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 onthe 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 abundantin 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, arepassed 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 couldwander 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 thesea-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 protectionof 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.
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 theinformation 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 breedin 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. Thelarch 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 nearRedmires. 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 visitedothers 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 thebuilder 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 placeof 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.
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—manyof 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 hadhoarded 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 firstcarefully 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 yardsor 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 thatwe 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 aboutBawtry; 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.
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; itwould 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 ofall, 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 coldmonths 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 andretiring 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.
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. TheNightingale 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 Aprilonwards 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 hisOrnithologia, 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 sometimesmakes 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 befound 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 ofFebruary, 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 nestlingsand 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.
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 Starlings bred in a hole in a tall elm-tree in one of the fields. From this nest we actually obtained forty eggs in a season, and sometimes for a couple of years in successionthe birds did not succeed in raising a brood. Every summer the Starlings of the entire district gathered into one or two large flocks, and these came evening by evening to roost in a cluster of white-thorns until the late autumn, when they changed their quarters to the evergreens close by. Another thing that endears the Starling to us is its perennial song. Few other song-birds make so much fuss over their music as the Starling. Action of some kind seems always essential to vocal effort; and the way he erects almost every feather, or sways about or stands in some grotesque attitude, during his periods of song is most entertaining. The House Sparrow is another familiar bird of the farm and garden. Unfortunately he is far too common for most farmers, especially in the vicinity of large towns and villages; and the way these pilfering birds will thresh out a field of wheat or oats is literally surprising. Friends of the Sparrow, usually utterly ignorant of its habits and the serious mischief it can do, cannot understand the farmers' indignation, and are always protesting against its wanton slaughter. But then there is reason in all things, and in grain-growing districts the bird should be kept down. The boy with his clappers amongst the corn may, if he conscientiously sticks to his work (and this rarely happens), keep the vast flocks of Sparrows on the move, but the birds will gorge themselves with grain meantime;whilst shooting round the fields is little more effective, for the feathered thieves soon desert the hedge-sides and settle in the centre of the crops, where it is next to impossible to dislodge them, or to alarm them by repeated discharges of the gun. The Sparrow nuisance is philosophically endured by many farmers, and regarded, like the weather, as beyond their control. In some cases we have known farmers absolutely cease growing corn at all because the birds take such a large proportion of the crop! Here the usefulness of the Sparrow-hawk becomes only too apparent, but the keepers shoot that bird down—every one they can reach—and the Sparrows have things all their own way.
The Brambling.
There are many other birds of the Finch tribe frequenting farm and garden. The Chaffinch, one of the handsomest of all, is also one of the commonest, and his sprightly song is one of the most cheering harbingers of spring the fields can boast. The resumption of song by the Chaffinch offers an interesting contrast between the habits of individuals of the same species in northern and southern shires respectively. In Yorkshire the music of this bird is seldom or never heard before the first week in March; in Devonshire it is familiar enough in the early days of February, and may sometimes be detected towards the close of January—a remarkable instance of the effect of climate upon avine song.Another thing we have remarked in this species, and that is its much handsomer nests in Yorkshire than in Devonshire. We never found much garniture of paper, lichen, and cocoons on nests in the latter county; in fact, the faculty of mimicry does not seem so pronounced in these southern individuals. During winter the northern shires are invaded by vast flocks of Chaffinches, presumably from continental areas. Upon their first appearance in November these flocks are almost entirely composed of males; the females arrive later, and before the winter is over the sexes are more or less intermixed. The Brambling, of course, we have as a winter visitor only. We have repeatedly remarked theregularity with which this bird returns to certain winter quarters. For years and years we have known flocks to arrive in November—practically about the same time as the migratory Chaffinches—and take up their quarters in certain woods and shrubberies, where they used nightly to roost throughout the winter, spending the day on the surrounding open fields. Redwings also frequented the same places in similar large companies, the natural inference being that all these birds were from the same continental localities, and followed the same route inland from the coast, although the latter birds were always the first to appear towards the end of October. The Bullfinch we have always with us, but in small and apparently decreasing numbers. For this the rascally bird-catcher is largely to blame. To the naturalist there are few more irritating persons than a bird-catcher. We would sooner tolerate a shooter, for he at least kills the bird and has done with it, and the discharge of his gun at intervals makes the birds alert and wary. But the bird-catcher by his sly insinuating methods will carry off a dozen birds where a gunner might not get more than one. He is at his nefarious business early and late in a certain spot so long as he knows a single bird worth catching remains in it. His nets close upon all birds alike—birds he prizes and birds he cares nothing about, cocks and hens and youngindiscriminately; all are caged and carried off, to a worse fate by far, in most instances, than sudden dissolution from a shot-gun. It is true the bird-catcher must ply his wretched business with due regard to an all too brief close time; but this in not a few cases he ignores, and thus still further constitutes himself the scourge of the fields and hedgerows. We invariably remarked that Bullfinches retired to the cover of shrubberies and gardens to breed. During the remainder of the year they kept to the hedgerows, especially such as contained plenty of weeds beside them, almost invariably in pairs, one bird trooping in undulating flight after the other, and both made very conspicuous by the white rump. The Hawfinch was much rarer. This shy bird loves the small plantations, but in fruit time comes into the gardens near its usual haunts. We should class it as perhaps the most local of the Finches (with the possible exception of the Siskin) in the northern shires of England, whilst north of these it seems almost everywhere to be a winter visitor only. During winter flocks of Crossbills are occasionally met with, but they are no common feature of the bird-life of farm and garden in Yorkshire or Derbyshire. The Tree Sparrow is another very local and uncommon species, and especially during the breeding season. We have records of odd nests made in holes in trees on some of the farms, but we find itmore frequent in wilder localities. In winter it sometimes visits the farmyards, and we have noticed it mingled with flocks of Lesser Redpoles on the stubbles and clover fields in late autumn. The Linnet, with its close allies the Twite and the Lesser Redpole, are familiar winter visitors to the fields, wandering about in flocks, each usually composed of a single species. As we have already seen, the Twite is a common bird in summer upon the moors; in autumn it leaves them in companies for the fields. In its habits the Linnet is very similar. All the winter through large flocks—sometimes numbering many hundreds of birds—resort to certain weed-grown pastures and stubbles, where they spend most of the day upon the ground in never-ending quest of tiny seeds. If alarmed, they rise somewhat in straggling order, but quickly bunch together and resort to some tree-top, from which they again descend in scattered numbers. Their twittering chorus whilst in the trees is very remarkable, and the observer will note that this becomes much more musical and prolonged as the spring approaches. The birds then quit the fields and retire to the higher ground gorse coverts and roughs near the moors where they breed. The Lesser Redpole, to our mind, is the most charming of the three. It is, of course, most numerous on our Yorkshire and Derbyshire farms during winter, when itcongregates upon them in flocks that frequent much the same localities as the Linnets and Twites. But it is not exclusively confined to these spots, as we shall see in a later chapter (conf.p. 189). Many odd pairs of Redpoles linger behind on these northern farms to breed, making their exquisite little cup-shaped nest in the hedges towards the end of May. This pretty nest, combined with the short pleasing song of the male bird, and the utter trustfulness of both sexes, summer and winter alike, endear the Redpole to us in a way that few other species do. It is decidedly a bird of the northern shires, becoming rarer and more local through the midlands, and only breeding here and there farther south. Both Goldfinch and Greenfinch also require passing notice. The former bird is another that has been almost exterminated by the rascally bird-catcher; still, it is observed in sufficient numbers to render it familiar in many a garden and hedgerow. Perhaps they are most frequently remarked during winter, when, in pairs, they love to haunt the weed-grown wastes and the sides of the fields where thistles and docks are abundant. The Greenfinch is much more common, but here again we remark a change of habitat with the season, the birds quitting the open fields for shrubberies and gardens as the breeding season approaches. Notwithstanding this, however, a good many nests are made in the hedges in the fields, inthe white-thorn by preference. We have also found many nests of this Finch placed at high elevations in elm-trees, especially about the farm lands. Occasionally a Siskin may be remarked in company with Redpoles on the stubbles and wild weed-grown pastures, but as a rule this engaging little species confines itself to the trees along the river-side during its winter sojourn in Yorkshire, and there we shall meet with it in the following chapter. Some of these Finches, those that breed within the limits of farm and garden, betake themselves to the fields of mowing grass in June, the House Sparrow especially; and then when the hay is cut or the wheat and oats are sufficiently forward they pass on to the corn-fields to renew their depredations.
From the Finches to the Buntings is not a very great stride in avine classification, and the latter birds are common enough upon the farm. That is to say, a single species only, during summer, namely, the Yellow Bunting. The Cirl Bunting is absent from the northern shires, and the Common Bunting is far more local than his name suggests, occurring most frequently in the maritime localities. In winter we have the Snow Buntings in localized flocks upon the fields, very capricious in their appearance, and sometimes not being seen for several years in succession. We can recall a very large flock of these Buntings that frequented some pasture fields at Endcliffe,quite close to grimy Sheffield, but unfortunately they were sadly reduced in numbers by local gunners during the winter of their stay. The Reed Bunting also visits the farm during this season, and we have from time to time detected them amongst the ricks with Sparrows and other hard-billed birds in severe weather. The Yellow Bunting, however, is the one familiar Bunting of the farm in most parts of Yorkshire and Derbyshire. It is one of our showiest native birds, and, as is usually the case, what it gains in colour it loses in melody. There are few bird-songs of the field and hedgerows more monotonous than that of the “Yoldring”, as the Yorkshire lads call him, and yet the oft-repeated refrain has a genuine ring of spring about it. This song usually commences about the beginning of March in the north of England, but in the southern counties it is not unfrequent in February, another instance of climatic influence. We all of us know the yellow-crowned musician, sitting on the top of the hedge or in some wayside tree, trilling his simple lay; we most of us know his rustic nest on the bank of the hedgerow, and his mate’s four or five curiously-scrawled eggs—a peculiarity which has gained for him the local name of “Writing Lark” in not a few country places. There are also many birds of the Thrush tribe to be met with in farm and garden—indeed every British species might be included, if we except the Ring-ouzel; buteven that one is occasionally seen on the meadows and about the fruit-gardens on its way to and from the moors where it breeds. Song Thrush and Missel-thrush and Blackbird frequent almost every hedge and field at one time of the year or another, nesting commonly in these places, the Stormcock showing the only partiality for the trees. Then in autumn—in October—comes the Redwing from Scandinavian fell and forest, followed in November (sometimes as early as mid October) by the Fieldfare from the same far northern lands, both species frequenting farm and garden alike, the former delighting in the wet meadows and grass-lands, the latter showing a stronger preference for the hawthorns, holly-bushes, and other berry-bearing trees. By the end of September the Missel-thrush has gathered into flocks of considerable size. But this gregariousness is continued for scarcely three months, and for the remainder of the winter the birds live in pairs or small parties, or attach themselves to companies of Fieldfares. We find a marked difference in the duration of the melody of the Song Thrush between birds inhabiting the northern and southern shires. In Devonshire, for example, this Thrush warbles throughout the year, except during the moult; in Yorkshire it may be heard to sing in September (chiefly young birds), and occasionally in October, but during the three succeeding months itremains mute, resuming its song the following February. It is interesting to remark that the Blackbird in both northern and southern shires does not regain its song after the moult until the following February, and even then, in both latitudes, it is by no means a regular or a constant singer before March. Indeed the Song Thrush is to a very great extent migratory in the northern shires, its place being partially taken by the Redwing. In South Yorkshire, as I remarked twenty years ago, the birds are almost all gone early in November. They return, sometimes in companies, by the end of January or the beginning of February. There is also a very marked decrease in the number of Blackbirds in the late autumn, the birds reappearing early in February. Possibly some of the Song Thrushes migrate into the south-western counties, and to this fact is due the exceptional abundance of this species in Devonshire during winter.