THE BROOK AND ITS BANKS.
By the Rev. J. G. WOOD, M.A., Author of “The Handy Natural History.”
Enemies of the water-vole—The heron—The death-stroke—Ways of the heron—Watching for fish—A hint to naturalists—Observers in the New Forest—Return to wild habits—The fox, the cow, and the owl—The heron and the eel—The cormorant and the conger—The heron’s power of wing—How the heron settles—Its resting-place—Power of the heron’s beak—Heronry in Wanstead Park.
Thewater-vole has but few enemies whom it need fear, and one of them is now so scarce that the animal enjoys a practical immunity from it. This is the heron (Ardea cinerea), which has suffered great diminution of its numbers since the spread of agriculture.
Even now, however, when the brook is far away from the habitations of man, the heron may be detected by a sharp eye standing motionless in the stream, and looking out for prey. Being as still as if cut out of stone, neither fish nor water-vole sees it, and if the latter should happen to approach within striking distance, it will be instantly killed by a sharp stroke on the back of the head.
The throat of the heron looks too small to allow the bird to swallow any animal larger than a very small mouse; but it is so dilatable that the largest water-vole can be swallowed with perfect ease.
The bird, in fact, is not at all fastidious about its food, and will eat fish, frogs, toads, or water-voles with perfect impartiality. It has even been known to devour young waterhens, swimming out to their nest, and snatching up the unsuspecting brood. In fact, all is fish that comes to its beak.
If the reader should be fortunate enough to espy a heron while watching for prey, let him make the most of the opportunity.
Although the heron is a large bird, it is not easily seen. In the first place, there are few birds which present so many different aspects. When it stalks over the ground with erect bearing and alert gestures it seems as conspicuous a bird as can well be imagined. Still more conspicuous does it appear when flying, the ample wings spread, the head and neck stretched forwards, and the long legs extending backwards by way of balance.
But when it is on the look-out for the easily-startled fish it must remain absolutely still. So it stands as motionless as a stuffed bird, its long neck sunk and hidden among the feathers of the shoulders, and nothing but the glancing eye denoting that it is alive.
This quiescence must be imitated by the observer, should he wish to watch the proceedings of the bird, as the least movement will startle it. The reason why so many persons fail to observe the habits of animals, and then disbelieve those who have been more successful, is that they have never mastered the key to all observation,i.e., refraining from the slightest motion. A movement of the hand or foot, or even a turn of the head is certain to give alarm; while many creatures are so wary that when watching them it is as well to droop the eyelids as much as possible, and not even to turn the eyes quickly, lest the reflection of the light from their surface should attract the attention of the watchful creature.
One of the worst results of detection is that when any animal is startled it conveys the alarm to all others that happen to be within sight or hearing. It is evident that all animals of the same species have a language of their own which they perfectly understand, though it is not likely that an animal belonging to one species can understand the language of another.
But there seems to be a sort of universal orlingua-francalanguage which is common to all the animals, whether they be beasts or birds, and one of the best known phrases is the cry of alarm, which is understood by all alike.
I need hardly say that it is almost absolutely necessary to be alone, as there is no object in two observers going together unless they can communicate with each other, and there is nothing which is so alarming to the beasts and birds as the sound of the human voice.
Yet there is a mode by which two persons who have learned to act in concert with each other can manage to observe in company. It was shown to me by an old African hunter, when I was staying with him in the New Forest.
In the forest, although even the snapping of a dry twig will give the alarm, neither bird nor beast seems to be disturbed by a whistle. We therefore drew up a code of whistles, and practised ourselves thoroughly in them.
Then, we went as quietly as we could to the chosen spot, and sat down facing each other, so that no creature could pass behind one of us without being detected by the other. We were both dressed in dark grey, and took the precaution of sitting with our backs against a tree or a bank, or any object which could perform the double duty of giving us something to lean against, and of breaking the outlines of the human form.
Our whistled code was as low as was possible consistent with being audible, and I do not think that during our many experiments we gave the alarm to a single creature.
When the observer is remaining without movement, scarcely an animal will notice him.
I remember that on one occasion my friend and I were sitting opposite each other, one on either side of a narrow forest path. The sun had set, but at that time of the year there is scarcely any real night, and objects could be easily seen in the half light.
Presently a fox came stealthily along the path. Now the cunning of the fox is proverbial, and neither of us thought that he would pass between us without detecting our presence. Yet, he did so, passing so close, that we could have touched him with a stick.
Shortly afterwards, a cow came along the same path, walking almost as noiselessly as the fox had done. It is a remarkable fact that domesticated animals, when allowed to wander at liberty in the New Forest, soon revert to the habits of their wild ancestors.
As the cow came along the path, neither of us could conjecture the owner of the stealthy footstep. We feared lest it might be that of poachers, in which case things would have gone hard with us, the poachers of the New Forest being a truculent and dangerous set of men, always provided with firearms and bludgeons, having scarcely the very slightest regard for the law, and almost out of reach of the police.
They would certainly have considered us as spies upon them, and as certainly would have attacked and half, if not quite killed us, we being unarmed.
But to our amusement as well as relief, the step was only that of a solitary cow, the animal lifting each foot high from the ground before she made her step, and putting it down as cautiously as she had raised it.
Then, a barn owl came drifting silently between us, looking in the dusk as large and white as if it had been the snowy owl itself. Yet, neither the fox, nor the cow, nor the owl detected us, although passing within a few feet of us.
In the daytime the observer, however careful he may be, is always liable to detection by a stray magpie or crow.
The bird comes flying along overhead, its keen eyes directed downwards, on the look-out for the eggs of other birds. At first he may not notice the motionless and silent observer, but sooner or later he is sure to do so.
If it were not exasperating to have all one’s precautions frustrated, the shriek of terrified astonishment with which the bird announces the unexpected presence of a human being would be exceedingly ludicrous. As it is, a feeling of wrath rather prevails over that of amusement, for at least an hour will elapse before the startled animals will have recovered from the magpie’s alarm cry.
Supposing that we are stationed on the banks of the brook on a fine summer evening, while the long twilight endures, and have been fortunate enough to escape the notice of the magpie or other feathered spy, we may have the opportunity of watching the heron capture its prey.
The stroke of the beak is like lightning, and in a moment the bird is holding a fish transversely in its beak. The long, narrow bill scarcely seems capable of retaining the slippery prey; but if a heron’s beak be examined carefully, it will be seen to possess a number of slight serrations upon the edges, which enable it to take a firm grasp of the fish.
Very little time is allowed the fish for struggling, for almost as soon as captured it is flung in the air, caught dexterously with its head downwards, and swallowed.
It is astonishing how large a fish will pass down the slender throat of a heron. As has been already mentioned, the water-vole is swallowed without difficulty. Now the water-vole measures between eight and nine inches in length from the nose to the root of the tail, and is a very thickset animal, so that it forms a large and inconvenient morsel.
It is seldom that the heron has, like the kingfisher, to beat its prey against a stone or any hard object before swallowing it, though when it catches a rather large eel it is obliged to avail itself of this device before it can get the wriggling and active fish into a suitable attitude. The eel has the strongest objection to going down the heron’s throat, and has no idea of allowing its head to pass into the heron’s beak. The eel, therefore, must be rendered insensible before it can be swallowed.
Generally it is enough to carry the refractory prey to the bank, hold it down with the foot, and peck it from one end to the other until it is motionless. Should the eel be too large to be held by the feet, it is rapidly battered against a stone, just as a large snail is treated by a thrush, and so rendered senseless.
If the feet of the heron be examined, a remarkable comb-like appendage may be seen on the inside of the claw of the hind foot.
What may be the precise office of this comb is not satisfactorily decided. Some ornithologists think that it is utilised in preening the plumage, I cannot, however, believe that it performs such an office. I have enjoyed exceptional opportunities for watching the proceedings of the heron when at liberty, as well as in captivity, but never saw it preen its feathers with its foot, nor have I heard of anyone who has actually witnessed the proceeding.
IN WANSTEAD PARK.
IN WANSTEAD PARK.
IN WANSTEAD PARK.
It is not always fair to judge from a dead bird what the living bird might have been able to do. But I have tried to comb the plumageof a dead heron with its foot-comb, and have not succeeded.
Another suggestion is that the bird may use it when it holds prey under its feet, as has just been narrated. These suggestions, however, are nothing more than conjectures, but, as they have been the subject of much argument, I have thought it best to mention them.
Sometimes it has happened that the heron has miscalculated its powers, and seized a fish which was too large and powerful to be mastered. Anglers frequently capture fish which bear the marks of the heron’s beak upon their bodies, and in such cases neither the fish nor the heron is any the worse for the struggle.
But when the unmanageable fish has been an eel, the result has, more than once, been disastrous for the bird. In Yarrell’s work on the British birds, a case is recorded where a heron and eel were both found dead, the partially swallowed eel having twisted itself round the neck of the heron in its struggles.
A very similar incident occurred off the coast of Devonshire, the victim in this case being a cormorant. The bird had attacked a conger-eel, and had struck its hooked upper mandible completely through the lower jaw of the fish, the horny beak having entered under the chin of the eel.
The bird could not shake the fish off its beak, and the result was that both were found lying dead on the shore, the powerful conger-eel having coiled itself round the neck of the cormorant and strangled it. The stuffed skins of the bird and eel may be seen in the Truro Museum, preserved in the position in which they were found.
Having procured a sufficiency of prey, the heron will take flight for its home, which will probably be at a considerable distance from its fishing ground. Twenty or thirty miles are but an easy journey for the bird, which measures more than five feet across the expanded wings, and yet barely weighs three pounds. Indeed, in proportion to its bulk, it is believed to be the lightest bird known. The Rev. C. A. Johns states that he has seen the heron fishing at a spot fully fifty miles from any heronry.
The peculiar flight of the heron is graphically described in a letter published in theStandardnewspaper, Sept. 25th, 1883.
“One summer evening I was under a wood by the Exe. The sun had set, and from over the wooded hill above bars of golden and rosy cloud stretched out across the sky. The rooks came slowly home to roost, disappearing over the wood, and at the same time the herons approached in exactly the opposite direction, flying from Devon into Somerset, and starting out to feed as the rooks returned home.
“The first heron sailed on steadily at a great height, uttering a loud “caak, caak” at intervals. In a few minutes a second followed, and “caak, caak” sounded again over the river valley.
“The third was flying at a less height, and as he came into sight over the line of the wood, he suddenly wheeled round, and holding his immense wings extended, dived, as a rook will, downwards through the air. He twisted from side to side like anything spun round by the finger and thumb as he came down, rushing through the air head first.
“The sound of his great vanes pressing and dividing the air was distinctly audible. He looked unable to manage his descent, but at the right moment he recovered his balance, and rose a little up into a tree on the summit, drawing his long legs into the branches behind him.
“The fourth heron fetched a wide circle, and so descended into the wood. Two more passed on over the valley—altogether six herons in about a quarter of an hour. They intended, no doubt, to wait in the trees till it was dusky, and then to go down and fish in the wood. Herons are here called cranes, and heronries are craneries. (This confusion between the heron and the crane exists in most parts of Ireland.)
“A determined sportsman who used to eat every heron he could shoot, in revenge for their ravages among the trout, at last became suspicious, and, examining one, found in it the remains of a rat and of a toad, after which he did not eat any more herons. Another sportsman found a heron in the very act of gulping down a good sized trout, which stuck in the gullet. He shot the heron and got the trout, which was not at all injured, only marked at each side where the beak had cut it. The fish was secured and eaten.”
I can corroborate the accuracy as well as the graphic wording of the above description.
When I was living at Belvedere, in Kent, I used nearly every evening to see herons flying northwards. I think that they were making for the Essex marshes. They always flew at a very great height, and might have escaped observation but for the loud, harsh croak which they uttered at intervals, and which has been so well described by the monosyllable “caak.”
As to their mode of settling on a tree, I have often watched the herons of Walton Hall, where they were so tame that they would allow themselves to be approached quite closely. When settling, they lower themselves gently until their feet are upon the branch. They then keep up a slight flapping of the wings until they are fairly settled.
An idea is prevalent in many parts of England that when the heron sits on its nest, its long legs hang down on either side. Nothing can be more absurd. The heron can double up its legs as is usual among birds, and sits on its nest as easily as if it were a rook, or any other short-legged bird.
In many respects the heron much resembles the rook in its manner of nesting. The nest is placed in the topmost branches of a lofty tree, and is little more than a mere platform of small sticks. Being a larger bird than the rook, the heron requires a larger nest, and on an average the diameter of a nest is about three feet.
Like the rook, the heron is gregarious in its nesting, a solitary heron’s nest being unknown. In their modes of feeding, however, the two birds utterly differ from each other, the heron seeking its food alone, while the rook feeds in company, always placing a sentinel on some elevated spot for the purpose of giving alarm at the approach of danger.
The heron is curiously fastidious in its choice of a nesting-place, and, like the rook, prefers the neighbourhood of man, knowing instinctively when it will be protected by its human neighbours. Fortunately for the bird, the possession of a heronry is a matter of pride among landowners; so that even if the owner of a trout-stream happened also to possess a heronry, he would not think of destroying the herons because they ate his trout.
In captivity the heron can be tamed; but it is not to be recommended as a pet. It is apt to bestow all its affections on one individual, and to consider the rest of the human race as enemies, whose eyes ought to be pecked out.
I was for some time acquainted with such a bird, but took care to keep well out of reach of its terrible beak, which it would dart to an unexpected distance through the bars of its cage.
It formerly ran loose in a garden, and was almost slavishly affectionate to the gardener, rubbing itself against his legs like a pet cat, and trying in every way to attract his attention. He had even taught it a few simple tricks, and I have seen it take his hat off his head, and then offer it to him.
But just in proportion as it became friendly with the gardener it became cross-grained with the rest of the world, attacking everyone who came into the garden, and darting its beak at their eyes. Its last performance caused it to be placed in confinement.
An elderly gentleman had entered the garden on business, when the bird instantly assailed him. Knowing the habits of the heron, he very wisely flung himself on his face for the purpose of preserving his eyes, and shouted for help.
Meanwhile the heron, wishing to make the most of its opportunity, mounted upon his prostrate victim, and succeeded in inflicting several severe pecks upon his body and limbs before the gardener could come to the rescue.
The peck of a heron’s beak is no trifle, the mandibles being closed, and the blow delivered with the full power of the long neck, so that each blow from the beak is something like the stab of a bayonet, and so strong and sharp is the beak that in some foreign lands it is converted into an effective spearhead.
Few people seem to be aware that a large and populous heronry exists in Wanstead Park, on the very outskirts of London.
At the end of summer, when the young birds are fledged, the heronry is nearly deserted, but during the early days of spring the heronry is well worth a visit. The great birds are all in full activity, as is demanded by the many wants of the young, and on the ground beneath may be seen fragments of the pale-blue eggs. On an average there are three young ones in each nest, so that the scene is very lively and interesting, until the foliage becomes so thick that it hides the birds and their nests.
(To be continued.)