Natural History Works

By R. Kearton, F.Z.S.

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NATURE’S CAROL SINGERS

A NIGHTINGALE AND ITS MATE.

NATURE’S
CAROL SINGERS

BY
RICHARD KEARTON, F.Z.S.
Author of “Wild Nature’s Ways,” “The Adventures of Cock Robin and His Mate,” etc. etc.

ILLUSTRATED WITH PHOTOGRAPHS
DIRECT FROM NATURE BY
Cherry and Richard Kearton

CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED
LONDON, PARIS, NEW YORK AND
MELBOURNE. MCMVI
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PREFACE.

Their plumage dazzles not, but yet can sweeter strains be heard?

Let other feathers vaunt the dyes of deepest rainbow flush,

Give me old England’s nightingale, its robin and its thrush.  Cook.

Despite the fact that we live in a small and thickly populated country, we are singularly rich in song birds, thanks to our numerous old furze-clad commons, game preserves, and a healthy sentiment in the great majority of rich and poor alike towards the wee, feathered carol-singers that make grove and hillside ring with their sweet, happy music.

This little book deals in a concise and popular manner with the appearance, haunts, habits, nests, eggs, songs, and call notes of the winged melodists that breed in various parts of the British Islands. I have endeavoured to describe them in such a way that the reader may be able to identify them for himself or herself in wood and field, and where two species bear a similarity of appearance or song, to emphasise the points wherein they differ.

The study of our native song birds will be found to contain many delightful curiosities, and to present not a few entertaining problems. For instance, all our first-class melodists, such as the Nightingale, Song Thrush, Blackcap Warbler, Woodlark, and Garden Warbler, are dressed in the most sober of sober colours. Male migrants generally arrive upon our shores before the females, and at once commence to sing and practise all kinds of curious antics in order to attract the attention of their prospective brides when they arrive. Individual birds of the same species vary greatly in the quality of their songs, and nearly all the members of a species sometimes sing better in one part of the country than another. Birds are first-class plagiarists, and not only copy each other’s notes, but upon occasion actually improve the quality of the music they borrow. Some of them, such as the Chaffinch, practise their notes thousands of times per day, and a Song Thrush sings as many as sixteen hours out of the twenty-four.

The following questions in regard to the behaviour of some of our feathered melodists are amongst those put to me by both young and old after my lectures, and contain a good deal of food for reflection: Why do some birds sing by night as well as by day after they have mated? Why do some birds cease to sing as soon as their young ones are hatched, and others continue practically all the year round? Why does a caged Skylark sing blithely in a dingy alley, where he has no mate to attract, no rival to challenge, nor any apparent condition of life to induce a feeling of happiness? Why does a Skylark practise its notes on the ground more during the closing than the opening part of the season? How do birds know of a coming change in the weather and sing joyously to foretell it long before man, with all his acquired experience, is aware of the fact? Why do some winged melodists, such as the Blackbird for instance, sing the best during a shower of rain? Is it in anticipation of an increased supply of food? Would a chick that had never heard the song of its own species be able to sing it when it grew up?

No answer to many of these interesting questions that are constantly cropping up will be found in any ornithological work with which I am acquainted, and they show two things clearly to my mind, viz.: How little we really know about even our common song birds, and what a great desire there is on the part of the public to find out.

Nature is never prodigal in the giving up of her secrets, but the diligent student is sure to discover some interesting fact or solve some entertaining problem; and I would urge all young people who care for the delights of the country to take up the study of Nature’s charming musicians. They will find it deeply interesting to learn to identify birds by their songs and call notes, and even to imitate the latter with sufficient skill to attract members of the species to which they belong.

Finally, I trust I may be permitted to hope that this little book will stimulate an interest in our song birds, which have always been a never-ending source of solace and delight to me.

R. Kearton.

Caterham Valley,
November, 1906.

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

Nature’s Carol Singers.

THE CUCKOO.

“Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard

When sunshine follows shower the breast can thrill

Like the first summons, Cuckoo, of thy bill.”

—Wordsworth.

he soft, far reaching notes of the Cuckoo are loved by young and old alike, because they tell a tale of hope and gladness, of warm sunshine and sweet spring flowers. It has been regarded as “the darling of the year” all down the ages since the oldest known English lyric, in which it figures, was penned:

“Sumer is icumen in,

Loude sing Cuckoo.”

The Cuckoo is a strange, mysterious bird whose history is not yet fully known in spite of all the careful attention it has received at the hands of naturalists for generations.

It arrives in this country during April, and departs again in July, leaving its uncared-for young ones to follow, in August and September, to the winter quarters of the species in Africa’s sunny clime.

FOSTER MOTHER TREE PIPIT STRETCHING HERSELF AFTER HAVING FED YOUNG CUCKOO.

The bird makes no attempt whatever at nest-building, but deposits its eggs singly, as a rule in those of small birds, and allows the little dupes to hatch out and rear its young. From its similarity in appearance to a small hawk the ancients believed that in the winter it changed into one. They were also firmly convinced that young Cuckoos not only swallowed all the other chicks in the nests in which they were hatched out themselves, but, as a mark of ingratitude, finally devoured their foster-parents. Although this was, of course, quite wrong, the real facts of the bird’s life and career are quite as romantic, as we shall see presently.

Up to quite recently, people supposed that the female Cuckoo, when about to lay, watched the nest of some small bird until the owner left it in search of food, when she stealthily sat down and dropped one of her own eggs into the structure. Unfortunately for this theory, it would not hold good in the case of domed nests built by such species as the Common Wren and Willow Warbler, both of which are occasionally victimised. This puzzle has been satisfactorily solved by the discovery of the real facts. The Cuckoo lays her eggs upon the ground, and, picking them up in her bill, deposits them in the homes of birds whose own productions they will to some extent match in colours.

YOUNG CUCKOO IN MEADOW
PIPIT’S NEST, BIRD’S OWN EGGS
THROWN OUT ON TO EDGE
OF STRUCTURE.

CUCKOO’S EGG IN MEADOW PIPIT’S NEST.

Cuckoo’s eggs vary very widely in point of coloration. They are usually reddish grey, mottled and spotted closely with darker markings of the same colour, or pale greyish-green marked with spots of a darker hue. I have met with them matching in colours those of the Meadow Pipit, Pied Wagtail, and Reed Warbler so closely that they were scarcely discernible except for their larger size, and a blue specimen has been found in the nest of a Hedge Sparrow.

Some naturalists are of opinion that a Cuckoo is able to lay an egg of any colour at will, whilst others favour the opinion that if an egg closely resembles in point of coloration those of the bird, say a Tree Pipit, in whose nest it has been placed, that young Cuckoo’s grandfather and grandmother were also reared by Tree Pipits.

ADULT CUCKOO.

“COME AND HEAR THE CUCKOO SING.

COME AND BREATHE THE BREATH OF SPRING.”

Another important fact which aids deception when trying to impose upon small birds is that a Cuckoo’s egg is only one-quarter the size of what might reasonably be expected from the dimensions of its layer. It is much heavier, however, than any other egg of its size, and has a thicker shell.

Competent naturalists have asserted that the Cuckoo lays as many as five eggs during a season, and although only one specimen as a rule is found in the nest of an intended foster-parent, as many as three may be met with, but whether deposited by the same individual or not, it is, of course, impossible to say. Hedge Sparrows and Robins are the greatest victims, but even the Jay, Wood Pigeon, and Carrion Crow have been successfully imposed upon.

YOUNG CUCKOO WAITING FOR ITS FOSTER-MOTHER WITH FOOD.

With a view to finding out whether the deceptive path of the bird that “tells its name to all the hills around” is a smooth one or not, some years ago I had four wooden eggs made and painted to resemble those of the Song Thrush. I tried my counterfeits upon several different species, such as Starlings, Song Thrushes, and Grasshopper Warblers, and deceived them straight away without the slightest trouble, but when I attempted to impose upon a Ringed Plover, whose eggs I found in a little declivity on a shingly beach, she detected the fraud at once, and tapping my dummy eggs with her bill, turned round and walked away in disgust.

In order to prove how easily some birds are duped, I may mention that two lady friends of mine have, for the last three or four seasons, taken a clutch of Starling’s eggs out of a hole in a stable wall, and replaced them by one common fowl’s egg, and that on each occasion the foster-mother has successfully hatched out a chick.

A STORY IN THREE CHAPTERS:
A YOUNG CUCKOO AND HIS TREE PIPIT FOSTER-MOTHER.

The young Cuckoo arrives into the world without a scrap of down or the sign of a feather on its dusky, ugly little body. Very soon after it is hatched it begins to show signs of great restlessness and energy, endeavouring to throw out whatever else there may be in the nest in the shape of eggs or young. Nature has equipped the little monster well for its murderous task, by providing a hollow between its broad shoulders for the reception of its victims. It makes great efforts to get beneath whatever else is in the nest in which it has been hatched, and when it gets an egg or chick upon its back, with raised wings, head depressed, and a foot firmly planted on either side of the nest, it rears its burden and casts it out.

FOSTER-MOTHER TREE PIPIT
COMING WITH FOOD FOR YOUNG CUCKOO.

This wonderful performance was first observed by the great Dr. Jenner of vaccination fame, and afterwards confirmed by the observations and wonderfully accurate pictures made by my friend Mrs. Blackburn. Curiously enough, her daughter, Miss Blackburn, found the Meadow Pipit’s nest from which her mother saw the rightful owners ejected by the young Cuckoo and also the nest belonging to the same species figured on page 3 of this work.

Sometimes two young Cuckoos are hatched out in the same nest, and then a great struggle takes place between them for possession.

Very odd things occasionally occur in regard to Cuckoo’s eggs. I have found one, perfectly fresh, covered over with moss and down inside a Hedge Sparrow’s nest wherein the bird had laid none of her own. I have known one lie untouched outside a Meadow Pipit’s nest, but whether left there by the layer or cast forth by the owner of the structure it is impossible to say.

TREE PIPIT ABOUT TO ALIGHT
ON YOUNG CUCKOO’S BACK
WITH FOOD. PHOTOGRAPHED
IN 1/500 OF A SECOND.

A short time ago a friend of mine found a Sedge Warbler’s nest near Gloucester with four eggs in it. The following day when we returned to the place the nest contained only three and a Cuckoo’s egg. As I wanted a photograph of a member of the species for the present work, I parted the thick sedge grass and, erecting my camera within a few feet, got everything ready and went into hiding beneath my apparatus. In less than two minutes she returned and, gazing into her home, suddenly grew greatly agitated and began to hammer the Cuckoo’s egg unmercifully with her bill. Fearing that she might break it before I secured a photograph, I jumped up and drove her away, at the same time calling my companion over to take care of the object of her resentment. Directly it was gone she assumed all her native gentleness of manner and sat down upon her own eggs quite happy.

MORE, PLEASE!

Although young Cuckoos show so much sagacity in getting rid of any other occupants of the nest in which they have been hatched, they sometimes exhibit great stupidity in other directions. For instance, the young bird shown with his Tree Pipit foster-mother in the illustrations figuring in this chapter did not understand the alarm cry of the little brown bird at all. It did not matter however loudly she cried “danger” outside the nest up to a certain stage in his career, if he heard anything moving he shot up his head and opened his mouth very widely in request of food. Then, again, if a newly fledged Cuckoo happens to be resting on level ground and his foster-mother, say a Robin, Hedge Sparrow or Pied Wagtail, comes along with a supply of food, he has not the sense to accommodate himself to the stature of his wee parent, for, instead of lowering his great dappled head, he rears it as high in the air as he can, and the feeder has to stand on his shoulders, as shown in the accompanying photograph, and literally drop the food down his throat.

TREE PIPIT FEEDING YOUNG
CUCKOO WHILST STANDING ON
HIS SHOULDERS.

The food of adult Cuckoos is insectivorous, and consists largely of hairy caterpillars such as those of the Drinker Moth.

The Cuckoo sings upon the wing, and sometimes keeps up its vocal efforts all night long. It has been asserted that only the male cries “Cuckoo,” but this is not the fact, as females have been shot in the act of singing.

On the Yenisei its cry is “Hoo-hoo.”

Gilbert White, in his delightful “Natural History of Selborne,” says that some Cuckoos sing in D, some in D sharp, and some in C, and that the two former whilst performing together make a very disagreeable duet.

The notes of the bird are easily imitated by the human voice, and in the springtime I often amuse my friends by calling individuals into their gardens.

THE ROBIN.

I love Robin Redbreast above all other birds. He is a bold, handsome fellow, and one of the sweetest songsters of the grove. When the Nightingale and the Blackcap have gone to their winter quarters in the faraway sunny South, and both the Thrush and the Skylark are silent, courageous Redbreast mounts to the topmost branch of some sodden, leafless tree and defiantly pours out his sweet, silvery notes.

Poets of all ages have noticed this peculiar characteristic, and one of them has expressed it very happily in the following lines:

“Each woodland pipe is mute

Save when the Redbreast mourns the falling leafs;

Now plaintively, in interrupted trills,

He sings the dirge of the departing year.”

There can be no doubt that the conditions under which the bird sings help to rivet our attention upon its performance, just in the same way that the Nightingale gains some of its popularity by singing at night time when other woodland vocalists are silent, and the Skylark by soaring away up in the blue vault of heaven whilst pouring out its far-sounding music.

ROBIN’S NEST.

Cock Robin has received a great deal of poetic attention, and it is amusing to note how differently the bards have expressed themselves in regard to this familiar bird “that swells its little breast so full of song.” Some of them say it warbles, others it whistles, tootles, carols, chirps, sings, sobs, mourns, and so on.

Any boy or girl who has wandered through the woods in winter will at once recognise the truth and beauty of the following lines from Cowper’s “Winter’s Walk at Noon”:

“No noise is here, or none that hinders thought;

The Redbreast warbles still, but is content

With slender notes and more than half suppressed;

Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light

From spray to spray where’er he rests, he shakes

From many a twig the pendent drops of ice,

That tinkle in the wither’d leaves below.

Stillness accompanied with sounds so soft

Charms more than silence.”

Numbers of beautiful legends have been woven round the bird. For instance, its ruddy breast is supposed to be worn in memory of the day when Jesus was led forth from Jerusalem to be crucified, and the wee bird perched upon the Cross and “tried with all its little might to diminish the anguish of the crown of thorns.”

COCK ROBIN BRINGING FOOD FOR HIS CHICKS.

It was an old and popular belief that Robins covered over the bodies of dead men with leaves, hence John Webster’s ballad:

“Call for the Robin Redbreast and the Wren,[1]

Since o’er shady groves they hover,

And with leaves and flowers do cover

The friendless bodies of unburied men”;

and the well-known one, “Babes in the Wood.”

Although Cock Robin is at all times a bold bird in defence of his rights, and at some seasons liable to be considered quarrelsome and spiteful, he undoubtedly has his good points. For instance, one has been known lovingly and diligently to feed his mate after she had sustained some injury to her bill which rendered her unable to peck for herself, and I have myself watched and even photographed a Redbreast in the charitable act of feeding a family of young Thrushes in the nest whilst their mother was away searching for very difficult-to-find food during a cold, dry spring morning.

Male Robins differ from the females only in the facts that they are slightly larger and have rather brighter orange-red breasts. These differences, however, are so very trifling that it is by no means easy for even the practised eye to notice them.

YOUNG ROBIN IN ITS FIRST COAT OF FEATHERS.

Robins commence to breed in March, and make their nests of bits of dead grass, leaves, and moss, with an inner lining of hair. At the beginning of the season building operations are conducted in quite a leisurely way, occupying as much as a fortnight, but later on no time is lost, and nests are made in a much shorter period.

Last spring I watched a female, quite unaided by her mate, who was singing very loudly morning, noon, and night in my garden, build a nest in three days. One morning she carried dead leaves and moss to her home five times in five minutes!

Although generally selecting holes in banks and walls where a brick or a stone has fallen out, this species is famed for its apparent love of odd situations in which to breed. I have found Robins’ nests in old tin cans, tea-pots, coffee-pots, kettles, jam-jars, biscuit boxes, cocoanut husks, fragments of bottles, and clock cases, and have seen them in bookcases and other places inside the much-used rooms of dwelling-houses.

Robins lay five or six eggs, as a rule, although as many as seven, and even eight, are occasionally found in one nest. They are white or light grey, blotched and freckled with dull light red. Sometimes the markings join each other nearly all over the shell, and at others they are collected round the larger end.

FEMALE ROBIN BRINGING
FOOD TO HER YOUNG.

Young Robins, when they grow their first coats of feathers, do not have red breasts like their parents, but are dressed in varying shades of brown that render them very difficult to see when sitting still, amongst the lights and shades of a hedgerow. Directly they have donned their second coats of feathers, which happens in July and August, and become like their parents in appearance, they commence to try to sing. It is said that when they have been bred near Nightingales they borrow notes from that sweet-voiced bird, and introduce them into their own songs. I can readily believe this, because I have heard a Redbreast imitate the song of a Sedge Warbler so well that I was completely deceived until I saw the vocalist.

It is unnecessary to describe a Robin’s song, because almost everyone has an opportunity of hearing it, and seeing the bird at the same time. Its call and alarm notes, however, are frequently uttered when the creature is not visible. The former is a rapidly repeated metallic sounding tit-tit-tit, and the latter a plaintive, long-drawn chee, generally uttered when some intruder is near the nest.

The species feeds principally upon insects, and is especially fond of spiders, which are sought for in the cracks of old walls, mossy banks, and on the bark of trees. All boys and girls who have read “Pilgrim’s Progress” will remember how Mercy wondered and Christiana was disappointed to learn that Robins fed upon spiders instead of breadcrumbs, and the lesson Interpreter drew from it.

Robins differ individually in character almost as much as human beings. I have been vigorously attacked by a courageous mother bird of this species because I dared to look at her young ones in the nest. On the other hand, some individuals are quite timid and shy, and will quickly put a safe distance between themselves and the most harmless intruder.

Occasionally one meets with a Redbreast living a bachelor or old maid existence at some secluded farmhouse high up amongst the hills or on some lonely treeless island round our coast.

I have a male member of the species in my garden that always superintends my digging operations, and varies his search for upturned grubs by standing on a clod within a few inches of my spade and singing me the sweetest of little songs. May he long live to do so!

[1] During the middle ages it was a generally accepted belief that Jenny Wren was Cock Robin’s mate, and curiously enough, many people still think that Wrens are female Robins. Of course such is not at all the case, as the birds belong to widely different species.

THE BLACKBIRD.

Who does not know and love the Blackbird with his sable coat, orange bill, and peculiar habit of erecting his tail when he alights? In the North of England the bird still enjoys its old name of Ouzel, and in Scotland it is called a Merle.

The hen differs somewhat in her appearance from the cock in being of a dark, rusty-brown colour instead of “so black of hue,” as Shakespeare has it of her mate.

This species is common in gardens, orchards, shrubberies, hedgerows, and woods all over the British Islands. I have even met with it breeding in a little garden close to the Atlantic in the outermost island of the Hebridean group and within sight of lone St. Kilda.

BLACKBIRD’S NEST.

Its nest is placed in isolated thorn bushes, evergreens of all kinds, hedges, in trees sometimes at a considerable elevation, in holes in dry stone walls, in sheds, and even amongst grass upon the level ground. Last spring I saw two in the grass, one inside a thrashing machine, and another joined to the nest of a Song Thrush on a wooden bar inside a cattle shed, and all of them were within a few yards of suitable hedgerows. The structure is composed of small dead twigs, roots, dry grass, and moss intermixed with clay or mud, and lined with fine, dry grass.

The eggs, numbering from four to six, are of a dull bluish-green, spotted and blotched with reddish-brown and grey. Occasionally specimens may be met with having a few hair-like lines on the larger end. The eggs vary considerably in regard to size, shape, and coloration.

Blackbirds breed from March until June, July, and even August, and have been known to rear as many as four broods in a single season. Young birds of the first brood sometimes help their parents to feed the chicks of a second family.

The glory of an Ouzel’s song consists not so much in its variety and compass as in the rich, flute-like melodiousness of its tones and the easy, leisurely manner of their delivery. They are readily distinguished from the hurried, vehement, hope-inspiring notes of the Song Thrush by their mellowness, stately delivery, and touch of melancholy.

FEMALE BLACKBIRD ADMIRING
HER SINGLE GIANT CHICK

Blackbirds sing principally during the morning and evening, but as a rule do not commence quite as early or go on so late as Throstles. A warm spring shower will, however, always draw the best and sweetest music from the Merle at whatever hour of the day it may fall. This species loves to sing from a dead, bare bough, standing well above the surrounding foliage, but occasionally holds forth on the wing, and I have heard one sing habitually from a housetop in the Outer Hebrides.

Although the male Blackbird helps the female to feed their nestlings, this does not put a stop to his vocal efforts. He frequently carols a few notes near the nest directly after he has delivered his catch of worms and grubs, and this fact may, to some extent, account for the chicks commencing to sing three months after they have been hatched.

Some members of this species will sing off and on as late as the end of July, and commence again as early even as September.

The Blackbird, when heard at very close quarters, may be discerned to imitate the notes of other species, as I have discovered when lying in hiding trying to obtain phonographic records of its song. It is said to be able to reproduce the crowing of a cock or the cackle of a laying hen, and even snatches of popular songs.

The bird’s call note is a tisserr, tack, tack, and its well-known ringing alarm cry, spink, spink, spink.

THE TWITE OR
MOUNTAIN LINNET.

I have had many excellent opportunities of studying this wee songster whilst staying in the Outer Hebrides, where it is far more numerous than in any other part of the British Isles. In general appearance, flight, and habits it closely resembles its relative, the Common Linnet, but may be distinguished from that species by the fact that it has a longer tail and more slender form, a yellow beak, and lacks the crimson colouring on its head and breast.

The female is distinguished from the male by the fact that she is lighter-coloured, and has no crimson on her rump.

Young Twites resemble their mother in appearance.

The song of the cock is a very pleasant little performance, somewhat similar to that of the Linnet, although not equal to it either in strength or sweetness. I have frequently heard the bird singing on the top of a stone wall within a few feet of his mate sitting on her nest in the honeysuckle shown in our illustration. He occasionally varied this kind of exercise by pouring forth his music whilst fluttering through the air from one side of the garden to the other.

TWITE’S NEST AND EGGS.

Numbers of male Twites roost every night during the spring amongst some stunted alder bushes growing close to the house of an old friend of mine in the Western Isles, and enliven the whole place each fine evening by a volume of twittering sound.

The call note of the species is somewhat shrill, and sounds like twite, from which the bird has derived its name.

YOUNG TWITE JUST FLEDGED.

It is said to breed in the North of England, but although I have met with the bird in great flocks, both in Yorkshire and Westmorland, during the autumn, I never discovered its nest upon the Fells. I have found it breeding on several Highland mountains, but as already stated, most numerously in the Outer Hebrides. How abundant it actually is in the Western Isles may be gathered from the fact that I have found no fewer than seven nests in the course of a zig-zag walk of a mile or so from the house of one friend to that of another. As an indication of the wide variety of sites chosen by the Mountain Linnet—as the bird is sometimes called—for its little home, I will mention the places in which I discovered the above-named nests. Two were in holes in a dry stone wall, the one containing eggs, figured in our illustration, at the top of a stone wall and sheltered by a piece of overhanging turf, which had been placed there to increase the height of the fence; one in a tuft of heather growing close to a half-buried rock; one in a furze bush where a Common Linnet’s nest might have been expected; another in a stunted gooseberry bush; and the last in an ivy geranium growing inside a small greenhouse, to which the birds gained entrance through a broken pane in the roof. On more than one occasion I have found a nest, containing eggs or young ones, under an overhanging tuft of grass growing from a crevice of rock on the small piece of North Uist Coast shown in the tailpiece to this article.

TWITE ON NEST IN HONEYSUCKLE TIED AGAINST
A STORM-SWEPT HEBRIDEAN GARDEN WALL.

A Twite’s nest sometimes takes a long time to build. I remember one that occupied a whole fortnight from foundation laying to completion. It is made of fibrous roots, dead grasses, and moss, with an inner lining of feathers, fur, or hair.

The eggs number five or six, of a light bluish-green or bluish-white ground colour, marked with reddish-brown and dark brown spots and streaks.

THE WOOD WREN.

The Wood Wren, or Wood Warbler as it is sometimes called, measures just over five inches in length. On its upper parts it is olive-green tinged with yellow, except in the case of its wings and tail, which are dusky. The chin, cheeks, throat, and breast are yellow, and under parts white. A line of bright yellow runs from the base of the bill over the eye. The bird may be distinguished from its relative, the Willow Wren, by its larger size, broader yellow band over the eye, greener upper parts, and whiter abdomen, also by its longer wings. Its nest is also a safe guide to correct identification, as will be shown presently.

The female is similar to the male in her appearance.

WOOD WREN’S NEST AND EGGS.

This species loves woods containing tall beech and other trees, and although of somewhat local occurrence, may be met with in nearly all suitable parts of England and Wales. It is rarer in Scotland and Ireland. It is difficult to study, except at the nest, on account of its habit of hunting for insects amongst the leaves near the tops of trees. However, its plaintive call note and very characteristic song are constantly being uttered, and can never be mistaken for those of any other bird.

FEMALE WOOD WREN ABOUT TO ENTER NEST.

Its nest is built on the ground amongst thick herbage, is oval in shape, and domed. The outside consists of dry grass, dead leaves, and moss, with an inner lining of fine dead grass and horsehair. Although in general appearance the structure is almost exactly like those of the Willow Wren and Chiffchaff, it may always be distinguished with certainty from them by the absence of feathers.

The eggs, numbering five or six, are white, thickly spotted all over with dark purplish-brown and violet-grey.

The song, although short, is clear, loud, sweet, oft repeated, and sounds something like sit-sit-sit-sit-sit-see-eeeeeze. Each of the opening notes of the song is uttered more rapidly than that which preceded it, until they develop into a kind of trill, rising in pitch all the time, and finally end in a long, shaky, thin one. The melody is accompanied by rapid vibrations of the wings and tail, as if the loud voice shook the body of the wee singer.

The call note is a plaintive twee or tway tway, frequently used as a kind of alternative to the song described above.

Although such a small bird, the Wood Wren is very courageous at the nest. The individual figured in our illustration repeatedly attacked my hand with bill and wings when I attempted to disturb her in her maternal duties. She was very angry with me when the photograph was secured, and incidentally it shows the great length of wing in this species.

This Warbler is a late arrival upon our shores, coming about the end of April and departing again in September. It lives entirely upon insects.

THE RING OUZEL.

Mountain solitudes, with lonely crag-strewn glens and rough, deep gulches, “far removed from the busy haunts of men,” form the home of this brave, independent bird. If a few stunted rowan or whitethorn trees peep shyly from sheltered corners and crevices here and there the better will the situation be liked.

The Ring Ouzel arrives in this country in April and quits our shores again during September and October. It is about the same size as the Common Blackbird, and behaves more or less like a member of that well-known species. In colour it is dull black with an edging of dark grey to the feathers. Across the chest stretches a broad crescent-like band of pure white. The female is rather lighter coloured, and the white gorget on her breast is neither so broad nor so pure.

This species breeds in the West of England, in the six northern counties, and in suitable parts of Wales, Scotland, and Ireland.

Its song consists of a few clear, powerful notes that would sound out of place if heard anywhere but amongst the bird’s wild, lonely surroundings. During a calm spring evening the plaintive, lonesome notes of the Mountain Blackbird, as this species is sometimes called, can be heard at a great distance because the singer has a habit of delivering its music from a high boulder or cairn.

The alarm cry is a loud tac-tac-tac, which is uttered with great volubility and vehemence when the nest containing young ones is approached.

RING OUZEL’S NEST.

I have found the nest of the Ring Ouzel, which is a very similar structure to that of the Blackbird, amongst long heather growing upon a steep bank by a burn-side, amongst rocks in the face of small broken cliffs, under sheltering stones projecting from the ground, on steep hillsides, and in holes in old stone walls. I once discovered one amongst rushes on flat ground, but this is an exceptional kind of situation.

FEMALE RING OUZEL COVERING YOUNG
IN NEST DURING A SHOWER OF RAIN.

Although a comparatively shy, wary bird under ordinary circumstances, the Ring Ouzel is possessed of great courage, which it rarely fails to display in the defence of its young. I have on more than one occasion watched members of the species driving stray Kestrels away from the neighbourhood of their nests. They will fly close round the head of a human intruder, uttering discordant cries if their chicks are molested.

The eggs are very similar to those of the Common Blackbird, bluish-green in ground colour, marked with reddish-brown spots. The markings are, as a rule, however, larger than those on the eggs of the above-mentioned species.

Young Ring Ouzels have no white collar or gorget on the breast. Their feathers are brownish-black, edged with dirty white, and when they sit still on a grey limestone or under a ledge they are, in consequence, difficult to see.

THE TREE PIPIT.

We have three Pipits breeding in the British Islands—viz. the Meadow, Rock, and Tree, which are all very well named according to their respective habits. Owing, however, to, their similarity of general appearance, the two latter species are frequently mistaken for the first, and described as Titlarks.

The plumage of the Tree Pipit is sandy brown in colour, streaked with dark brown above, light buff with streaky dark brown spots on breast, and dull white on the under parts. It is rather larger than the Meadow Pipit, its colours are brighter, and it has a curved hind claw which is shorter than the toe from which it springs, whereas in the case of its relative the Meadow Pipit the hind claw is long and nearly straight. This shows a wonderful provision of Nature. The first-named bird is wholly migratory, and perches on trees, hence the short curved claw must render it very useful for grasping branches; the second is only partially migratory, great numbers staying in this country throughout the year, and its long hind claw must prove very advantageous as a snowshoe during the winter.

TREE PIPIT’S NEST AND EGGS.

As its name implies, the species under notice frequents parts of the country where trees grow, preferably in clumps with grassy glades between.

The male Tree Pipit is a very sweet singer, and makes his music more attractive by the manner in which he delivers it. He alights generally on the topmost branch of some favourite tree, from which elevation he mounts the air to varying heights of from twenty to sixty or seventy feet by a series of rapid wing beats, commences to utter his song with a chee, chee, chee, chee, when he has reached a sufficient altitude for his purpose, and delivers it whilst he is gliding down slowly in a kind of half-circle through the air with outstretched wings, expanded tail, and dangling legs.

When in full song this bird is a most energetic vocalist. I timed one upon my watch last spring, and found that on an average he sang five times per minute, and three times out of the five the music was delivered upon his favourite perch. The perching song only lasted two or three seconds, as a rule, whereas the flying one took from five to seven seconds—according to the height from which the bird started—to get through.

FEMALE TREE PIPIT ABOUT
TO ENTER NEST.

The song of this species has been likened to that of the Canary, and in some respects it does undoubtedly resemble it. It commences with the lark-like notes already mentioned, and ends with a ringing tsee, tsee, tsee, or whee, whee, whee.

Tree Pipits vary greatly in the quality of their music. One of the very finest singers I ever heard was on a hillside near to Builth Wells, in Wales. The call note is a trit, trit, or t’sip, t’sip.

It has been said that the male birds of this species are seldom found living within hearing distance of each other during the breeding season.

The nest is built on the ground, and is generally sheltered by a tuft of herbage growing on a grassy bank. It is composed of rootlets and moss with an inner lining of fine grass and hair. The eggs number from four to six, of very variable coloration. Some are dull white, so closely mottled and spotted with dark brown as to almost hide the ground colour, whilst others have the greyish-white ground colour tinged with purple, and are spotted and clouded with purple-brown and purple-red.

The Tree Pipit arrives upon our shores in April and leaves again in September and October.

THE WOODLARK.

The Woodlark is not nearly so common or widely distributed as the Skylark, and is frequently thought to be heard and seen when the bird under observation is really only a Tree Pipit.

It is smaller than the Skylark, and has a much shorter tail and more conspicuous crest. Although of somewhat similar coloration, it has a distinct light yellowish streak running over each eye and meeting at the back of the head; the breast spots are more distinct; and its flight always appears to me to be more undulatory.

The Woodlark is a shy creature, but had it not been for the very wet and benumbingly cold weather prevailing at the time I figured the young one shown in our illustration on page 56—which could fly quite well—I feel sure that I could have photographed one or both of the parent birds feeding it.

This species is considered by many people to come next to the Nightingale as one of Nature’s Carol Singers. Its voice is certainly sweeter in tone, though it lacks both the power and variety of that of the Common Skylark. Yarrell says that “its soothing notes never sound more sweetly than while the performer is mounting in the air by wide circles, or, having attained the summit of its lofty flight, is hanging almost stationary overhead.”

That is exactly how the bird’s delightfully flute-like notes affect me, although many people find an element of sadness in them. Burns, for instance, considered the Woodlark’s song a mixture of love and sorrow, and exclaimed:

“For pity’s sake, sweet bird, nae mair

Or my poor heart is broken.”

It sings whilst perched upon a tree, and sometimes its clear, tender notes may be heard ringing out during a fine summer’s night.

WOODLARK’S NEST AND EGGS.

The call notes of the species are a very musical double one, sounding something like lu-lu and tweedle, weedle, weedle, uttered on the wing.

The Woodlark, like the Tree Pipit, although roosting upon the ground, procuring its food and rearing its young there, must have some kind of timber, whether it be great belts of fir, with pastures and dry, heather-clad commons between, or bare hillsides with scattered clumps of oak and bushes here and there to make its home amongst.

NEWLY FLEDGED WOODLARK.

It is said to breed most numerously in the southern counties of England, occasionally in the north, and rarely in Scotland and Ireland. Its nest is very similar to that of the Common Skylark, but as a rule shows a little better workmanship, perhaps, in its construction. It is situated under a tuft of grass, in heather, or at the foot of a bush. Sometimes it is simply placed in a little hollow on ground which does not grow sufficient grass to form any kind of shelter or hiding.

The eggs, numbering four or five, are reddish-white, light brownish-yellow, or greenish-white in ground colour, thickly spotted and speckled with dull reddish-brown and underlying markings of grey.

This species commences to breed in March and rears two broods during the season. It resides with us all the year, but is subject to local movement.

THE COMMON WREN.

Everybody knows and loves the wee brown Wren with its active, pert ways and cheerful rattling song, which is heard nearly the whole of the year round.

“Jenny” or “Kitty” Wren, as the bird is often called, is to be met with almost everywhere by sea-shore and riverside, in the cultivated garden and on the barren waste, along the plain and on the mountain side, in thick woods and treeless deserts where there is little else than rocks for it to alight upon. Whether the sun be shining, flowers blooming, and food plentiful, or the ground be wreathed in a thick blanket of snow and the world a picture of desolation and a place of hunger, the little bird is ever cheerful, active, and gay. As the poets have it:

“When icicles hang dripping from the roof

Pipes his perennial lay.”

Its song is surprisingly loud and clear for such a tiny musician, especially when heard only a few inches away, as I have heard it on several occasions whilst crouching inside some of my hiding contrivances waiting to secure a photograph of some shy bird or beast. It is delivered both upon the wing and when the musician is at rest upon a branch or stone.

A Wren’s call notes sound something like tit, tit-it, tit-it-it, tit-it-it-it, uttered so quickly as to resemble the winding-up of a clock.

Even in the depths of the very severest winter weather, “Jenny” Wren refuses to be “pauperised” like the Robin, the Blackbird, and the Song Thrush, and disdaining the help of man, hunts all day long for its own support in a spirit of hopeful independence. It does not matter whether it is an old moss-grown stone wall, a stack of loose firewood, or a shrubbery, in and out goes the little nut-brown bird from cold grey morn till glooming eve, examining every crack and cranny for some lurking morsel of insect life.

WREN’S NEST AMONGST
IVY GROWING ON THE TRUNK
OF A TREE.

It is strange how such an innocent and altogether praiseworthy little bird should have come to occupy such an unenviable position in bird folklore. The common names of this species in most European languages assign kingly dignity to it, and it obtained kingship of all the birds by a mean kind of trick. A parliament of birds agreed that the one that could fly highest should be king. The Eagle easily mounted to the greatest height, but when he had reached it a little brown Wren that had cunningly hidden itself on his back fluttered a little higher, and by this piece of deceit gained the much-coveted honour. Whether for this or some other equally supposed evil deed, the poor bird used to be hunted in our country every Christmas Day by boys and men armed with sticks, and its body publicly exhibited the following day whilst money was begged to bury it.

Although the Common Wren is double brooded and rears from four to eight chicks twice each season, the stock never seems to increase much from one year to another. Nobody knows clearly what becomes of all the birds. Of course, natural death must claim a certain number of victims, and I have no doubt that both Owls and rats secure many individuals whilst they are asleep in holes in the thatches of ricks. I have also found several frozen to death during very severe weather in the winter. In order to avoid this last calamity the birds resort to a very ingenious method of roosting. Although they never go in flocks by day, eight or nine members of the species will congregate together in one hole at night, and by a combination of their natural warmth sleep in snug safety.

WREN ABOUT TO ENTER NEST
WITH FOOD FOR CHICKS.

A Wren’s nest is very large for the size of the builder, is oval in shape, has a domed top, and a small entrance-hole in front. The bird is famous for the number of nests it builds and never occupies with either eggs or young. These structures, which are not finished inside by a lining of down or feathers, are supposed to be built by the males, and are called “cocks’” nests. Nobody knows with any degree of certainty why they are built. It has been suggested to roost in during cold winter nights, but careful investigations have convinced me that there is nothing in this theory.

Boys and girls have an idea that if they thrust an inquiring finger ever so deftly into a Wren’s nest the bird is sure to discover the fact and desert. Without wishing for one moment to do poor “Jenny” an ill turn by destroying this wholesome fear and encouraging investigation, the truth must be told. There is really nothing in the theory. If the structure be deserted, in all probability it is a “cock’s” nest, and was never intended to be anything else by its builder.

Wrens build in all kinds of situations—amongst ivy growing upon walls and round the trunks of trees, in the thatches and sides of ricks, in holes in walls, in banks amongst rocks, in hedges, amongst the rafters of barns, and even in coils of old rope and disused garments hanging up in sheds.

When the nest is built in a mossy bank the outside is generally made of moss; when in the front of a hayrick it is made of straws; and when amongst a few slender twigs sprouting from the place where some large bough has been sawn from the trunk of a tree, of dead leaves. These studied attempts, for such they would seem, at concealment do not, however, always hold good, for I have occasionally found one made of moss in the side of a hayrick.

“Jenny” Wren is a very industrious builder. One day I was resting inside an old tumble-down summer-house built into a steep hillside in a Surrey park, when, to my consternation, I saw a big black feather coming straight as a partridge towards me. There was not a breath of wind blowing at the time, and the whole thing struck me as being most uncanny. Presently it stopped in a little bush, and I saw a wee brown wren behind it. The mystery was at once explained. I sat perfectly still, and in a few moments she brought the erstwhile awesome feather into the summer-house, and after considerable difficulty managed to get the awkward piece of furniture through her tiny front door. She brought along another and another with surprising speed, and before many days passed she had laid six white eggs which were spotted with brownish-red.

THE GRASSHOPPER WARBLER.

The Grasshopper Warbler is a little brown bird of about the same size and general appearance as the familiar Hedge Sparrow, but with the strangest voice and manners. It arrives in this country about the middle of April, and takes its departure again in September.

It does not appear to matter much whether the country where this species breeds be wet or dry, so long as there is plenty of dense cover in which it can hide and skulk about mouse-like and unseen. It is a great lover of old haunts, and in the absence of accidents will return season after season with the utmost regularity to some favourite clump of gorse growing on a sandy common or to an ancient reed-bed in the middle of a water-logged marsh. It is very vigilant, shy, and timid, and the slightest disturbance sends it instantly into hiding amongst the thickest vegetation it can find.

Upon his arrival in the spring the male bird commences his queer, shrill song, which sounds something like that of a grasshopper, hence the popular name given to the species.

Whilst living in a house-boat on the Norfolk Broads, studying Nature, I have had many excellent opportunities of observing the habits of this interesting bird, and have often heard it singing at night when the stars were reflected on the dark, still water around me and not a breath of wind stirred the balmy air. The best time of all, however, to hear a Grasshopper Warbler in full song is at sunrise. When the first gleam of rosy light tints the dead brown reeds with coppery red and dewdrops twinkle on every blade of grass, the bird mounts to the topmost twig of some stunted alder bush or blade of sedge, and standing quite still, with widely opened mouth and quivering body, pours forth his strange song in one incessant stream. Whilst the music lasts the head is turned from side to side, and it is this action which appears to give it a ventriloquial effect.

GRASSHOPPER WARBLER ON NEST.

If the bird be disturbed it instantly ceases to sing, and dropping stealthily into the undergrowth waits in silence until the danger has passed; then it recommences.

When the singer is not seen, the exact locality from which the sounds are proceeding is very difficult to discover. This arises from two facts—the shrillness of the tones, as in the case of a mouse squeaking when running about amongst grass, and the movements of the head already mentioned.

The sound, although somewhat similar to that made by a grasshopper, is much more sustained, and always appears to me far more machine-like. In fact, it is known in some parts of the country as the “Reeler,” in recognition of the fact that its notes resemble the sounds made by a reel used during the last century by hand-spinners of wool. Once the bird has been heard, its song can never be forgotten or mistaken for that of any other British Bird. Its call note is a sharp tic, tic.

The Grasshopper Warbler builds upon the ground, or very near to it. Its nest is well hidden, and is composed of dead grass and bits of moss, with an inner lining of fine, fibrous grass.

The eggs, numbering from four to seven, are of a pale rosy-white ground colour, very thickly spotted and speckled, especially at the larger end, with reddish-brown.

The bird approaches and leaves its nest in the most mouse-like manner. I have frequently taken it for one running through the rough matted grass, even when I knew the exact whereabouts of its home which I was approaching.

THE SKYLARK.

It seems almost superfluous to give a word of description concerning this well-known and almost universally distributed song bird. The upper parts of the Lavrock, as it is sometimes called, are of varying shades of brown, the darkest being in the centres of the feathers, and the lightest on their edges. The under parts are pale straw colour, tinged in parts with brown and spotted on the breast with a dark hue of that colour. It is about seven inches in length, and, as most of my readers will have noticed, has a greatly elongated hind claw. This interesting provision of Nature acts the useful part of a snow-shoe during severe weather in the winter.

Although it leaves its higher breeding grounds in the autumn this species stays with us all the year round, and has its numbers greatly increased by migrants arriving from the Continent.

The Skylark breeds in cultivated and uncultivated districts alike throughout the country. I have found its nest within a few yards of the open Atlantic and at an elevation of nearly two thousand feet above sea-level.

SKYLARK’S NEST AND EGGS.

The nest is placed on the ground in a slight hollow scratched out by the bird under tufts of grass, ling, heath, in corn, and amongst the sun-baked clods of fallow fields. It is made of grass rootlets and horsehair—frequently nothing but the first-named, used sparingly with the slenderest blades forming the inner lining. I have found larks’ eggs from April until the end of July. They number four or five, of a dirty white ground colour, occasionally tinged with olive-green, thickly speckled and spotted with olive-brown and underlying markings of brownish-grey.

The sprightly song of the Skylark is probably better known and remembered by most people than even the appearance of the familiar little brown bird itself. Poets of all ages have praised it in their verse, but nobody has ever excelled Shakespeare’s golden line:

“Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings.”

In a moderate breeze the Lavrock rises almost perpendicularly, but during a calm in circles, and with rapidly beating wings pours out his loud, joyous song until he sometimes reaches an altitude of a thousand feet or more. Some people say that the bird soars until it becomes invisible, but I have never in all my life heard a Skylark when I could not see it. However, it is only right to confess that I am gifted with abnormally strong eyesight. He continues to sing upon his descent, but in a somewhat altered tone, until approaching the ground, when his carol suddenly ceases, and with closed wings he drops like a stone to the earth.