had no experience of it in that county. It is
interesting to remark that the species appears first to have been made
known to science from a pair that were shot on a Kentish heath near
Dartford, a century and a quarter ago. Few other British birds have,
therefore, a more unassailable right to their trivial name.
[Illustration: The Stone Curlew.]
That curious bird the Stone Curlew, perhaps equally as well known as
the "Thick-knee", is to be found on certain heaths as far northwards
as Yorkshire. It becomes more numerous possibly in Lincolnshire, and
thence it is generally dispersed over Norfolk and Suffolk and most
of the "home counties". Owing to drainage, the haunts of this bird
have become much more restricted than formerly, and in not a few
localities it has been exterminated completely. It loves the more open
and bare heath-lands, especially such as are interspersed with stony
and chalky ground and free from trees and brushwood, for cover is in
no way essential to its requirements. It derives safety in another
way. Its plumage of mottled brown is eminently protective on these
chalky heaths, and when alarmed, if it does not take wing, it quietly
crouches flat to the ground, extending its neck and head, which are
also pressed close to the soil, and there, perfectly motionless, it
awaits until danger is past, or until it is almost trodden under
foot, when it is reluctantly compelled to disclose itself. The Stone
Curlew is known by various local names, all more or less expressive
of some of its characteristics or relating to the haunts it affects.
That of Stone Curlew probably refers to the stony haunt and the very
Curlew-like appearance of the bird itself; whilst those of Norfolk
Plover and Stone Plover are indicative of a favourite resort of the
species in England and a more correct determination of its affinities,
for there can be no doubt that the bird is more closely allied to
the Charadriinæ than to the Scolopacinæ. Less happily the bird has
been called the "Thick-knee" because of the peculiar enlargement of
the tibio-tarsal joint, but this is not the "knee" in an anatomical
sense, but analogous to the ankle-joint in man. With more propriety,
therefore, if with less euphony the bird should be termed a
"Think-ankle", or a "Thick-heel". Lastly, it is known to some as the
"Thick-kneed Plover" or "Thick-kneed Bustard". In this latter case
popular judgment is to some extent supported by anatomical facts, for
the Stone Curlew is by no means distantly related to the Bustards,
certainly more nearly than to the Curlews. It is rather a remarkable
fact that the Stone Curlew is a migratory bird, when we bear in mind
that on both shores of the Mediterranean it is a sedentary species,
and that its food--worms, snails, beetles, frogs, and mice--might be
obtained in sufficient abundance in England throughout the winter.
In fact, there are many instances on record of this bird passing the
winter in England, although we should scarcely feel disposed to class
these individuals as indigenous to our country, but rather as lost and
wandering birds from continental localities. Be all this as it may,
the Stone Curlew visits us in spring to breed, arriving in April, and
returns south in autumn, leaving in October. Its large eyes (bright
yellow in colour) betoken it to be a nocturnal bird, and during the
night it obtains most of its food. It then often wanders far from its
dry parched native heath, and visits more marshy spots, especially
arable lands and wet meadows; sometimes lingering, both in going and
returning, to fly about the air uttering its loud and plaintive cry.
The Stone Curlew seems to be fully alive to the fact that the safest
hiding-place is often the most conspicuous and open one. In this matter
it resembles the Missel-thrush, which often builds in safety its bulky
nest in such an exposed spot that we marvel afterwards (when the young
are fledged and gone) how it could have escaped notice. Acting on this
principle the Stone Curlew, in May or June, lays its two eggs side by
side upon the barest of ground, and where their tints and markings so
closely resemble the yellow stones and pebbles scattered around them
that discovery is extremely difficult. The sitting bird renders the
deception more complete by running from the eggs at the least alarm
and leaving them to that almost perfect safety that their protective
colours ensure. These eggs are buff in ground colour, blotched,
spotted, or streaked with brown and gray of various shades. We ought
also to mention, by the way, that the artful bird selects, as a rule,
some little eminence for its breeding-place, where it can command a
good view of approaching danger and slip quietly away. We have heard
countrymen insist that the Stone Curlew will remove its eggs if it
becomes aware that they have been discovered, but we cannot vouch for
the accuracy of the statement.
We occasionally meet with three of our most familiar Game Birds upon
the heaths; perhaps we might add a fourth, as we include Lincolnshire
in our area of the northern shires, for there is some evidence to
suggest that the alien Red-legged Partridge is invading the latter
county. On many heaths the English Partridge lives at the present time,
and the harsh crow of the Pheasant is by no means an unfamiliar sound
in these localities, especially when they adjoin covers. This latter
bird is a confirmed wanderer, given to straying far from its usual
haunts. We have repeatedly noticed fine old cock birds on the moors,
miles from coverts. Whether these wanderers ever interbreed with the
Grouse we cannot say, and we are not aware that hybrids between these
species have ever been obtained or recorded. Lastly, the Black Grouse
has a weakness for the heaths, especially in localities where a belt
of timber adjoins them. Strange as it may seem, we must include the
Mallard as a heath bird. To mention one locality only where this bird
breeds regularly upon heaths we may name the Sherwood Forest area. We
have taken nests here far from water or wet ground of any description,
made amongst dead bracken; and what is also worthy of remark, these
nests were by far the handsomest we have ever seen of this Duck. They
were composed principally of down from the female's body, intermixed
with fronds of bracken, and were raised from eight to ten inches above
the surrounding ground. Here again we had another instance of nests
being most difficult to see in the barest localities. Some were made
where the bracken had been cut, amongst scattered green stems of the
new growth and upon green turf; and yet we can remember how we had to
look long and closely before we saw them, as they were actually pointed
out to us by a keeper acquaintance. In one instance--and that where the
nest was the most exposed of all--we could not see the nest, and did
not, until the big brown duck went lumbering off. Of course when the
nests were discovered they seemed conspicuous in the highest degree,
and we could do nothing but wonder how ever it was possible to overlook
them.
[Illustration: The Short-eared Owl.]
One more bird deserves notice ere we bring our survey of avine life
upon the heaths to a conclusion, and that is the Short-eared Owl.
This bird is quite cosmopolitan in its choice of a haunt. It is as
much a fen or a marsh, a gorse covert or a moor bird as it is a heath
one, apparently as much at home in one locality as another. We shall
have more to say about this species, especially its migrations, when
we come to deal with bird-life on the coast. But as this Owl breeds
upon the heaths, amongst other places, we may as well take this
opportunity of a peep at its domestic arrangements, and one or two
other characteristics, distinct from its migrational movements. Owls
are popularly supposed to be exclusive birds of darkness--crepuscular
and nocturnal; but the Short-eared Owl is a regular day-flier, and
may often be seen beating about in its own peculiar unsteady erratic
way during bright sunshine without any visible sign of inconvenience.
Neither does it seem ever dazed by the brilliant gleam of lighthouses,
but takes advantage of the glare to catch birds more susceptible to
the artificial light. During the autumn months especially we may meet
with this species in the most unlikely spots, amongst the sand dunes,
in turnip-fields, in wet meadows and saltings. The birds that breed
on the heaths, however--especially in the English shires--seem to be
sedentary. Although this Owl unquestionably feeds upon birds, say
up to the size of a Missel-thrush, as its diurnal habits apparently
suggest, there can be no doubt of its great usefulness to man in
killing off voles, mice, reptiles, beetles, and such-like destructive
pests. We need only point to the extraordinary numbers of this Owl
that congregated in Scotland some few years ago during the plague of
voles, and the way in which they preyed upon them, for an object-lesson
of this bird's usefulness to man. In the matter of its nesting the
Short-eared Owl presents us with another anomaly. Fully in keeping
with its love for open country and its partiality for daylight, it
nests upon the bare ground, and in this respect differs from all the
other British species. We say "nests", but in reality there is little
or no provision made for the eggs, beyond a mere hollow in which a few
scraps of withered herbage are strewn. The half-dozen creamy-white
eggs are, therefore, conspicuous enough in many places, though better
concealed in others when they are laid under bracken or amongst heath.
The sitting bird, however, crouches close over them, and shields them
from observation by her own protective-coloured plumage. These eggs are
usually laid in May in the northern shires, several weeks earlier in
more southern localities.
With a passing glimpse at some of the more interesting phases of
bird-life in the northern marshes we will bring the present chapter
to a close. The Bittern, formerly a dweller in them, has long been
banished from the bogs and mires not only of the northern shires,
but everywhere else in our islands, and exists now as a tradition
only--that is to say, as a breeding species. The Marsh Harrier--a
name sufficiently suggestive of the haunts it formerly affected--has
similarly disappeared from the two northern shires (Yorkshire and
Lancashire), where it formerly bred. One of the most widely-dispersed
birds in these marshy situations is the Water Rail--a species that is,
perhaps, more overlooked, owing to its secretive habits, than any other
found in our islands. It is astonishing what a small bit of marsh
or bog will content a Water Rail, provided there is a sufficiency of
cover. Like our old friend the Moorhen, it may also often be met with
wandering from its usual boggy retreats into such unlikely places as
gardens and farmyards. Although it is flushed with difficulty, it is
by no means uncommonly seen on open spots or even in the branches of
trees. In not a few heaths it is an almost unknown and unsuspected
dweller in the marshy drains and round the rushes that fringe the
shallow pools where peat or turf has been cut; indeed, we have met
with it almost within hail of some of our busiest towns. Its rather
bulky nest, made of a varied collection of dead and decaying herbage
and aquatic plants, is always placed upon the ground in some quiet
nook in its haunts, and its half-dozen or so eggs are buff in ground
colour, spotted with reddish-brown and gray. Though far more local than
the preceding, the Spotted Crake must also be included in our review
of northern bird-life. Unlike the Water Rail, however, it is a summer
migrant to the British Islands. Some individuals, however, appear to
winter with us in the southern counties. The migrants appear in April
in the south, several weeks later in the north. The habits of the
two species are similar in many respects. The Lapwing, the Redshank,
and the Common Snipe may also be met with in these situations, the
Redshank in summer only, when it retires to them to breed, seeking
the coasts in autumn; the others at all seasons. Amongst the Passerine
birds of the marshes we may instance the Sedge Warbler--one of the
most widely distributed of British species--the varied chattering
music of which is a very characteristic marsh sound during the summer.
At a few localities in Yorkshire and Lancashire the Reed Warbler may
be met with, a migratory species like the last, but not penetrating
to Scotland. Then the Reed Bunting is a familiar bird on many a
marshy waste, so too is the Sky-lark and the Meadow Pipit; whilst in
winter-time these places are often made lively by large congregations
of Lapwings, Starlings, Rooks and Redwings, and scattered Jack Snipes
from far northern haunts.
[Illustration: The Black-headed Gull.]
We may conclude our brief notice of marsh bird-life by a glimpse at
the Black-headed Gull. This charming bird visits many a swampy piece
of ground far from the sea during spring and summer to rear its
young. In Lincolnshire there is an extensive gullery near Brigg--at
Twigmoor--from which we have had many eggs during our long residence
in South Yorkshire. There is another in South Yorkshire near Thorne;
a third at Cockerham Moss in Lancashire. As we proceed northwards the
colonies of this Gull increase in number, and in Scotland they are
still more frequent. Many of these gulleries are situated on islands in
pools in the marshes and on the heaths. Not a few of them are almost
surrounded by trees of various kinds, and at the North Lincolnshire
settlement nests are not unfrequently made in the branches. We have
already described the colonies of the Black-headed Gull in previous
works, so that but few details are needed here. In Lincolnshire the
birds wander far and wide from their station near Brigg, and parties
of them may be met with on the fields many miles from home. The Gulls
are as regular in their habits as Rooks, with which we have often seen
them fraternizing, flying out to feed on the wet meadows, and following
the plough until evening, returning home in straggling streams just
like their sable companions. As we get near Brigg the birds become
more abundant in the fields; we remember, on one occasion, to have
seen a ploughed field black and white with Rooks and Gulls, many of
which when disturbed flew up from the furrows into the nearest trees;
and very curious the white Gulls looked--birds that we associate with
the water so closely--as they sat in the branches side by side with
cawing Rooks. Early in the year, and before the birds leave the coast,
the sooty-brown hood characteristic of the breeding season and of both
sexes begins to be assumed. In Devonshire this takes place nearly a
month earlier than in the north. In March they congregate at the old
familiar stations which have been in use from time immemorial, and
nest-building commences almost at once. The nests are ready for eggs
by the first or second week in April. These are generally made upon
the spongy ground of the marshy islands or on the marshes themselves,
and in many cases are little more than hollows lined with a little dry
grass. Other nests are bulkier, and these, we have often remarked,
are nearest to the water, or even in the shallow pools. The three
eggs are subject to much variation, but the ordinary type is brown or
olive-green in ground colour, spotted and blotched with darker brown
and gray. In many localities the eggs of the first laying are gathered
by the tenant or proprietor of the gullery, as they are sold in vast
numbers for food. Many, we know, are passed off as Plovers' eggs,
but the fraud we should say would never be successful with anyone
acquainted with the latter delicacy. The scene at the nests when the
place is invaded by man is a very charming one, the Gulls rising in
clouds into the air and wheeling about in bewildering confusion,
uttering their noisy cries of remonstrance. Even more animated does the
scene become when the young are hatched, for then the old birds show
much greater solicitude. An inland gullery always seems to strike us as
a trifle incongruous, for we are always apt to associate a Gull with
the sea; yet here, miles away from the salt water, often surrounded by
rural scenes, are Gulls in thousands as happy and contented as though
they had never been near a coast in their lives. When the young are
able to fly, however, the instinct of the sea apparently returns to
them, and back they go to the salt water to wander far and wide, and
lead a life of errantry until love brings them inland again in the
following spring.
CHAPTER V.
IN FOREST AND COPSE.
Perhaps the avifauna of the woods and coppices, in northern and
southern shires alike, is more similar in its general aspects than that
of any other special localities with the same difference of latitude
between them. Nevertheless there are southern species absent from these
northern woodlands, and others common enough up here that are not seen
in the counties of the south. Then again some species become rarer or
commoner in the north, as the case may be, or exactly the reverse; or
we shall find not a little difference in the habits of some of these
woodland birds, as compared with those of southern haunts, and also
in many cases considerable variation in the date of the arrival or
departure of migratory species.
We confess at the beginning of this chapter to a very decided
partiality for well-timbered districts, for woods and shrubberies,
grand old forests and more youthful coppices; for, apart from the
natural beauty of these sylvan spots, they are such favourite haunts of
birds. For many years we lived almost surrounded by woodlands, and in
some directions could wander for half a score miles or more amongst
little else but trees--hence our affection for these places, which we
got to know by heart, and in doing so became familiar with the rich
array of bird-life that dwelt in their shady depths. We also retain
many a vivid memory of wanderings in fir and pine wood farther north in
quest of ornithological information; whilst grand old Sherwood Forest
on one side of Sheffield, and equally attractive Wharncliffe Woods
on the other, were the scene of many an exploration after knowledge
relating to the bird-life of such localities. Then in other directions
we had the noble woodlands at Eccleshall, Beauchief, and Totley, and
along the Rivelin Valley--all of them nearer home, and all of them
well favoured with bird-life in great variety. These extensive woods,
however, are not favourite haunts of the smaller Passeres; rather are
they the home of Hawks, Magpies, Crows, Jays, Doves, Woodpeckers,
Pheasants, and so on; the coppices, plantations, smaller woods,
and well-timbered bottoms, together with extensive shrubberies and
tree-filled parks--these are the grand haunts of hosts of little birds
of many species, the varied habits of which were to us a constant
source of keenest delight. There is one charm about woodlands that
scarcely any other description of scenery can claim constantly, and
that is, summer and winter alike birds are plentiful amongst them. The
moors and the sea-crags, the shore and the stream, the marsh and the
heath, have their times of avine abundance, in summer or in winter, and
then they are more or less deserted, but the woods and shrubberies,
the coppices and timbered parks, are a haunt in summer and a refuge in
winter of a vast and varied bird population as well as an aviary of
almost perennial song!
These splendid woods ought to be the haunt of not a few raptorial
birds, but unfortunately they are not, as persecution has done
its disastrous work, and Kites and Buzzards and Hobbys have been
practically exterminated by the gamekeeper. Now the Kestrel and the
Sparrow-hawk are the only two that are left, at least in the localities
we have specified above. In some of the Scottish woods the Buzzard
still continues to breed; the Kite is restricted to one or two spots in
Wales and Scotland; whilst the Hobby, though still a nesting species
in Yorkshire and Derbyshire, is so rare that few observers will have
the good fortune to meet with it. Once more we would urge our plea
on behalf of these three species, all of them practically harmless
and inoffensive birds, yet threatened with absolute extermination if
the landed proprietors will not come to their assistance. An appeal
to powerful land-owners--the owners of vast areas of woodlands--is
possibly more effective than protective legislation, for in their
hands lies all the machinery for the effectual protection of such
species. Peremptory and strict orders to keepers should do all that is
necessary; we have a lifelong experience of such men, and can therefore
testify to their usual obedience to instructions, whether for good
or evil, as regards the so-called feathered vermin dwelling in their
preserves. We are therefore firmly convinced that the winning over of
the land-owner to the side of those who seek to preserve our avifauna
intact would be of more real benefit than any half-dozen acts of
parliament so long as it is nobody's business to enforce them.
[Illustration: The Common Buzzard.]
Of the three raptorial birds mentioned above the Common Buzzard (what
irony of fate for such a species to possess so misleading a name!) is
the only one of which we can record any personal experience within the
woodlands of Notts, North Derbyshire, and South Yorkshire, specified
above. This happened many years ago, notwithstanding which we retain a
very vivid remembrance of all the circumstances. We had spent the day
with an old poacher, who not unfrequently allowed us to accompany him
on his illegal wanderings (and we flatter ourselves on that subtle if
youthful diplomacy that enabled us to stand well with both gamekeepers
and poachers alike), fishing in prohibited waters, and were returning
homewards through a large wood, known locally as "the Rawlinson".
This wood stands just on the border-line of Derbyshire and Yorkshire;
in fact, the trout stream that flows through it we believe actually
divides the two counties. It used to contain many grand oaks, and was
always a favourite cover for Pheasants because of the many clumps of
holly-trees within it. In one of these oaks we spied a huge nest of
sticks, and our poacher companion, when this was pointed out to him,
volunteered the information that it was a "Big Hawk's" nest. Tired
and weary as we were, but incited by the possibility of finding some
hitherto unknown eggs, we set to work to climb the mast-like trunk for
some sixty feet. We can recall even now our frequent pauses for breath
as we slowly approached the spot; how the nest seemed to get larger and
larger as each succeeding branch was passed; and then how the big brown
bird slipped off with a flutter that made our heart beat fast with
anticipation; and how finally we reached the forking limbs where the
nest was built, and placed our arm over the rim of sticks and felt the
three warm eggs lying on the smooth lining. We climbed no higher, but
transferring the precious eggs to our hat, and encouraged by the old
rascal below--who would not have climbed so high for all the eggs in
Christendom--we got safely down. There was some outcry afterwards from
the keepers respecting the robbing of this nest, for they had intended
to trap the old birds, but we kept discreetly silent. During a long
residence in the neighbourhood we never saw or heard of another nest of
this Buzzard.
Notwithstanding persecution, the Kestrel and the Sparrow-hawk happily
can still be regarded as fairly common birds in all these woodlands.
Trapping and shooting do their best each year to hasten on their
extermination, but fortunately both birds breed in localities where
their nests are not so very easy to discover. The Kestrel is especially
fortunate in this respect, for it breeds in the deserted nests of
Crows, Stock Doves, and Magpies, or in the old drey of a squirrel, and
a good many of these nests may be searched without finding the one
selected; not only so, but the trees are generally in full foliage
before the eggs are laid or the young hatched, and this fact conduces
greatly to the concealment of many a nest. We can recall many occasions
when we have climbed to a score or more deserted nests in a single
day, amongst these grand old woods, on the off-chance of discovering
Kestrels' or Long-eared Owls' eggs, and considered ourselves well
rewarded if we found one or two at most occupied by these second
tenants. On the other hand, many have been the times when we have
seen keepers shoot into these old nests, as well as fire and kill the
brooding Hawk as she sat upon her eggs or sheltered her downy young,
in spite of all remonstrance upon our part. The Sparrow-hawk breeds
a little earlier. We have had a long and varied experience with the
domestic economy of this plucky little bird, and we have invariably
found that it not only builds its own nest, but makes a new one
every season. Indeed, in not a few cases we have noticed that when
its eggs have been taken from one nest it has built another in the
vicinity in which to lay a new clutch. The larch woods in the Rivelin
Valley--around Hollow Meadows--are, or used to be, a very favourite
resort of this Hawk, possibly because keepers were somewhat lax,
or never visited some of the coppices from one year to another. In
these larch and spruce-fir woods, many old nests of the Sparrow-hawk
might be seen, the deserted tenements of years and years. It was
also rather remarkable that most of these nests were in trees within
a stone's-throw of the artillery volunteers' target, and all around
them were larches and spruces snapped and splintered, and the ground
and rocks scored by the conical cannon-balls which lay in dozens all
over the place. From one nest in this wood we obtained, by careful
management, never quite emptying it, no less than fourteen eggs during
a single spring. Curiously enough upon more than one occasion we have
found a nest of the Goldcrest in the same spruce-fir as the nest of the
Sparrow-hawk.
Nowhere else in our experience were the Magpies allowed to live in
such peace as they enjoyed in this romantic valley. On the south side,
from Bell Hagg onwards to Hollow Meadows, was almost one continuous
woodland, coppice succeeding coppice, until they terminated in the
larch and spruce woods, where the Sparrow-hawks bred, and through which
Wyming Brook bored its way under a perfect archway of trees from its
source on the Bamford Moors near Redmires. Within this few miles of
timber we have frequently known as many as a dozen nests of the Magpie
all occupied. In not a few cases the old nest was returned to each
spring, renovated and used again. Some of these nests were made high
up in the oak and alder trees, others were placed in birch-trees, and
less frequently in a stunted white-thorn growing amidst the briars
and brambles and bracken and boulders of millstone grit on the open
rough land. Not a few were placed in the alder-trees that fringed the
streams between the reservoirs. The Jay, on the other hand, was a
scarce bird here, for the woods had little or no undergrowth, in which
that bird specially delights. In most other woods of our acquaintance
the Magpie was a sorely-persecuted species, and every bird and every
nest were destroyed that the keepers could discover. Several times
during the course of the spring many keepers hold a grand "vermin
battue". A keeper will gather round him half a dozen village loafers,
and then the precious party will proceed to hunt the covers, killing
every Magpie, Jay, or Hawk that comes in their way, and pulling out
every nest they can discover. We know the ways of these gentry only
too well, for years ago we often accompanied such a party, helpless
to save, yet glad to increase our knowledge of woodland bird-life.
Not a few nests have we seen on these occasions and held our peace,
or visited others containing young Hawks and Magpies which we have
saved by a fictitious report to the expectant keeper and his murdering
band below. In any case the slaughter at the close of the day was sad
enough; and as the capacious game-bags were emptied, and the Jays and
Magpies and Hawks, with perhaps an odd Nightjar or an Owl--beautiful
creatures each one of them, and some of the fairest avine ornaments our
woodlands can boast--were turned out into a heap by the kennel door,
we ceased to wonder why such species in not a few localities exist as
names or traditions only. Apart from any utilitarian motive that should
prompt their preservation--and mind, some of these birds are perfectly
harmless or of downright service to man--surely on æsthetic grounds a
universal plea should be raised for their protection, and such brutal
slaughter staid once and for ever.
As we previously remarked, the Jay is not so universally distributed
as the Magpie; it loves cover, and delights in such woods where the
undergrowth of hazel is dense and where clumps of holly-trees abound.
It is also fond of the large shrubberies and copses, especially such
as adjoin parks and well-timbered farm lands. We had Jays nesting more
or less commonly close to our residence, in the shrubbery attached to
Meersbrook Park--a famous spot for birds five-and-twenty years ago,
before the builder appeared upon the scene and before it became one of
the public parks of Sheffield. Here was established a fine rookery, and
the densely wooded grounds round what is now the Ruskin Museum were the
favourite haunts of Thrushes and Blackbirds, of Redwings and Bramblings
during winter, of Greenfinches, Bullfinches, Titmice, seclusion-loving
Warblers, Flycatchers, Robins, Wrens, and other birds. For many years
this half-wood half-shrubbery was our constant resort. The wary Rooks
got to know us most intimately, and never left the tree-tops or made
any unusual noise or disturbance as we wandered under the nests. But
let a stranger venture near and all was commotion and uproar at once.
The sable fellows would not allow me a companion; and whenever I walked
beneath the nest-trees accompanied by a friend the birds would be sure
to raise a prolonged chorus of protesting cries. We never knew a spot
where more birds came at nightfall during winter to roost amongst the
evergreens. For years we used to conceal ourselves in some favourite
spot and watch the interesting ways and doings of these mixed avine
hosts as they settled themselves to rest. In spring and summer it was
equally favoured as a nesting-place. Fortunately all bird-life here was
respected; every species was safe and welcome within this fair domain;
it was a sanctuary, a place of refuge for all birds irrespective of
their ill-deeds, their bad or shady characters. No gun was ever fired
within the sacred fences, and the birds could live their happy lives
in peace. Small wonder then that the Jay took kindly to such a haven
of safety and seclusion; and it was always a source of delight to
watch the troops of young birds and their parents, that in summer-time
used to troop about the underwood, patches of gaudy colour amongst the
green, and noisy and impudent as is ever their wont. In the earlier
years of our experience an odd Pheasant or two dwelt in this spot and
added to its interest; their disappearance was a sign of that coming
change that was to find its culmination in the more or less complete
banishment of bird-life from this chosen spot.
[Illustration: The Woodcock.]
Sherwood Forest, especially in the Dukeries and round about Edwinstowe,
was also another favourite woodland haunt of ours. Here, however, the
conditions were somewhat different. Game reigned supreme; the deity of
the woods was the Pheasant, and less favoured birds were harassed and
persecuted by the keepers. Notwithstanding this there is a good deal of
bird-life in the forest of surpassing interest to the ornithologist.
For instance, one of the most interesting colonies of Jackdaws in
our islands is established there. The birds have taken possession of
the hollow and ancient oak-trees--many of them mere shells of bark,
yet outwardly presenting a green and vigorous appearance and bearing
their heavy crops of acorns in the autumn--which for a thousand years
or more have stood in sunshine and storm upon ground made classic by
Robin Hood. Indeed, it requires little stretch of the imagination to
repeople these forest glades with the sturdy outlaws that tradition
says dwelt amongst them once upon a time, in open defiance of the
authorities, and fed sumptuously upon the deer and other game with
which the Forest abounded. Then the oak-trees were in their prime; now
they are gnarled and knotted and wrinkled, loaded with dead branches,
and full of hollows and crevices, the result of countless storms and
tempests. The adaptive Jackdaw has not been slow to seize upon such an
advantageous spot, and has multiplied apace. Many hundreds of nests
may be counted in one comparatively small area of the forest, and
some of the tree-trunks are literally choked with sticks from root to
summit, the accumulation of more years than any of us can remember.
Scattered amongst these Jackdaws is an almost equally extensive colony
of Starlings, many of these latter birds nesting in the same holes as
them. We have repeatedly found that some of the largest piles of sticks
contained no nest at the top--as if the original owners had finally
succumbed to old age, yet not before they had hoarded and left as a
monument to their many years of industry a cart-load or more of nest
materials. We have noticed the same thing in Rooks' nests, piles of
sticks a yard high or more, yet never occupied season after season,
until blown out by winter gales or filched by other members of the
community. The grand old timber here is also attractive to the Stock
Dove; and whilst we are examining the homes of the Jackdaws and the
Starlings, a Stock Dove every now and then dashes with impetuous haste
out of the holes and crannies. Rarest of all, we may sometimes stumble
across the home of the Tawny Owl. The keeper in this particular part
of the forest takes good care that Owls shall not live in it in peace,
nevertheless a fair number contrive to elude him. He had also tales to
tell of Hawks (possibly Hobbys and Buzzards) that formerly bred round
about his special beats, but "none of late years". More interested
was he in the Wild Ducks and Woodcocks that nested up and down the
forest, and much information he was disposed to impart concerning the
latter birds (about which he had several theories of his own) as we
used to sit in his wood-surrounded cottage and quaff his home-brewed
ale, which he was never tired of assuring us would never produce any
evil or intoxicating effects. Then after our chat and refreshment he
would be prevailed upon to wander out into the woodlands, after first
carefully taking down from its pegs the scrupulously clean pin-fire
breech-loader, and whistling to his favourite dog, and conduct us by
paths only known to himself to many a secluded spot where shy birds
were nesting. Here it might be a Pheasant's nest he would allow us
cautiously to approach, and peer down at the brown-mottled back of
the hen bird as she quietly brooded over her numerous eggs; there
a Wild Duck's nest out amongst the bracken would be pointed out;
whilst on rare occasions he would wander farther abroad into the most
secluded woodlands, and take us to inspect the home of the Woodcock
placed snugly under the bracken and brambles. Unfortunately, like
all his class, he was dead set against "vermin" of every kind, furred
and feathered, even including the squirrels that leapt about in the
branches overhead. Against these he had a particular aversion, for he
said they were "pestering varmints" that sucked every egg they could
find. In the more open parts of the forest, where the birch-trees
are abundant, we often used to find a nest of the Missel-thrush; not
that there was anything specially remarkable in this, but we never
saw a nest of this Thrush in Sherwood Forest without thinking of the
tradition that so inseparably connects the mistletoe with it. There
is no other district in our islands known to us where this parasitic
plant is so plentiful; it grows in huge bushes on the poplar trees, a
conspicuous object for miles across the country in the Dukeries, and
the white-thorns in some spots are thickly studded with it, best seen,
of course, during winter. And yet we have never noticed Missel-thrushes
in any exceptional numbers in this district, nor have we ever seen
them feeding upon the berries. Talking of the nest of this bird brings
to mind a fact we have remarked in at least two widely different
localities, and that is the number of nests that are sometimes built
quite close together. Along the streams in the Rivelin Valley they used
to be found in the alder-trees, perhaps half a dozen within a hundred
yards or so; whilst in the swampy corner of a wood at Norton we have
remarked several nests in adjoining trees. The prettiest nests of this
Thrush we have ever seen were from the Rivelin Valley, and composed
externally almost completely of sphagnum moss, amongst which a few
slender birch twigs were interwoven. We never found more than four
eggs in the nest of the Missel-thrush, and always consider that this
is the normal number, never less and never more. Indeed, the bird is
as regular in this respect as the Snipes, and more so, perhaps, than
any other Passerine species. The Carrion Crow, we are glad to say,
still manages to maintain a place in these northern woodlands, but in
not a few places he is yearly becoming scarcer. He is without doubt a
sad thief and a plundering rascal, yet in spite of all his dark deeds
we should be sorry to see him banished. His bulky well-made nest, to
which he returns, when left unmolested, year by year, is generally
placed far up one of the tallest trees in the wood. It is interesting
to remark, however, that he is a much later breeder in these northern
woods than in the southern shires. In Devonshire we have known the
Carrion Crow commence building in March, but in South Yorkshire the
eggs are not usually laid before the end of April or even in May.
Farther north, as readers may be aware, this species is gradually and
almost entirely replaced by the Hooded Crow, a bird that we have
already noticed. Birds of the Pigeon tribe are common in most of these
northern woods. Of these the Ring Dove is by far the most numerous--too
numerous for the farmers in not a few localities. Until we came south
we had scarcely any idea of how tame and trustful this species is when
left unmolested. We always knew it as one of the shyest and wariest
of birds, never allowing us to approach it within gunshot unless it
thought itself unseen, and best shot from an ambuscade in the woods or
during the evening when it came to certain favourite spots to roost.
Gamekeepers shoot a great many of these birds from the rough platforms
in the woods erected to scatter food upon for the Pheasants. The
Stock Dove is not so common, but this is perhaps because it is not so
conservative in choice of a haunt, and is therefore scattered over a
much wider area. In some parts of South Yorkshire and North Derbyshire
it is known as the "Rockier". We have few other birds that adapt
themselves to such a diversity of haunt, from the dense woods to the
bare warrens, quarries, and ocean cliffs. Both these birds are breeding
right through the spring and summer, well into the autumn. On the other
hand, the Turtle Dove is a summer visitor only to the woods; but it is
a local and somewhat scarce bird so far north as South Yorkshire. We
know it breeds regularly in the well-timbered country about Bawtry;
we have seen it in the Wharncliffe Woods, and occasionally in suitable
spots in North Derbyshire. It rarely reaches this northern fringe of
its British habitat before May, but in Devonshire it may frequently
be seen at the end of April. Its migrations, however, are somewhat
rapid, for there is not much difference between the date of arrival in
northern and southern counties alike. This Dove, like the Jay, loves
woods with plenty of undergrowth and fields that are surrounded with
tall uncut hedges full of trees. Its noisy love-cry in early summer we
always think is one of the most pleasing sounds of the green woods, but
unfortunately one that is not very frequent in our northern shires. Its
migration south begins in September.
[Illustration: The Black Grouse.]
Of the Game Birds of the woodlands we shall have little to say. The
Pheasant, of course, is the most familiar of all; comparatively
few observers are fortunate enough to meet with the magnificent
Capercailzie, and the Black Grouse is scarcely common enough to
be classed as a well-known one. We often think it would have been
better had the Romans left the Pheasant to its continental home, for
indirectly its introduction to our islands has caused many a beautiful
indigenous bird to suffer persecution. The Pheasant is by no means a
harmless bird; it works a good deal of mischief amongst the crops, as
many a poor struggling farmer knows; it would probably become extinct
in a few years were it not strictly preserved and its numbers increased
by artificial means; whilst it has been the cause of more ill-feeling,
crime, and absolute human bloodshed than any other bird in the British
Islands. The price we pay to maintain this alien amongst our avifauna
is a high one; its presence is purchased at the cost of countless
numbers of indigenous birds of greater and more effective beauty; its
protection is made an excuse for the incessant butchery of some of
our most interesting species. The introduction of exotic species into
any country is sure, sooner or later, to affect some portion of the
native fauna in a disastrous way; and yet there are writers--deeming
themselves naturalists--who urge the introduction of various gaudy
exotic birds, as if our woods and fields were not ornamented
sufficiently by what is normally there, and which surely have the right
to live--all Game Birds notwithstanding. We hear of no crusade against
Hawks, and Owls, and Crows, and such-like species in wild uncivilized
countries, and yet winged game is always abundant--at least until man
and his breech-loader comes upon the scene; and we maintain that our
indigenous Game Birds would well hold their own if all vermin were left
in peace, and would be the healthier and stronger for it. The alien
Pheasant we are not quite so certain about; but if not able to maintain
itself against such enemies, then these islands would be all the better
without it.
More interesting to the naturalist in these woods of the northern
shires are the Woodpeckers. All three British species are represented
in them, but the Green Woodpecker, the largest and showiest of all,
is decidedly the least common. Curiously enough the exact reverse is
the case in many a southern shire; in Devonshire, for instance, we may
see more Green Woodpeckers in a week than we might see in a year in
not a few of our northern woods. The two Spotted Woodpeckers are none
the less interesting, however, although unfortunately they are much
more difficult to discover, and apt to be thought much rarer than they
really are. The Lesser Spotted Woodpecker is by far the most restricted
in its distribution; indeed, we doubt if it is found at all north of
Yorkshire. The Greater Spotted Woodpecker ranges a little farther
north, but we are very near its normal limits in this direction in
Yorkshire. It is somewhat remarkable that the forests of Scotland are
devoid of Woodpeckers; whilst Ireland is equally unfortunate, none of
the three species being known to breed there. This seems all the more
extraordinary when we know that all three species breed up to much
higher latitudes on the Continent, the two Spotted species going up
to or beyond the Arctic circle, the Green species to a higher degree
than the Shetlands. We have met with the Lesser Spotted Woodpecker in
very small copses, and even in gardens and parks. During winter both
species may be met with amongst timber, which they never frequent
during the breeding season; in fact, they are given to wandering, and
may be detected during the cold months in almost every description
of well-timbered country. The habits of these birds are very similar,
and they all breed in holes, and lay shining white eggs. Rarer and
more local still is the curious Wryneck, a summer visitor only to our
islands, and finding no habitation at all in Ireland. Its arrival in
most places is usually coincident with that of the Cuckoo--hence in
not a few localities it is known as the "Cuckoo's Mate". Here again we
have a bird that is much overlooked, its chaste and sober colouring
(yet exquisitely beautiful in detail) and its shy and retiring ways
and love for the timber all assisting in its concealment. The Wryneck
is something of an anomaly. Internally it resembles the Woodpeckers
(the Wrynecks form a sub-family of the Picidæ); its plumage is mottled
and dusted and pencilled like that of a Nightjar; its tail-feathers
are soft and flexible; it rarely, if ever, climbs the timber, and hops
about the slender branches like the typical Passeres. These external
characteristics are, however, quite in harmony with its ways of life.
[Illustration: The Greater Spotted Woodpecker.]
Among the more familiar Passerine birds of the woodlands we may
first allude to the Titmice. They are the special small birds of the
trees, and every British species--if we exclude the abnormal Bearded
Titmouse--is found amongst them. Not only so, but the northern woods in
certain parts of Scotland are the exclusive home of the Crested Tit--a
bird that we saw on one occasion near Sheffield. Few woods in our
experience more abounded with Titmice than the birch and alder coppices
along the Rivelin Valley, especially in autumn, and invariably mingled
with them at that season were flights of migrant Goldcrests. Allied
to the Titmice we also have the soberly arrayed little Creeper, and
the more showy plumaged Nuthatch. The latter, however, is exceedingly
local in our Yorkshire woods, and we are not aware that it breeds to
the north of the county, or that it is found at all in Ireland. The
Nightingale penetrates as far north as the Plain of York, perhaps
exceptionally beyond, but it is rare enough in the neighbourhood of
Sheffield, and we never had the good fortune to meet with it there
during a residence of nearly twenty years, although we know the Sedge
Warbler has not unfrequently been mistaken for it. A member of one
of the allied genera, however, is common enough, we mean the gay and
lively Redstart--the showiest, perhaps, of all the migrant band. In the
coppice just above Bell Hagg the Redstart was very common. The Wheatear
bred in the quarries there, but the Redstart loved the range of rocks
that ran bulwark-like along the valley above the copse. We used to find
its nest in the crevices of these rocks, as well as in holes among the
birch-trees. We remember one nest in a decayed birch that contained
eight eggs ranged neatly round in rows; another beneath the rock, at
the top of Blackbrook, that bears an inscription to the effect that
upon it Elliott the "corn-law rhymer" used to sit and write his poetry.
Both Redstart and Wheatear are only birds of summer in our islands,
the latter arriving perhaps a week before the former, in April. The
three species of Willow Wren must also be included in this brief résumé
of bird-life in the northern woods. Commonest of this charming trio
we must class the Willow Wren. Our northern woods from April onwards
are a specially chosen haunt of this delicate-looking little bird. It
abounds in most, from the borders of the moors right up to the suburbs
of the grimy northern manufacturing towns, and its sweet little refrain
is one of the most familiar songs of the spring. Next, perhaps, in
order of abundance we should place the Wood Wren, the largest, and at
the same time the showiest of the three species. It is interesting
to know that for more than two hundred years we have records of the
Wood Wren in what are now the western suburbs of Sheffield. Francis
Jessop of Sheffield sent an example of the Wood Wren to Willughby,
and Ray published a description of it in his _Ornithologia_, one of
the earliest works dealing with British birds. The Wood Wren is the
most attached to the woods of all the three species, and its peculiar
shivering "song" is a familiar sound from the tree-tops throughout the
spring and summer. Lastly, we have the Chiffchaff, certainly the rarest
and most local of all. In the south-west of England the reverse is
the case, and there its monotonous cry may be heard from the close of
March onwards to September. It does not, however, reach the northern
shires until the first or second week in April, although we have a
Sherwood Forest record for March. All these birds build more or less
domed nests, usually on the ground, and often in woods (the Chiffchaff
sometimes makes its nest some distance from the ground), the Willow
Wren and the Chiffchaff lining theirs with feathers, but the Wood Wren
contents itself with fine grass and hair. The Wood Wren is the latest
to arrive towards the end of April, and departs the earliest in autumn;
the Willow Wren leaves us in September, the Chiffchaff not unfrequently
lingering on into October. It should be remarked that not only the
Willow Wren but the Chiffchaff are not by any means confined to woods,
but are equally common in gardens, orchards, hedgerows, and thickets.
CHAPTER VI.
IN FARM AND GARDEN.
One of the greatest charms about bird-life of the farm and garden is
its great variety. Any person who cares to go the right way to work
can acquire a very fair ornithological education in such places, a
large percentage of our best-known birds being found in them at one
time of the year or another. It was our good fortune for a great many
years to ornithologize upon several hundreds of acres of farm land of
the most diversified character; whilst an additional advantage was the
fact that we had to contend with no high-farming, the greater portion
of it being worked on the good old slovenly plan--weedy corners, long
stubbles, uncut hedges, and general untidiness--so attractive to birds.
Almost every possible description of cover could be found. We had high
ground, sheltered valleys, wooded bottoms, plenty of timber in field
and hedgerow, trout streams and sunk fences, patches of bog, and great
thickets of briar and bramble in unused corners; large stackyards,
plenty of old sheds and buildings, some of them covered with ivy, and
an abundance of evergreens round about the homesteads, which were in
some cases surrounded by orchards and old-fashioned gardens. We have
only to add that large woods adjoined here and there, together with
smaller plantations and shrubberies in some of which rookeries were
established, and also that gamekeepers were absent and much of the
surrounding property was unpreserved as regards game, to complete the
brief description of an ideal haunt for wild birds. Unfortunately we
lived long enough near this avine paradise to see much of it destroyed,
turned over to the builder, and bird-life banished. Those who remember
the quaint old village of Heeley (now, alas! a suburb of Sheffield) in
the days before the railway, when the mail-coach passed through twice
a day and caused the only commotion, when the old flour-mill driven by
water, with its tree-surrounded dam, stood where the railway-station
does now, may perhaps recall the matchless sylvan beauty of Meersbrook,
the Banks, and the old hall at Norton Lees. Much of it now has been
transformed into a wilderness of bricks and mortar. There are many
other similar spots about the northern shires in which the annual cycle
of bird-life is much the same--at least we have found it so--and in the
present chapter we propose to outline some of its most salient features.
Perhaps the most familiar birds of the open fields, especially in
spring, are the Rooks. They may be found on every kind of field in
turn. They visit the grass-lands, especially when manure is being
spread; they are constant companions of the ploughman's team, and
search furrow after furrow as the bright share turns over the brown
earth; whilst all the newly-sown patches are sought for any seed
that may chance to be within reach. In seed-time Rooks are certainly
troublesome, and usually one or two of the marauders have to be shot
and hung up from stakes on the scene of their misdeeds as a warning to
the rest before the pilfering ceases. And yet happy is the farmer that
has a rookery within easy distance of his land. The birds will increase
its value and fertility by ridding pasture and arable land of countless
insect pests, and for nine or ten months out of the twelve wage a
never-ending war upon the real enemies of his crops. Many farmers we
have known will admit that the Rook is of service; others have been
converted into staunch friends of the bird after we have satisfied
them by ocular demonstration of the number of wire-worms a healthy
hearty Rook will devour in the course of a morning. Very beautiful
these birds look in their purple-black plumage, almost as polished as
bright steel, in the sunlight as they walk about the ploughed fields
and pastures. And then their home in the cluster of elm-trees yonder
is a place fraught with interest if full of noise. Towards the close
of February, or, if the weather be still inclement, not until the
beginning of March, and at least a fortnight or three weeks later
than in Devonshire, the Rooks begin to tidy up their big nests in the
slender branches at the tree-tops. Others, less fortunate, commence to
build entirely new nests. But this building is by no means universal
for a week or more; the mania for collecting sticks and turf has not
yet spread through the entire colony, and numbers of birds may be
seen looking on with indifference at the efforts of more industrious
neighbours. What a noisy animated scene the old rookery is for the
next month, until the eggs are laid in the big massive nests; then
there is comparative quietness until the young are hatched, when the
noisy clamour begins again with greater volume until nestlings and
parents get on to the adjoining fields. They return in many cases to
the nest-trees to roost, and then each evening the din is deafening as
troop after troop of tired birds come straggling in from all directions
and caw themselves hoarse before dropping off to sleep in the tall
trees.
[Illustration: The Rook.]
Another familiar bird of the farm is the Starling--a species that does
not reveal its beauty unless examined minutely. There are few birds in
this country more gorgeously arrayed with metallic sheen than a fine
old cock Starling in the full flush and vigour of spring plumage. His
lemon-yellow bill at this season also increases the effect. As harmless
as it is useful, it keeps close company with the Rooks, although it
shows little inclination to follow those birds on to the arable land;
it loves the grass fields and manure heaps, being somewhat of an
unclean feeder. Then it always selects a covered site of some kind for
nesting purposes, being most adaptive in this respect. We used to place
boxes for its accommodation in the trees; and we have known a disused
pigeon-cot fastened to a high wall packed to its utmost capacity with
nests. Few birds are more attached to their breeding-place. For many
years a pair of Starl
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