Chapter 2

Pheasants

These general principles once realized, a foundation is laid on which one may base observations on the peculiarities of flight distinguishing different types of birds.

Most of us, probably, at one time or another, in taking a walk through the woods, have been startled, almost out of our wits, by a sudden “whirr” of wings at our very feet; made by some crouching pheasant, waiting till the very last moment before revealing himself, by taking flight. This alarming noise is due to the shortness and stiffness of the quill, or flight-feathers. With pinions moving with incredible speed, the bird is off like a rocket. Not seldom, probably, it owes its life to this ability to disconcert its enemies, till it has put a safe distance between itself and danger. By way of contrast, let us take the absolutely silent, easy movements of the owl, stealing forth in the twilight of a summer’s evening, seeking whom he may devour. Here, again, we have a meaning in the mode of flight. Here silence is more than golden: it means life itself. Nimble-footed, sharp-eared mice and rats, must be snatched up before even the breath of suspicion can reach them. The uncanny silence of this approach is rendered possible, only by what may be called a “muffling” of the wings. For the flight-feathers are not only of great breadth, but they are covered, as it were, with velvet-pile, the “barbules” of the wing-quills, which form the agents by which the “web” of the quill is held together, having theirupper spurs produced into long, thread-like processes, which extinguishes any possibility of a warning “swish.”

John Bright, in one of his magnificent perorations, caused his spell-bound listeners to catch their breath, when, conjuring up a vision of the Angel of Death, he remarked “we can almost hear the rustle of his wings.” One realizes the vividness of that imagery, when one hears, as on rare occasions one may, the awe-inspiring rustle of the death-dealing swoop of the falcon, or the sparrow-hawk, as he strikes down his victim.

But the swish, and whistle of wings often stirs the blood with delicious excitement, as, when one is out on some cold, dark night, “flighting.” That is to say, awaiting mallard passing overhead on the way to their feeding ground, or in watching the hordes of starlings, or swallows, settling down to roost in a reed-bed. No words can describe these sounds, but those to whom they are familiar know well the thrill of enjoyment they beget. There is no need, here, to muffle the sound of the wing-beat. The falcon vies with the lightning in his speed, escape is well nigh hopeless: neither have the swallows need for silence; indeed, on these occasions, they add, to the music of their wings, the enchantment of their twittering.

So much for flight in its more general aspects. Let us turn now to a survey of some of the more remarkable forms of flight, beginning with that known as “soaring.”

This but few birds have mastered, and to-day it is rarely to be seen in our islands, for eagles, falcons, and buzzards are, unfortunately, only to be found in a few favoured localities. Happily, however, one may yet realize the delight of watching a soaring buzzard, or raven, among the hills of Westmorland, or in parts of Cornwall and Wales. But to see the past-masters in the art, one must seek the haunts of pelicans, vultures, and adjutant storks. The last-named is perhaps the finest performer of them all. For the first hundred feet or so he rises by rapid and powerful strokes of the wings, and then, apparently without the slightest effort, or the suspicion of a wing-beat, he sweeps round in great spirals, gaining some ten or twenty feet with each gyration, the wings and tail all the while being fully extended and the primary feathers widely separated at their tips. During the first part of every turn he is flying slightly downward: at the end of the descent he sweeps round and faces the wind, which carries him upward. Round, round, he goes, mounting ever higher and higher, until at last he attains a height of perhaps two miles.

The adjutant thus goes aloft apparently for the mere delight the movement affords him. But not so with the vulture, who is a close rival in this art. He soars for his very existence, for dead bodies are not to be found everywhere. Possessing powers of sight infinitely greater than ours, he mounts aloft for the purpose of taking observations. If nothing “toothsome” can be seenfrom his vast range, he turns his attention to the movements of such of his fellows as may be up on the same errand miles away. Should he see one swooping earthwards he instantly tracks him down, and is soon at the feast. This accounts for the mysterious way in which vultures will gather together to the feast, in a place where an hour ago not one was to be seen. A caravan of camels, perchance, is making its toilsome way across a burning desert. One falls by the way. In a few hours its bones will be picked clean by a horde of these ravenous birds.

Longfellow sang the song of the vultures hunting in stately verse:—

"Never stoops the soaring vultureOn his quarry in the desert,On the sick or wounded bison,But another vulture, watchingFrom his high aerial look-out,Sees the downward plunge and follows,And a third pursues the second,Coming from the invisible ether,First a speck, and then a vulture,Till the air is thick with pinions."

Black-game.

Darwin, in his wonderful “Journal of a Voyage Round the World” gives a marvellously vivid word-picture of the largest, and most interesting of all the vultures, the Condor of the Andes—one of the largest of flying birds, having a wing-span of something over nine feet:—

"When the condors are wheeling in a flock round and round any spot, their flight is beautiful. Except when rising from the ground, I do not recollect ever having seen one of these birds flap its wings. Near Lima, I watched several for nearly half an hour, without once taking off my eyes; they moved in large curves, sweeping in circles, descending and ascending without giving a single flap. As they glided close over my head, I intently watched, from an oblique position, the outlines of the separate and great terminal feathers of each wing; and these separate feathers, if there had been the least vibratory movement, would have appeared as if blended together; but they were seen distinctly against the blue sky. The head and neck were moved frequently, and, apparently, with force, and the extended wings seemed to form the fulcrum on which the movements of the neck, body, and the tail acted. If the bird wished to descend, the wings for a moment collapsed; and then again expanded with an altered inclination, the momentum gained by the rapid descent seemed to urge the bird upwards with the even and steady movement of a paper kite. In the case of any birdsoaring, its motion must be sufficiently rapid, so that the action of the inclined surface of its body on the atmosphere may counterbalance its gravity. The force to keep up the momentum of a body moving in a horizontal plane in the air (in which there is so little friction) cannot be great, and this force is all that is wanted. The movement of the neck and body of the condor, we must suppose, is sufficient for this. However this may be, it is trulywonderful and beautiful to see so great a bird, hour after hour, without apparent exertion, wheeling and gliding over mountain and river."

Those who “go down to the sea in ships” have to face many perils, but the “wonders of the great deep” are for them a lure. One of these is to watch the marvellous “sailing” flights of the wandering albatross. His wings have, when expanded, a peculiarly “ribbon-like” form, and measure from tip to tip, over eleven feet—thus exceeding that of the condor, which, however, is the heavier bird of the two. The “ribbon-like” form of the wings is due to the extreme shortness of the flight-quills—the primaries and secondaries, and the great length of the arm and fore-arm. And it may be to these structural peculiarities that the “sailing” flight just alluded to is due. Resembling soaring in many of its aspects, yet it differs materially in that it is performed low down, not at immense heights. The most graphic description of these movements is surely that of Mr. Froude: “The albatross,” he tells us, "wheels in circles round and round, and for ever round the ship—now far behind, now sweeping past in a long rapid curve, like a perfect skater on a perfect field of ice. There is no effort; watch as closely as you will, you will rarely see, or never see, a stroke of the mighty pinion. The flight is generally near the water, often close to it. You lose sight of the bird as he disappears in the hollow between thewaves, and catch him again as he rises over the crest; but how he rises, and whence comes the propelling force, is, to the eye, inexplicable; he alters merely the angle at which the wings are inclined; usually they are parallel to the water and horizontal; but when he turns to ascend, or makes a change in his direction, the wings then point at an angle, one to the sky, the other to the water."

One sometimes hears the skylark described as “soaring” upwards, when performing that wonderful musical ride which has made him so famous. But as, spell-bound, one listens to his rapturous strains, and watches his spiral ascent, one cannot help noticing that his wings are never still, they seem almost to be “beating time” to his music. In true soaring they are scarcely ever moved.

The upward progress of a bird when soaring is, of necessity, comparatively slow. But in what we may call “plunging” flight the case is very different, for here the velocity of the descent is great.

The frigate-birds of tropical seas, and the gannet of our own, display this mode of flight to perfection. It is worth going far to see a gannet dive. Travelling at a relatively considerable height, and eagerly scanning the surface of the water for signs of a shoal of fish, this amazing bird dives with the speed of lightning, and with half-spread wings disappears with a terrific plungebeneath the surface, to emerge, an instant later, with his prey. One can measure the force of such a plunge by the cruel trick, sometimes played by fishermen, of fastening a herring to a board, and setting it adrift where gannets are about. The unsuspecting victim descends as usual upon his prey, only to meet instant death by the shock of his impact with the board. Those who talk glibly of identifying birds by their flight may point to this wonderful diver as a case in point. But while one may often see the gannet on the wing, it is by no means so often that one will have the good fortune to see him dive, for he is not always hungry. His white body, pointed tail, and black quill-feathers would then enable the novice to name him at once. But—in his immature plumage, he would, at a little distance, appear black, and unless he were fishing, the chances of recognition would be by no means great. Close at hand he would appear speckled with white.

Brown Owl

But this by the way. There are two other birds which dive from a height on the wing. One of these is the kingfisher: the other is the tern. The term “tern” is here used collectively, for there are several species, but all have this habit of diving from a height. During the summer months one may be quite sure of an opportunity of watching the graceful, easy flight of at least three species. For they haunt the sea-shore, river, and lake with equal impartiality. Those who are on the look-out for terns, for the first time, will easily recognise them. For, in the first place they look like miniature gulls, but with longer and more pointed wings, and forked tails. Further, all have a characteristic black cap. They travel in small parties, as if for company, keeping no more than a yard or two from the surface of the water, and scanning it eagerly in search of shoals of small fish, or crustacea. As these are found one will note a quickening of the wing-beat, and a sudden dive, like that of the gannet, with half-closed wings. And sometimes, too, the impetus will take them completely under water.

1Bat2Butterfly3Beetle4Dragon-Fly5Bone of Birds Wing, Showing the three Divisions, Arm—Fore-arm—Hand.6Breast Bone of Swan7 “ ” "Pigeon8 “ ” "Pelican9 & 10Apteryx,Cassowary(degenerate wings).

CHAPTER IV.

Modes of Flight.

"The soaring lark is blest as proudWhen at Heaven’s gate she sings:The roving bee proclaims aloudHer flight by vocal wings."—Wordsworth.

The movements of the wing in flight—Marey’s experiments—Stopping and turning movements—Alighting—“Taking off”—Hovering—The use of the tail in flight—The carriage of the neck in flight—And of the legs—The flight of petrels—The speed of flight—The height at which birds fly—Flight with burdens—Experiments on the sizes of the wing in relation to flight—Flight in “troops.”

Whileit is possible to show that certain kinds of flight are to be associated with such and such peculiarities of the skeleton, and the muscles attached thereto, there are many “eccentricities” which cannot be measured, and explained, in terms of mechanism.

The very disconcerting, twisting, flight of the snipe is one of these. The sportsman knows it well: and he knows that the twisting, during which the bird turns the body half over—that is with, say, the left wing pointing directly downwards, and the right wing directly upwards—is only the preliminary to getting fully on the way, and that, presently, it will pursue a straightcourse, with arrow-like speed. Yet its cousin, the jack-snipe, never twists.

Why does the woodcock invariably drop after a charge of shot, even though not a pellet has touched it, while a snipe pursues its way? These differences are not merely differences of “habit”: they indicate subtle differences in nervous response to the same kind of stimulus, and in structural details yet to be unravelled.

Some day the cinematograph will reveal to us all the phases of flight and the movements to which they are due. Even now, thanks to the modern camera, we have learned a great deal. We have learned, for example, that the flight of a bird is not effected merely by rapid up and down movements of the fully extended wings, or with flexed wings—that is to say, half closed, as in “gliding” flight when a bird is descending, or in the swoop of, say, the sparrow-hawk. Only in one of these two positions do we ever seem to see the wings when we have to trust to our eyes alone, as the bird hurries past us. The impression that we have seen aright is confirmed when we stand on the deck of a steamer, and watch the gulls following in its wake. For incredibly long distances they will travel without a perceptible wing-beat. The albatross is the finest of all performers in regard to this kind of flight, which is due, apparently, to air currents created by stiff breezes, or gales. Some birds seem to make their way againsta head-wind with the minimum of effort, by partly flexing the wings and gliding downwards: at the end of the descent, by turning the body sharply upwards, and spreading the wings to the fullest extent, they are lifted up, and driven forward, like a kite.

Marey and Pettigrew, long ago, showed conclusively, by means of photography, that our conception of the movement of the wing during flight was far from correct.

To avoid a long and tedious description, and many technicalities, it must suffice to say that the wing of a bird possesses very considerable freedom and range of movement at the shoulder joint. Certainly, during some phases of flight, the wings are thrust forward and extended to their fullest extent, so that the outer margins of the wings come to lie almost parallel with the long axis of the body, as may be seen in the spirited illustration showing the goshawk in flight. As they sweep downwards, and backwards, they lift the body and drive it forwards. At the end of the “sweep” they are “flexed,” that is to say, bent at the elbow and wrist-joints, while at the same time they are raised and brought forward above the body for a repetition of the stroke. These movements are too quick for the eye to follow, but they have been fixed for us by the camera.

Marey devised an ingenious experiment in his endeavour to discover the movements of the bird’s wing during flight. Hefastened a small piece of paper to the tip of a crows wing, and as the bird flew in front of a perfectly black screen he took a photograph of this moving speck of white, while, of course, no image of the crow appeared on the plate. The resultant picture gave a series of “figure of 8 loops” as one would make this figure with a pen, contriving to make the lower loop very small, and the upper loop very large. But as the wing-beat increased in speed the lower loop gradually faded out.

These movements of the wing, however, are descriptive rather of what takes place during very vigorous flight, as when the bird is getting up “steam.” When he is well under way there is no need for these long and very tiring strokes, except in the case of birds like the pheasant or the duck. A gull, when in full career does not, apparently, raise the wings very high, nor depresses them very low, nor does it flex the wings at the wrist-joints.

Stopping and turning movements are generally extremely difficult to follow, because they are performed so quickly. They can be seen fairly easily in the case of some of the larger birds. Ducks, as is well shown in one of our coloured Plates, draw the head backwards, tilt the body upward, thrust the feet forward, and spread the tail, at the same time turning it forwards. Gulls and pigeons too may be watched with profit.

Wild Duck

In turning, the body is tilted sideways, so that the tip of one wing points skywards, the other earthwards, as in the case of the goshawk illustrated in this book. The pigeon, and some other birds seem further to spread out the long, stiff quills borne by the thumb, which form what is known as the “bastard-wing.” This turning movement is well shown, again, in the very realistic coloured picture of the woodcock turning in mid-air, and bearing too the burden of one of its nestlings.

If it is difficult to satisfy oneself as to the way in which a bird alights, it is no less so to detect its movements in taking wing. Most of us must have seen sparrows making this effort from the road, thousands of times. But ask of anyone, How is it done? The act takes place so quickly that the eye cannot follow its execution. And what is true of the sparrow is true of most birds. But there are some where this is not the case. Many water-birds, the cormorant, for example, get under way but slowly, and with evident effort. They flap along the surface for some distance before they gain sufficient impetus to lift them into the air. And there are many long-winged, short-legged birds which can rise from a level surface only with great difficulty, or not at all. The swift is one of these, for its legs are excessively short. The albatross is another: and this is true, indeed, of many of the petrel-tribe. The puffin, again, seems unable to rise on the wing from the ground. It appears invariably to run along until it reaches the edge of cliff which lodges its burrow, and then, as it were, throw itself over the edge. The heron, when springinginto the air, stretches his long neck out to its fullest extent, and presents a pair of dangling legs, well shown in one of our coloured Plates, but when once fully on the way its pose entirely changes, the neck being drawn in and the legs thrust out backwards.

Flight does not always mean progress through the air. Most birds can, at need, arrest their course, and hang, as it were, suspended in the air. In the beautiful coloured plate, representing the chaffinch hovering over its half-fledged young, and in that of the kingfisher and its young, this form of “hovering” flight can be seen. But the greatest of all exponents in the art of hovering is the kestrel, known also, for this very reason, as the “windhover.” It is most fascinating to watch this bird hang, as it were, from the clouds, motionless, yet with quivering wings, as he scans the ground below in his search for some unsuspecting mouse. It is hard, indeed, to say which is the more wonderful, this power of remaining stationary for comparatively long periods in the air, or the surprising powers of sight which this bird possesses. During these hovering movements, always head to wind, it will be noted, the tail plays a very important part, being spread to its extremest limit, and at the same time thrust forward beneath the body. In some birds this forward movement is more marked than in others. And this because such birds possess a somewhat more flexible spine, there being a certain amount of “play” where the vertebræ of the loins join the weldedmass of vertebræ which lie between the bones of the hip-girdle.

But the tail feathers are not indispensable. This much is shown in the case of birds like the kingfisher, the water-hen, and the land-rail, which contrive to fly well, and at a great pace, though they have but the merest apology for a tail. More than this, the grebes have no tail at all. But it is to be noted that they are by no means adept at turning movements; owing to the lack of this appendage the body, when in mid-air, has a curiously truncated appearance, as may be seen in the illustration. Further, it is significant that in the contemptible “sport” of pigeon-shooting from traps, the birds are deprived of their tails to prevent them from making turning movements.

The carriage of the head and neck, and of the legs, during flight presents some interesting, and some instructing contrasts.

Ducks, geese, and swans, flamingoes, storks, and cormorants always fly with the head and neck stretched out to their fullest extent. Herons and pelicans, though also long-necked birds, draw the head back till it rests almost on the shoulders. Most birds, indeed, fly with the head drawn back towards the body. The appearance of some of these birds on the wing can be seen at a glance on turning to the page illustrating this aspect of flight.

Not so very long ago a great controversy was waged as to what birds did with their legs during flight. Many of the older artists invariably depicted them drawn up under the breast. Butas a matter of fact, this method seems to be confined to the Passerine birds—the “perching birds,” such as crows and finches and their kin. It has yet to be settled what obtains among what are known as the “Picarian” birds, such as kingfishers, bee-eaters, woodpeckers, and so on. The legs and feet of these birds are so small, and their flight is so rapid, that the matter is by no means an easy one to settle. But all other birds carry the legs and toes bent backwards, under the tail. In the gulls, this can easily be seen, and easier still in the case of the common heron, where they are, as it were, trailed out behind—owing to the shortness of the tail and the great length of the leg. The puffin carries them “splayed” out on each side of his tail, and so also do his kinsmen, the razor-bills, and guillemots.

The legs, as a rule, take no part in flight. True, they can be seen thrust out just before alighting, but this is solely for the purpose of effecting a safe landing. But where gulls can be watched at close quarters, as in harbours, round a ship, or in such favoured spots as are to be found about the bridges of London during the winter, careful watch will show that the legs are frequently used when efforts are being made to turn, or check the speed of flight.

Some of the smaller petrels—like the storm-petrel, or “Mother Carey’s chickens,” will patter over the water with their feet as they fly just over the surface of the waves.

Sketches of Ducks in flight 19221.1a.}Scaup.2.Goldeneye.3.4.}Pochard.5.to10.}Mallard.

Whether the legs are carried drawn close up beneath the breast, or thrust backwards under the tail, the purpose of this disposal is the same—to prevent any interference with the “stream-lines” of the body which would impede flight.

On the matter of the speed of flight there seems to be much misconception. Gätke, the German ornithologist, gravely asserted that the little Arctic blue-throat—one of our rarer British birds—could leave its winter resort in Africa in the dusk of evening, and arrive at Heligoland—where he spent so many years studying bird migration—nine hours later. That is to say it could travel 1,600 geographical miles in a single night, at the astounding velocity of 180 miles an hour! According to another estimate of his, curlews, godwits, and plovers crossed from Heligoland to the oyster-beds lying to the eastward, a known distance of rather more than four English miles, in one minute; or at the rate of over 240 miles an hour. Against such extravagant estimates it is hardly necessary to bring rebutting evidence. But if any be demanded it may be furnished by the carrier pigeon, which has been known to maintain a speed of 55 miles an hour for four hours in succession: and it is extremely unlikely that this is much, if at all, exceeded by any wild bird during long-distance flights.

That our spring and autumn migrants must possess wonderful powers of endurance is beyond question. And it is equally certain that thousands must perish by the way. By this means is thestandard of flight maintained—the weak perish. Even the minimum standard of efficiency for the survival of such an ordeal must be a high one.

Few of us see anything of these marvellous migration flights. For, in the first place, they are generally performed at night, and at a great height, often beyond the range of human vision. Only as they approach land, and their destination, do they descend. American naturalists have made some interesting observations by directing a telescope against the sky. Thus, Mr. Frank Chapman, by turning his instrument towards the full moon, has seen birds passing at night at an altitude, according to his computation, of five miles: while the late Mr. W. E. D. Scott saw, through an astronomical telescope at Princeton, New Jersey, great numbers of birds passing across the face of the moon—warblers, finches, and woodpeckers among them. Mr. Chapman again, on another occasion, saw no less than 262 birds pass over the field of his telescope at a height of from 1,500 to 15,000 feet: and the most remarkable thing of all was the fact that the lowest birds were flying upwards, as if they had risen from the immediate neighbourhood and were seeking the proper elevation to continue their flight.

As has already been remarked, when nearing their destination migrating birds descend, though still many miles from land. Should a gale be raging they fly so low that they barely top thewaves. And this, apparently, to escape, so far as is possible, the force of the wind. Larks, starlings, thrushes, and other small birds, can sometimes be seen during daylight crossing the North Sea in their thousands. At such times many will often afford themselves a brief rest in the rigging of ships, homeward bound, but the main host hurry on. The beautiful golden crested wren, our smallest British migrant, is one of these. A glance at our charming coloured plate will show at once that the wing is not that of a bird of strong flight. There is no more interesting experience to the bird-lover than that of watching the tired travellers drop earthwards, as they leave the dreadful sea behind them.

With all birds yet retaining the power of flight there is always a liberal “margin of safety” in regard to the wing area. That is to say this is always in excess of the minimum area necessary to make flight possible. This much, indeed, is manifest from the fact that the eagle can bear off a victim equalling himself in weight. Should he miscalculate, he can always drop his burden, or lessen its weight by eating part of it on the spot. Not so the osprey, or the sea-eagle, which have been known to plunge down and drive their talons into fishes too large to be raised. Unable to release their grip, death, by drowning, has inevitably followed.

Sometimes the burden is a passenger, instead of a victim.One of the most striking of the coloured plates in this volume is that of a woodcock carrying one of its nestlings to a distant feeding place. This habit is well known. It is not often that the necessity arises, but there are occasions where suitable nesting and feeding grounds cannot be found together, or when, as during prolonged drought, the normal feeding area dries up. Then, instinctively, the parent will surmount the dangers of starvation for their offspring, by conveying them to a land of plenty, returning again to the shelter of the wood as soon as the meal is over. The weight of a newly-hatched nestling, it is true, could scarcely be called a “burden.” But they are carried about thus until they are strong enough to perform the journey for themselves. Thus, then, towards the end of the nursing period the weight to be carried is by no means a light one.

But it was shown, long since, by direct experiment, that the area of a bird’s wing is considerably in excess of what is required for the purpose of flight. Dr. J. Bell Pettigrew, more than fifty years ago, to test this matter, cut off more than half of the secondary wing feathers of a sparrow, parallel with the long axis of the wing. He first clipped one, then both wings, and found that in both cases flight was apparently unimpaired. He then removed a fourth of the primary feathers—the outermost quills—and still the flight was unimpaired. At any rate the bird flew upwards of thirty yards, rose to a considerable height andalighted in a tree. Thirty yards, however, is a short flight even for a sparrow. But it is enough to show that flight, if notsustainedflight, was possible after this mutilation. Not until more than one-third of the quills along the whole length of the wing were removed, did the flight become obviously laboured. And he found that what was true of the sparrow, was equally true of the wings of insects.

Though these experiments demonstrate, in a very unmistakable manner, that flight with a greatly reduced wing area is possible, we have no evidence that this reduction would make no difference to the length of time the bird could remain on the wing. And this is a very important matter.

An aspect of flight which has now to be considered is that of birds which fly in troops. Some species always travel thus, others only on occasions. Rooks and gulls afford instances of this, when, during windy weather, or for other reasons, they congregate and fly round and round in great circles, at a considerable height. Small wading-birds, like ringed plovers and dunlin, commonly fly in “bunches.” The last named furnish a singularly interesting sight when thus travelling; for their evolutions are so amazingly timed. As if at a given signal every bird in the troop will change its course at the same moment, and in the same direction, so that now one sees a flickering mesh-work of grey, and now a shimmering as of snow-flakes, as first the greybacks, and then the white breasts are turned towards one. But flights such as this are to be seen only during the autumn and winter months. For during the breeding season these little flocks are broken up and distributed far and wide. But there is yet another reason. They wear a totally different dress—the courtship or breeding plumage. Herein the upper parts are of a rich chestnut hue, streaked with black, while the under parts are black. Even more fascinating to watch are the autumn troops of starlings on the way to their roosting places. Hundreds at a time, not to say thousands, take part in these flights. Now they rush onward, in one great far-flung sheet, and now they close up into a great, almost ball-like, mass: and now they thin out till they look like a trail of smoke. But always they wheel and turn and rise and descend, not as separate bodies, but as one. How are such wonderful evolutions timed. The movements of an army on review-day are not more precise, or more perfectly carried out. During the whole flight not a sound, save the swishing of their wings can be heard. The marvel of it all is beyond the range of words, nor can one express the peculiar delight such a sight affords.

Why is it that ducks and geese commonly fly either in Indian file, or in a roughly V-shaped formation, with the apex of the V forward? Why do they not fly all abreast? One cannot say, but they never do.

Some mention must be made here of the surprising numbers in which geese, of some species, congregate. Writing of the Brent goose, in his “Bird Life of the Borders,” Mr. Abel Chapman—and there are few men who can write with such authority on the subject—tells us:—“Just at dark the whole host rise on the wing together, and make for the open sea. In the morning they have come in by companies and battalions, but at night they go out in one solid army; and a fine sight it is to witness their departure. The whole host, perhaps ten thousand strong, here massed in dense phalanxes, elsewhere in columns tailing off into long skeins, V’s or rectilineal formations of every conceivable shape, (but always with a certain formation)—out they go, full one hundred yards high, while their loud clanging, defiance—“honk, honk,—torrock, torrock,” and its running accompaniment of lower croaks and shrill bi-tones, resounds for miles around.”

Peregrine chasing Duck.

CHAPTER V.

Courtship Flights

"A pair of falcons wheeling on the wing,In clamourous agitation …"—Wordsworth.

The wing-play of black-game and grouse—The “musical ride” of the snipe—The “roding” of the woodcock—The musical flights of redshank and curlew—The “tumbling” of the lapwing—The raven’s somersaults—The courting flight of the wood pigeon—The mannikin’s “castanets”—Wings as lures—The strange pose of the sun-bittern—The “wooing” of the chaffinch and the grasshopper-warbler—Darwin and wing-displays—The wonderful wings of the argus-pheasant.

Oneof the most striking features of bird-life is surely its restless activity. This is always apparent, but it attains to a state of almost feverish excitement as the spring advances, and the parental instincts re-awaken. As they gather strength, so they manifest themselves, in outbursts of song—often of exquisite beauty—strange antics, or wonderful evolutions in mid-air.

It is with these last that we are chiefly concerned here. As might be supposed, they present a wide variety in the matter of their form and duration. Black-game furnish an example of a very simple form of courtship flight, but it is associated with curious antics on the ground. And these, it is to be noted, are only to be witnessed soon after sunrise. Two blackcocks willapproach one another and stand as if prepared to ward off a very vigorous onslaught; reminding one of two barn-door cockerels. With lowered head and neck they face one another, the beautiful lyrate tail spread fan-wise, and arched so that the curled, outer, feathers touch the ground, while the wings are trailed like those of the turkey-cock. Then one will at last rush forward, and seizing his adversary by the scruff of the neck, will administer a sound beating with his wings. The victor celebrates his triumph by a loud, and most unmusical screech, which has been likened, by that accomplished observer and sportsman-artist, Mr. J. G. Millais, to the call of cats on the house-tops at mid-night. But presently a grey-hen makes her appearance. Hostilities cease at once, on all sides; and intense excitement prevails amongst the whole assembly—for a large number of cocks will gather together at these sparring matches. Her approach has been observed by a single bird, who, unintentionally, gives the signal by suddenly drawing himself up to a rigid position of attention, till he is sure she is really coming, then he throws himself into the air and flutters up a few feet, uttering at the same time, a peculiar hoarse note of exultation. Immediately all the others follow suit; each seeming to strive to outdo his neighbour in a series of absurd pirouettings. Here we have a “Love-flight,” of exceedingly brief duration, associated with terrestrial combats and frantic prancings.

Woodcock carrying Young

The grouse pursues a different method. He strives to incite his mate to amourous moods by chasing her about. But she is “coy,” and will tolerate this for hours at a time, apparently intent on nothing more than seeking something interesting to eat, she seems to affect to be quite unaware of the presence of her importunate mate; though her behaviour is belied by the fact that she keeps up a continuous “cheeping” note, heard only at this time of the year. Every now and then he will vary his tactics by leaping up into the air and taking an upward flight of from twenty to thirty feet, crowing vociferously. On alighting he will commence his addresses again. Then, perhaps, she herself will take to flight, darting off and twisting like a snipe, evidently enjoying her tantalizing tactics. He follows in close pursuit, in the hope, doubtless, of satisfying his desires, when she shall come to rest. Here is a “courtship” flight of longer duration, in which both sexes participate.

The “musical ride” of the snipe is of a much more imposing character: and in this, again, both sexes take a part. During this performance, which affords some thrilling moments to the bird-lover, the bird ascends to a great height, and then plunges earthwards in a terrific “nose-dive” accompanied by a weird bleating noise, comparable to the bleat of a goat. For long years discussion waged furiously as to the source of this sound. Some held that it was produced by the voice: others by thetremulous motion of the wing-feathers: others, again, contended that it was caused by the tail feathers. This was first mooted by the Danish naturalist, Meeves, and he produced some very striking and curious evidence to prove his view. He showed that the outermost tail-feathers had peculiarly thickened shafts, which were also bent in a very striking way. By removing these feathers, and sticking them into a cork, he was enabled, by twirling the cork rapidly round at the end of a string, to reproduce the “bleat” exactly. Many years later Dr. Philip Bahr revived this experiment, for the purpose of finally setting the matter at rest—for there were still many who remained unconverted to the Meeves interpretation. Dr. Bahr left no room for further doubt. He showed, too, that during the production of this sound these tail-feathers were extended laterally, so as to separate them from the rest of the tail, and so give the air rushing past them during the earthward plunge, full play on these sound-producing structures. He too, applied the test first instituted by Meeves, and so clinched his arguments. One may hear this strange music as early as February, and even, though rarely, as late as July. But it is essentially a breeding-season, or rather a “Courtship” performance sound, though it may be evoked by a sitting bird suddenly surprised, when she will “bleat” as she leaves her eggs, possibly to distract the intruder on her vigil.

The woodcock has a “love-flight” but of a quite different character, known by sportsmen as “roding.” It takes the form of short flights up and down the “ride,” or space selected for the nesting site. But while the female is sitting the male will still continue these flights, choosing the early morning and evenings. As he goes he utters strange cries, which have been compared, by some, to the words “more rain to-morrow” and by others to, “Cro-ho, cro-ho,” varied by a note sounding like, “whee-e-cap.” These flights are varied by strange little displays upon the ground, when he will strut about before his mate with wings drooped and trailing on the ground, the tail spread, and the feathers of the head and neck standing on end. This gives him a very odd appearance, to human eyes, but it serves its purpose—which is to arouse his mate to amourous moods.

Redshank, curlew, and dunlin—cousins of the snipe and woodcock—are all accomplished performers in the art of wooing on the wing. The male redshank, uttering flute-like notes, Mr. Farren tells us, soars up to a moderate height, and remains, for a brief space, “hanging in the wind” with the tips of his curved wings rapidly vibrating. He then descends, pipit-like, earthwards, while the song, which has been uttered slowly, now quickens, reaching its climax as the bird, raising its wings above its back for an instant, finally alights on the ground. But he has yet other wiles, which are not used in mid-air. Approaching hismate with his head erect and body drawn up to its full height, he raises his wings for an instant high above his head: then allowing them gradually to droop, he vibrates them, at the same time rapidly moving his legs like a soldier “marking time.”

The curlew seems to prefer the evening for his best efforts. Rising from the ground with rapid wing-beats, he will “check” suddenly when near the summit of his ascent; so suddenly as almost to throw himself backwards. Then, recovering, he will hang poised, kestrel-like, in mid-air, and pour forth a joyous thrilling, or jodelling, song. Rising and falling, on quivering wings, or sweeping round in great circles, and hovering again, he will remain for some considerable time pouring forth this joyful ripple of song.

The courtship flight of the lapwing is even, if possible, more interesting. Rising from the ground with slow heavy flaps of his broad wings—which, it is to be noted, present a remarkable difference from those of the female, in that the primaries are much longer, so as to give this portion of the extended wing a conspicuously broader appearance—as though he had difficulty in getting under way, he speedily dissipates this impression by a sudden upward rush, an effortless turn, apparently; and then follows a downward swoop, or fall, with half-closed wings. To this swoop there succeeds a surprising change. In an instant the wing-beat is increased to an incredible speed, causing the body to turn a half, and sometimes even a complete somersault. But the next instant he is up and away over the ground with musical wing-beats, tilting and swaying from side to side with wonderful buoyancy.

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