PLATE I. GOLDEN EAGLE. ⅙ NAT. SIZE.

BRITISH BIRDS

BY

W. H. HUDSON, C.M.Z.S.

WITH A CHAPTER ON STRUCTURE AND CLASSIFICATION
BY FRANK E. BEDDARD, F.R.S.

With 8 Coloured Plates from Original Drawings by A. Thorburn
and 8 Plates and 100 Figures in black and white from Original Drawings by G. E. Lodge
and 3 Illustrations from Photographs from Nature by R. B. Lodge

NEW IMPRESSION

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.

39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON

FOURTH AVENUE & 30TH STREET, NEW YORK

BOMBAY, CALCUTTA, AND MADRAS

1921

All rights reserved

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

INTRODUCTION.

The plan followed in the descriptive portion of this work has, I trust, the merit of simplicity. A brief account is given of the appearance, language, and life-habits of all the species that reside permanently, or for a portion of each year, within the limits of the British Islands. The accidental stragglers, with the irregular or occasional visitors, have been included, but not described, in the work. To have omitted all mention of them would, perhaps, have been to carry the process of simplification too far. And as much may be said of the retention in this book of Latin, or ‘science’ names. The mass of technical matter with which ornithological works are usually weighted is scarcely wanted in a book intended for the general reader, more especially for the young. Nor was there space sufficient to make the work at the same time a technical and a popular one: the briefest description that could possibly be given of the characters of genera would have occupied thirty to forty pages. The student must, in any case, go to the large standard works on the subject, especially to those of Yarrell (fourth edition), Seebohm, and Howard Saunders, which are repositories of all the most important facts relating to our bird life, gathered from the time of Willughby, the father of British ornithology, down to the present.

The order in which I have placed the species, beginning with the thrushes and ending with the auks, is that of Sclater, based on Huxley’s classification, and is the arrangement adopted in the official list of the British Ornithologists’ Union (1883). The B.O.U. list enumerates 376 species; and of this number 211 species are counted as residents and regular visitants; the remaining 165 being loosely described as ‘Occasional Visitants.’ About these aliens, which are claimed as citizens, something requires to be said.

It has long been the practice of our ornithologists to regard as ‘British’ any species of which one specimen has been found in a wild state within the limits of the United Kingdom. As a result of this excessive hospitality we find in the list about forty-three species of which not more than three specimens have been obtained; in a majority of cases only one. We also find that there are not fewer than forty-five exclusively American species in the list; but by what means, or by what series of extraordinary accidents, these lost wanderers have been carried thousands of miles from their own region, across the Atlantic, and have succeeded in reaching our shores alive, it is impossible to imagine. It is highly probable that some of the American, Asiatic, and European waifs that have been picked up in these islands were birds that had escaped from confinement; but whether brought by man or borne on the wings of the tempest to our shores, the fact remains that they are not members of our avifauna, and the young reader should clearly understand that only by a pleasing fiction are they called ‘British.’

I have spoken at some length on this subject, because it is one that appears to interest a great many persons who are not ornithologists. How many British species are there? is a question that is continually being asked of those who are supposed to know. I should say that, in round numbers, there are 200; at the very outside, 210. Seebohm, in the introduction to his great work, gives 222 as the number of species ‘fairly entitled to be considered British birds’; but he probably counted some that are usually regarded as irregular visitors, and perhaps others which have been exterminated in recent times. Of the 165 species set down in the ‘British’ list as occasional visitors, about 55 or 60 deserve that description, since they do, as a fact, visit the British Islands at irregular intervals. All the others are accidental stragglers.

It only remains to add something on another subject—the little life-histories of the two hundred and odd species described in this volume. Although this is in no sense a controversial subject, the apologetic tone must be still used. I wish that these sketches had been better done, but I do not greatly regret that they had to be brief. The longest history of a bird ever written, the most abounding in facts and delightful to read, when tested in the only sure way—namely, by close observation of its subject—is found to be scarcely more complete or satisfactory than the briefest, which contains only the main facts. This is because birds are not automata, but intelligent beings. Seebohm has well said, ‘The real history of a bird is its life-history. The deepest interest attaches to everything that reveals the little mind, however feebly it may be developed, which lies behind the feathers.’ It has been remarked more than once that we do not rightly appreciate birds because we do not see them well. In most cases persecution has made them fearful of the human form; they fly from us, and distance obscures their delicate harmonious colouring and blurs the exquisite aërial lines on which they are formed. When we look closely at them, we are surprised at their beauty and the indescribable grace of their varied motions. An analogous effect is produced by a close observation of their habits or actions, which, seen from afar, may appear few and monotonous. Canon Atkinson, in his ‘Sketches in Natural History’ (1865), has a chapter about the partridge, prefaced by Yarrell’s remark, that of a bird so universally known there was little that was new to be said. While admitting the general truth of this statement, the author goes on to say: ‘Still, I have from time to time observed some slight peculiarity in the habits of the partridge that I have not seen noticed in any professed description of the bird, forming certain passages, as it were, of its minute history. It is precisely this ‘minute history’ that gives so great and enduring a fascination to the study of birds in a state of nature. But it cannot be written, on account of the infinity of ‘passages’ contained in it, or, in other words, of that element of mind which gives it endless variety.

Let us imagine the case of a youth or boy who has read and re-read half a dozen long histories of some one species; and, primed with all this knowledge, who finally goes out to observe it for himself. It will astonish him to find how much he has not been told. He will begin to think that the writers must have been hasty or careless, that they neglected their opportunities, and missed much that they ought not to have missed; and he may even experience a feeling of resentment towards them, as if they had treated him unfairly. But after more time spent in observation he will make the interesting discovery that, so long as they are watched for, fresh things will continue to appear. The reflection will follow that there must be a limit to the things that can be recorded; that the life-history of a bird cannot be contained in any book, however voluminous it may be; and, finally, that books have a quite different object from the one he had imagined. And in the end he will be more than content that it should be so.

W. H. H.

British Birds.

THE ANATOMY OF A BIRD.

It is very important that every one who studies birds should have some acquaintance with their insides as well as with their outsides. To have a proper appreciation of the mechanism of flight, the most distinctive attribute of a bird, we must explore the air reservoirs and muscles, which combine, with other organs, to form a complicated, but exquisitely adjusted, system. It is true that other animals show a similar adaptation to their several modes of life, but in a bird the necessities of life seem to have produced a more obvious and striking harmony between structure and habit. Furthermore, the young ornithologist should not be content with gaining the ability to recognise the different kinds of birds: he should understand their mutual relations, and the place of a bird in Nature. To form an opinion about these matters needs more than an acquaintance with the colours and outward form, and with the eggs and nest. A great deal can be learnt from these characters, but they are at most only useful in linking together closely related species. All the members of the extensive tribe of parrots, for example, are bound together by their hooked bills, their white eggs, their grasping feet, &c. But we want to go further, and determine what are the relations of the parrots to other birds which differ totally from them in all outward and visible signs. To solve, or rather to attempt to solve, broader questions of this kind we must have recourse to the scalpel, and even to the microscope. Besides, there not only are birds, but there were birds, which have now passed away utterly, leaving behind only a few bones embedded in the rocks. Nothing of an external nature will avail us in considering what these birds were like in their day, and which of existing kinds they most resembled. We must have a knowledge of bones, of osteology, to grapple with the problems which they present. For these reasons I have dealt in the following pages principally with the organs of flight, and with those internal and external characters which are admitted to be of most use in classificatory questions. I have paid less attention to those organs which are not of importance from these points of view.

Feathers and Feathering.

It is only a very few birds that have a complete and continuous covering of feathers. The penguins are in this condition; and some of the ostrich-like birds are so, more than most others. But in other birds the feathers are arranged in tracts, between which are patches of quite, or nearly, bare skin. The technical name for the feathered districts is ‘Pterylia’; that for the bare patches, ‘Apteria.’ If two birds, belonging to different families, are compared, it will often be discovered that they present considerable unlikeness in the mutual arrangement of the feathered and unfeathered tracts. In fact, it was pointed out not far from the beginning of this century that the dispersal of the feathers over the body was one of the very best characters for classifying birds upon. But when the author of this discovery, Professor Nitzsch, of Halle, first published his book on the matter, it was received with some ridicule, and the pictures of birds denuded of their feathers in order to show up clearly the feather tracts were ironically compared to a portion of a poulterer’s shop. This ridicule, however, did not do away with the fact that the character is often of great use in settling the mutual relationships of birds. When a bird is carefully skinned, it will be seen that the feather tracts have their own special slips of muscle inserted into the roots of the feathers. These muscles, when they contract, serve to raise the feathers slightly, and must be of at least subsidiary importance in flying. This is, perhaps, why the feather tracts are so well marked in birds that fly, and explains the reason for their unmarked character in birds that do not. We can easily understand that the movement of the feathers, if the covering were continuous, would be much more difficult and less pronounced than when there were separate patches far enough away from each other to allow of free and independent movement. In the Penguin, which glides smoothly and rapidly under water in pursuit of its fishy prey, a continuous coating of feathers is not only a source of additional warmth, but offers less resistance to the water; so, too, with a running bird like the Emu or Ostrich. But in the case of the latter, at any rate, the young nestling has quite distinct tracts and apteria, thus showing that, although nowadays it is incapable of flight, it has descended from an ancestor that could fly—at least, that is the way in which it is customary to interpret such differences in structure between young animals and their parents. The Apteryx also, of New Zealand, is quite analogous. The old bird has a nearly continuous covering of feathers, but the unhatched young show perfectly distinct patches of feathers with bare spaces between. We shall show on another page that there are other arguments which appear to prove that all these flightless birds have been gradually derived in the course of time from birds that could fly perfectly well. They are an instance, so far, of what is termed degeneration.

The examination of any bird will show that it has several kinds of feathers. They are all constructed upon the same plan, but some are larger than others, and the smallest are soft instead of firm to the touch.

Fig. 1.—Skeleton of Wing of Archæopteryx with Remiges attached. (Restoration after Pycraft, ‘Natural Science,’ vol. v.)

I, II, III, digits.

The biggest feathers of all are a set which fringe the wing (see fig. 1) and another set at the end of the tail. These are called respectively the ‘Remiges’ and ‘Rectrices,’ or the ‘rowing’ feathers and the ‘steering’ feathers. Their principal use, as may be imagined, is in flight. The remaining feathers are also to some extent used in flight, but their main use appears to be to keep the body warm. An eider-down quilt, as everybody knows, is the warmest kind of coverlet; the reason being that the feathers are very bad conductors of heat, and do not, therefore, allow the heat of the body to escape. Birds are the hottest of all animals, which is in part due to their covering of feathers. To understand the structure of a typical feather is perhaps a little difficult; but possibly the accompanying figures (figs. 1, 2, 3, 4) will render the explanation easier to follow. The feather consists of a stem which is technically called the rhachis, the word simply signifying stem. From each side of this a row of parallel rodlets arise which are called barbs. These in their turn give rise to another set of processes which are the barbules. This, however, is not all; the barbules are firmly locked together by other processes, so that the entire feather is quite firm, and can be used as a kind of oar with which to row through the air. It does not give when the wings are flapped. The barbules are of two sorts, those nearest to the root of the barb being different from those which are nearest to its tip. The former, as is shown in fig. 2, are shaped something like a knife-blade; they are thickened above and bent in the middle; they gradually taper away to a fine point. Just in the middle, where the bend is, are two or three small teeth (2, fig. 2) on the upper margin. By means of these teeth-like processes the successive barbules are attached to one another. At the end of each barb, as already mentioned, the barbules are of a different structure. A few of them are illustrated in fig. 4. The end is frayed out into a number of delicate spines, of which those farthest from the actual tip are hooked, while those at the tip are only curved and not hook-like. All these spines are called barbicels. They are upon the lower edge of the barbule; but upon the upper edge are a few shorter and stouter spinelets. As the barbules come off in an oblique direction, it follows that each one of them overlaps a considerable number, in fact five, barbules of the opposite barb. The attachment is by these hooklets, or hamuli, as they are usually termed. The stiff feathers which have this elaborate structure are not found at all in the ostrich-like birds; in them there is no need for a firm surface to catch the air; on the contrary, it would be, if anything, disadvantageous to swift runners, as those birds are. The feathers, therefore, are much reduced in complexity, and in some they consist only of the stem and the barbs. Even in flying birds there are plenty of feathers of a simple structure lying between the stronger contour feathers. These are the soft feathers which are generally spoken of as ‘down.’ Some of them are so reduced as to consist of little more than the stem. The same reduction is seen in the wing feathers of the Cassowary. Along the margin of the wing are a few strong black spines, which are really the quills of the wing feathers with no barbs at all; they consist merely of the stem, which has not dwindled in the least, but is quite as strong as it would be in a feather of use for flying. In a good many birds the contour feathers and the down feathers also have a kind of appendix, known as the aftershaft. This is a sort of supplementary feather arising from the stem just at the point where the barbs begin, and having precisely the structure of a small feather. In the Emu and the Cassowary this aftershaft is fully as large as the main feather; from each stem in these birds arise as it were two feathers.

Figs. 2, 3. (After Wray in ‘Ibis’ for 1887.)

B, Barbs; bp, proximal barbules; 1, flange; 2, ‘dog-tooth,’ part of flange; 3, overlapping portion.

Fig. 4.—Portion of two adjacent Barbs. (After Wray in ‘Ibis’ for 1887.)

B, barbs; bd, bp, barbules (distal and proximal).

The most curious modification, however, of the feather is into that structure known as a ‘powder-down.’ These feathers have, as their name denotes, a powdery appearance, which is due to the continual breaking off of the fine ends of the barbs; the feathers themselves are soft, and belong to the variety of feathers which have been described as down feathers. The dusty matter which they give off has been described as ‘dry and yet fatty to the touch.’ They are found in various birds; they do not characterise any one particular group, except the Heron tribe; some Parrots have them, a few Hawks, and certain other genera. It has been said that they are phosphorescent; and it has been suggested that their presence in the heron is of use to it in its fishing. The light, it is thought, attracts the small fishes within reach of the heron’s long bill. But this appears to be one of those exaggerations founded upon actual fact which are so common in natural history.

Another important fact about a feather is its colour. There is no purely white bird in this country and not very many that are chiefly white. But there are some, like the Gulls and the Storks. The nearest approach to an absolutely white bird is the beautiful little Egret, whose plumes are, unfortunately, so much used in feminine adornment. As concerns its feathers, this bird is absolutely white, but other parts of the body are black. A bird that is purely white, not only in the feathers but in the legs and beak, is called an albino. This state of affairs is not commonly met with, but it sometimes occurs; everybody has heard of that contradiction in terms, but actually existent creature, the ‘white blackbird.’ In all these cases there is something wanting in the feather; for white is not a colour—it is the negation of colour, and is due in nearly every case to the scattering of the rays of light which fall upon the object. This happens when the material that is coloured white is broken up into minute fragments separated by air. The froth of the sea or of a brimming tankard is simply due to the entangling of bubbles of air, which scatter the rays of light. The stems of the feathers contain bubbles of air, which bring about a like effect. But the majority of birds are coloured, and, as a rule, perhaps, brightly coloured. We have not in this country many birds which can compare with the gaudy parrots of the East; but brilliancy of hue is by no means wanting in the birds of this and of other countries which enjoy a temperate climate. It used to be said that brilliancy of colour was a characteristic of the tropics. But it is always pointed out, by way of a refutation of that statement, that the Golden Pheasant of China is as gorgeous a bird as any which exists. There are few small birds which are really more brilliant in hue than our Yellow-hammers, Goldfinches, Bullfinches, and some others. We have, it is true, nothing to seriously compete with the Humming-birds; but these birds are found not only in the tropical forests of Brazil, but also in North America and upon the snowy summits of the Andes, and can therefore hardly be used as an instance of the exclusive restriction of brilliant colour to a tropical climate.

The hues of the feathers are due to two causes. In every case where there is colour at all the feathers contain a certain amount of dye, or pigment, as it is more usually termed; this pigment may be alone responsible for the colour of the feather, or it may be only a part of the cause. If the bright blue feather from a Macaw’s wing be roughly pressed so as to injure the surface, the blue colour will disappear from the rubbed place, and will be apparently replaced by a brownish black. The reason for this is that the blue colour is the result of the actual structure of the feather, which requires the underlying black pigment for its manifestation. The crushing destroys that structure and leaves only the dark pigment. The brilliant and varying hues of the soap-bubble and of mother-of-pearl are examples of substances which owe their colour to their structure; and the hues of the bird’s feather are produced by a similar kind of structure. Finely ruled lines engraved upon the feather just below a clear and transparent outer skin are responsible for the tints of different colours. But there are many birds whose colours are entirely due to the pigments. The most interesting instance of this in many ways is an African bird, the Touraco. This bird is green for the most part, but the feathers of the wings are of a magnificent crimson. When the birds take to the wing this gorgeous colour is displayed; before, it is concealed by the overlying feathers. The colouring matter can be easily extracted from the wing, and it forms a solution of a splendid crimson as bright as the substance called cochineal, which is the product of an insect. It was once said that this colour could be, and was as a matter of fact, washed out from the wings of the bird during heavy storms of rain, and that when a touraco was shot and fell into the water it stained the water red, not with its blood, but with the dye from its feathers. This is, however, an exaggerated way of putting the fact that even very feebly alkaline water will dissolve out the colour. Some of the yellows of the woodpeckers and the browns and reds of other birds are solely brought about by the presence of pigments.

In speaking of birds as ‘feathered songsters’ or as ‘feathered bipeds,’ we are a little apt to lose sight of the fact that they are also scaly—an error which is occasionally rectified by the view of an obtrusive pair of legs belonging to the fowl upon the dinner-table. The legs of birds are nearly always scaly; there are a few exceptions or nearly exceptions. For instance, there is a special breed of pigeons with feathered legs; and the sand-grouse, which makes those remarkable and periodical invasions, has legs which are more covered with feathers than with scales.

The possession of scales is one of the most striking points of resemblance between birds and reptiles. At first sight it seems to be almost absurd to attempt to draw any parallel between the active, feathered, hot-blooded bird and the scaly, cold-blooded reptile; yet there are many resemblances, some others of which will be indicated in the following pages. In the meantime we are concerned with the scales. These are flat plates, produced by a horny alteration of the soft underlying skin, which are precisely like those of the lizards and snakes. No other animals possess scales; those of the armadillo appear to be not unlike the scales of reptiles and birds, but they really are not, nor are those of the scaly manis, which are more comparable to closely matted tufts of hair. The scales of a fish are totally different, since they are not formed by the true skin, the epidermis, at all, but by the underlying dermis. In no bird, however, are there scales upon any part of the body except the legs. But one bird makes a near approach to having scales elsewhere. This is the Penguin, the feathers of whose wings are flattened and very scale-like. But the characteristic fringing of the feather can be detected on a careful examination. The penguin uses its wings as paddles to fly under water. A branching and delicate feather would be worse than useless under such circumstances; hence the superfluous fringing of the stem of the feather has been got rid of, and the feather itself has become flattened and lies close to the skin.

Beak.

The beak is simply a horny tract of skin which has become hardened for its special uses. It is not even distinctive of the bird; for turtles, particularly the snapping turtles, have beaks which are not only precisely like those of birds, but are equally effectual when turned to aggressive ends. It is a commonplace of knowledge that the bill or beak presents an almost endless variety of form, which is associated with an equally diversified use. The remarkable shovel-shaped bill of the duck is suitable for dabbling in soft mud, just as is the hooked beak of the hawk or owl for tearing living prey. The most prevalent form of bill is that possessed by most passerine birds, a conical longer or shorter bill. The relatively enormous beak of the toucan is serrated along the free edge, which enables its possessor to obtain a firmer grasp of the fruits upon which it feeds. The ridges upon the inner surface of the beak in the ducks serve an analogous purpose; the same structure is seen in the bill of the Flamingo, though the outline of the bill is unlike that of the duck, and gave rise to the idea, or at any rate had something to do with the former impression, that the flamingo was a long-legged duck. But, as a matter of fact, there is a stork in which there is precisely the same ridging of the beak, and it is more usual now to place the flamingo among the storks, or near to them. The Spoonbill, as its name denotes, has a beak which is at the extreme of the series of beaks which are useful for sifting the mud at the bottom of pools and rivers; the extremity is widened and flattened out. Most singular is the recurved bill of the Avocet, and equally so the under-jawed Rhynchops, the terms used implying the peculiarities in each case. There is no living bird which lacks a beak; but in some of the extinct and toothed birds, which are again referred to later, the beak was absent. Its place was taken in them by the teeth.

Feet.

Fig. 5.—Foot of Pelican.

Fig. 6.—Foot of Perching Bird.

Fig. 7.—Foot of Kingfisher.

Hardly less diversified in form are the feet of birds. The skeleton of this part of the body is dealt with on another page; here we are concerned only with the external form of the feet and legs. Aquatic birds often have webbed feet, but not always. The Dipper, for example, is a bird which lives largely on and under the water, but its feet are not in the least like those of a Duck or Grebe. The webbed foot presents us with at least two varieties. In the Pelican tribe (fig. 5) the extreme of web-footedness is to be seen. Here all the toes (four) are connected by a webbing. In the Duck only three of the toes are webbed. Another kind of webbed foot is termed palmate. In the Coots, for example, each toe is fringed with a broad membrane, but there is no connection between the fringes of successive toes. The toes of birds are apt to be differently disposed. In most birds (fig. 6) there are three toes which are turned forwards, and one, the great toe (hallux), which is turned backwards. But in the Trogons and others two toes are turned forwards and two backwards, thus producing a very efficient mechanism for holding on tightly to the bough of a tree, a mechanism which is shared by that, in some other respects, bird-like lizard, the chameleon. A foot of this kind is technically called ‘zygodactyle.’ A singular modification of the foot is seen in the Kingfisher (fig. 7) where the two middle toes are enclosed in the same fold of skin; this is called ‘syngenesious.’

Skeleton.

A bird’s skeleton is wonderfully light and spongy in texture. It is full of air (see below, p. 27), but deficient in marrow. Its entire structure is pre-eminently suited to a flying creature, not only for the above reasons, but because the heaviest part (the sternum) lies in the middle, in the centre of gravity, and thus assists in preserving the balance, like Blondin’s pole.

The Skull.

The skull of a bird is composed of a large number of separate bones, which are very closely united in the adult bird, so much so that it is next to impossible to recognise that they are distinct bones. The bones are also thin and light, for to a flying animal any weight forward would be most disadvantageous. The weight of the bird should be, and is, concentrated in the middle of the body. We can divide the skull into two regions: behind is the smooth, rounded brain-case or cranium; in front is the face, which is largely ensheathed by the beak. It is chiefly formed by the maxillary and nasal bones above, and by the palatine and pterygoids below. The length of this part of the skull is subject to great variation in different birds. In the Storks, for instance, the face is extremely long, while in the Parrots it is comparatively short.

Professor Huxley, about thirty years ago, proposed to classify birds by the form of the bones of the palate. In the skull of the Hawk, it will be seen that two bones lying in the front region of the palate are fused with each other in the middle line, and to the type of skull which is thus characterised the name ‘desmognathous’ was given. It is found not only in the Hawks, but in a quantity of other birds; for instance, in the Stork tribe, and in the Hornbills and Toucans. The second form of skull distinguishes the gallinaceous birds; in them the two maxillo-palatines remain unconnected, and the palate is therefore in a way cleft; this is termed the ‘schizognathous’ skull. In the finch tribe there is a slight modification of this, called, from the Greek word for a finch, ‘ægithognathous.’ In these birds a median bone, called the vomer, from the fact that the bone to which it corresponds in the human skull is shaped somewhat like a plough-share, is truncated in front, instead of tapering, as it does in the schizognathous skull of the common fowl. There is a fourth variety, which marks out the Ostrich tribe and the American Tinamous, in which the two pairs of bones called the pterygoids and palatines do not, as they do in the types of skull that have been hitherto considered, reach the middle line of the skull, but are kept off from it by the vomers, which extend backwards. The term ‘dromæognathous,’ or emu-like, is applied to this form of skull. If the back of any bird’s skull be examined, it will be noticed that just below the great hole or foramen, through which the medulla passes to join the spinal cord in the canal of the vertebral column, is a rounded, rather kidney-shaped boss. This is the occipital condyle, by means of which the skull articulates with the first vertebra. If you look at the same region in a mammal, you will find that there are two of these, one on each side, though also below the foramen magnum. This is one of the many points of structure that distinguish a bird from a mammal and ally it to the reptiles; but it must be remembered that in some reptiles there is a commencing division of the single condyle into two.

The Vertebral Column.

Like all other backboned animals, birds have a chain of small bones running along the back, and enclosing a canal in which runs the spinal marrow. In most vertebrates some of the individual vertebræ in the region of the hind limb, the sacral region, are somewhat intimately fused together, forming a more solid structure for the support of the pelvis. In birds the strong coupling of the vertebræ is more marked, and extends to the dorsal region. The mechanical value of this to a flying animal is clear; it is analogous to the tight coupling of an express train, and prevents the back from bending from side to side under the strain produced by the powerful movements of the muscles in flight. The tail vertebræ show some curious modifications in different birds. In the typical carinate bird, the last few vertebræ are fused into a piece which is called the ‘plough-share bone,’ or ‘pygostyle.’ The name of this bone sufficiently indicates its shape; the expanded end of the bone serves as a firm base, upon which rest the strong tail feathers. Now, in the ostrich tribe there are no rectrices comparable in size to those of the flying carinates. Here there is no pygostyle, but the individual vertebræ are small and disconnected. They are, however, few in number, whereas in the Archæopteryx they are numerous, though, oddly enough, not so numerous altogether as are the tail vertebræ of some flying birds. Each individual vertebra in the Archæopteryx supports a pair of rectrices, which are thus arranged in a series, and not in one row. A very distinctive peculiarity of the vertebræ of birds is the saddle-shaped centrum. The centrum of the vertebra is the solid piece which underlies the canal of the spinal cord, the walls of the latter being formed by the neural arches, which unite above to form a neural spine. In other vertebrates the centra are flat (mammals), or procœlous (the concavity being forward), or opisthocœlous (the concavity posterior), or amphicœlous (concave on both sides). This latter form of vertebra is frequently met with in archaic forms belonging to various groups. It occurs, for example, in many fishes. Such reptiles as Hyperodapedon and the Geckos have the same kind of vertebræ. Among birds there is no existing genus or species which is to be thus characterised; but the extinct Ichthyornis had clearly biconcave vertebræ.

Shoulder Girdle.

Fig. 8.—Sternum of Shrike.

h, ribs; 58, furcula; 52, coracoid; 59, anterior end of sternum.

This series of bones serves as the intermediary between the fore limb and the vertebral column. It consists of three distinct elements. There is, first of all, a sword-blade-like bone with sharp edges, which lies along the vertebral column—the scapula. To the end of this is firmly attached a somewhat shorter bone, which approaches its fellow as it joins the sternum below; this bone is known as the coracoid (52, fig. 8). The angle between these two bones is, in flying birds, a considerable one, but in the ostrich tribe they are almost in the same straight line; this is really connected with the power of flight, for it has been shown by careful measurements that, in birds which still have wings that bear every appearance of being functional, and yet are not used for their legitimate purpose, the angle tends to approach the obtusity of the scapula and coracoid of the Ostrich. Birds have, besides these two bones, the merry-thought, or clavicle (58, fig. 8), which corresponds to our collar-bone. Its two halves are generally closely united to form one

-shaped or

-shaped bone; but sometimes they are separate, and then more or less rudimentary.

Wing.

Fig. 9.—Wing of Nestling Opisthocomus. (After Pycraft in ‘Natural Science.’)

The second digit (II) is free, being prolonged beyond ala membrane (P.m.), and remiges 8–10 are not developed.

Fig. 10.—Wing of Young Fowl of same Age as Fig. 9 (of Wing of Opisthocomos). (After Pycraft in ‘Natural Science.’)

The hand is shorter, and not fitted to be a grasping organ.

Fig. 11.—Wing of Adult Opisthocomus. (After Pycraft in ‘Natural Science.’)

The hand is smaller relatively to the forearm; c, the claw of digit I, much reduced.

Fig. 12.—Wing of Half-grown Ostrich. (After Parker.)

I, II, III, digits; R., U., D.c.f., carpal bones; Mc., metacarpals.

We must enter into the matter of wing a little more closely—it is so important a feature of bird organisation. The wing, of course, although it performs so different a rôle, is the exact equivalent of the fore limb of mammals. We can easily recognise precisely the same bones, though they are diminished in number, and often of a different form. It will be noticed that in each case we can distinguish the three bones forming the arm, and which are known as the humerus, the radius, and ulna. The rest of the limb in the bird is not quite so obviously like the hand of the mammal; but a little attention will show that it is constructed upon a perfectly similar plan. The flexible wrist of the mammal is made up of many small bones; the hand itself is made up of a larger series still, of which those nearest to the wrist are technically termed the metacarpals, and those which follow, the phalanges. In many mammals there are five fingers; but there are many which have less, and the extreme is reached in the horse, which has to put up with a single finger and small rudiments of two others. Now the bird is better off in the way of fingers than the horse, as it has three fairly well-developed fingers, or rather two well developed and one less perfect. The shortest finger corresponds to the thumb of our hand. It is more freely movable than the others. The metacarpal bones of the second and third fingers are firmly welded together, and are long; each finger (as will be seen from a look at fig. 1, p. 4) has one or two phalanges, as the case may be. Now in mammals the end phalanx of each finger is tipped with a nail, or with a hoof. The powerful claws of the tiger, used for tearing, and the solid hoof of the ox or horse, upon which the creature walks, are one and the same thing. It might be supposed that the hand of the bird, which is not an organ of offence or meant to walk with, might be shorn of these appendages. But this is not the case: every bird has at least two nails (fig. 9), of a long and rather claw-like form when well developed, and sometimes three nails, that is, one to each of its fingers. It looks, therefore, very much as if the wing of the bird had been formed out of a limb that was once an organ for climbing or walking with. There is a curious bird, found in British Guiana, which is known as the Hoatzin (figs. 9, 11). In the very young nestlings of the hoatzin the claws of the fingers are so conspicuous that they are actually used by the callow chick to climb with, before the feathers of the wings have grown sufficiently to enable them to use their wings in the proper way in which a bird should; it has been said also, that other birds scramble about and use their claws when they are young. In the case of the hoatzin, it is stated that the thumb and the first finger can be brought together so as to lay hold definitely of an object. A very important thing to notice about the wing bones is that they are capable of but little movement upon each other. There are two hinges, one at the elbow, and the other at the wrist; but the radius and ulna cannot move round each other, as they can in our arms, and the fingers are fixed and rigid. This would be most unfortunate if the wing had to be used as a walking or climbing limb; but it is most useful in relation to the function which the wing has to perform—that of flight. The strength of the downward stroke would be enfeebled if the bones were in a limp condition and moved upon each other. They offer, too, a firm foothold for the thick quills of the big feathers of the wing. It has been mentioned that all the evidence at our disposal points to the view that the wing has become gradually moulded into an organ of flight, from a condition in which it played a different part. The earliest bird of which we have any record had wings which were much less perfect as flying organs than those of modern birds. It seems pretty plain that the bones in that antique bird were much less rigidly fixed together, and it is equally clear that the fingers were very much more loosely attached to one another. They were also more on an equality as regards size; the great disparity evident in fig. 12 is not to be seen in the Archæopteryx. All this, of course, shows that the Archæopteryx could not have possessed the ample pinion of its more vigorous descendants of to-day. The fossil Archæopteryx looks a little like a crow would look after receiving at close quarters a charge of duck shot; but a closer examination will show that in reality all the bones are there, on one side at least. Out of the disjecta membra of the fossil numerous ‘restorations’ have been put together, which are as diverse as the minds which imagined them. We cannot really say with certainty what were the precise relations of the hand to the feathers. It seems most probable that the hand of this ‘mediæval’ bird still retained the ordinary functions of a hand; that it served its possessor to lay hold of convenient branches, from which it fluttered feebly to others. One bold speculator has insisted upon the probability that the Archæopteryx had the requisite five fingers of the presumed ancestral type; but there are no traces of them, except in so far as the lie of the feathers enables a hint to be gathered. Boring operations, or at least prospecting in the interior of the stony slab on which the fossil lies, might reveal some additional fingers; but the operation would be fraught with too obvious perils to a nearly unique object. There are a good many birds which do not, and some which cannot, fly. To the first category belong such birds as the domestic ducks and fowls, and some of the rails. These birds, when put to it—when chased by a dog, for example—can often fly; but as a rule they do not, or at most only flutter along. The Ostrich tribe and a few other birds have totally lost the power of flight. But though this is the case, the bony structure of the hand remains the same in the Ostrich and in the American Rhea; in the Cassowary, however, and the Apteryx of New Zealand, the fingers are reduced to one. The last stage in the atrophy of the organ of flight is seen in the giant and extinct birds of New Zealand, the Moa or Dinornis, in which no trace of a wing has been so far discovered. But in some of these birds in which the wing is reduced in size, or so simplified in structure that it can no longer serve its legitimate purpose, it is made use of for other purposes. When the Ostrich skims along the surface of the sandy deserts where it is often found, it holds out both wings, which are compared to sails; they possibly serve rather as the pole of the tight-rope walker, to preserve the balance of the bird when hurrying along at full speed. In the Secretary Vulture of Africa the wings can be used for flying, but they are also used as weapons wherewith to combat the poisonous snakes upon which the bird so usefully feeds. It strikes down the venomous serpent when the latter is attempting to strike the bird. The Chauna of South America has strong spurs upon its wings, which are used for fighting as well as for flying. But the most curious use to which wings are put is afforded by the Penguin. If the reader has never seen the ‘diving birds’ fed at the Zoological Gardens, let him go there on the first opportunity, and see how rapidly and gracefully the Penguin ‘flies’ under water by the flapping of its wings. They are shorter than those of most birds, and the feathers have become flattened and almost scale-like, so as to offer no resistance to the water; at the same time the bones of the wing are flattened, so that a broad surface is provided, which of course acts like an oar. With this oar-like wing the Penguin can outswim a small fish.

Sternum and Ribs.

The breast-bone or sternum (fig. 8, p. 13) of birds shows the same relation to the power of flight that is shown by so many, if not by all, parts of the skeleton. It is relatively a very large bone, and is in all perfectly flying birds furnished in the middle line, below, with a strongly marked keel, the presence of which has given its name to the great group of birds called carinates. The ostrich tribe, from whose sterna the keel is absent, are termed ‘ratite,’ or ‘raftlike.’ The reason for the keel is the attachment of the great pectoral muscle, which is the most important muscle of flight. The sternum often offers useful characters to the systematist. The surface of the bone is sometimes in various degrees fenestrate, or more or less deeply incised, the one condition being an exaggeration of the other, and both the conditions being due to defective ossification. The sternum is attached to the vertebral column by the ribs, which are well developed in all birds, but vary very much in number. A highly characteristic feature of the ribs of birds is a small bony projection of the hinder margin of a certain number of them, called the uncinate processes. These are present in all birds, with the single and remarkable exception of the South American Screamers (Chauna, Palamedea), a group of birds occupying a rather isolated position, and showing resemblances to a great many different groups.

Pelvis.

Fig. 13.—Pelvis and Hind Limb of Diver.

c, d, ilium; 63, ischium; 64, pubis; 65, femur; 66, tibia; 67, fibula; 68, tarso-metatarsus; i.-iv. digits with phalanges numbered.

The hind limbs are attached to the vertebral column by means of a considerable bony structure known as the pelvic girdle (fig. 13). This mass of bone is in reality composed of three pairs of elements, though they are in the adult strongly compacted together. The main bone, which is firmly attached to the vertebral column, is the ilium; with this is almost completely fused the ischium; the very slender pubis is to a large extent free from these bones. The pelvis is in its form one of the most characteristic of the bones of the bird’s skeleton. In other animals the three bones are present, but they are directed away from each other; in the bird, as already described, the pubis is directed backwards, parallel to the ischium; in correspondence, perhaps, with its position it has become a feeble bone, and has but few muscles attached to it. The interest of the matter, however, is mainly in the fact that among the extinct Dinosaurs, a race of mesozoic reptiles, there were some in which the pelvis had a very bird-like structure, with the same feeble and recurrent pubis. This has been urged as a mark of affinity between the Dinosaurs and birds. The several bones of the pelvis are free from each other at the extremity, or almost so, in all the Ratites, and in the Tinamous, which are supposed to bear some relationship to the Ratites. The fact is interesting as being an example of the retention of a character by one group of birds which is only transitional and embryonic in another, for in all young birds the bones of the pelvis are separate; it is not until some time before hatching that they become fused together as we see them in the adult.

Hind Limb.

At first sight there appears to be a considerable difference between the fore limb and the hind limb. In both there is a long proximal bone, called humerus in the one case and femur in the other, followed by a pair of bones—the tibia and fibula—corresponding to the radius and ulna of the fore limb. But in the hind limb (fig. 13), the foot proper, consisting of metatarsals and phalanges, appears to come immediately after the tibia and fibula. In a sufficiently young bird, what is the apparent lower end of the tibia, and what is equally apparently the upper end of the metatarsus, are detachable; these two halves which are thus detachable are the tarsus, which is the equivalent of the carpus of the wing. The lower bone of the leg is on this account usually spoken of as the tarso-metatarsus. The lower part of this bone is made up of three fused elements, the separation of which from each other is clearly apparent at the lower end of the bone, where the phalanges are attached. In the Penguins the three bones are separated by grooves of a very marked character throughout. In some birds there is a fourth toe, the hallux; in these cases there is a small separate metatarsal loosely fixed to the lower end of the large conjoint metatarsals.

Gizzard and Alimentary Canal.

Fig. 14.—Gizzard of Swan.

o, orifice of duodenum; a, end of proventriculus; cd, muscular part of gizzard.

The gizzard (fig. 14) of the fowl is simply a part of the stomach which has especially hard and muscular walls, the other half remaining soft in texture; this latter is termed the proventriculus, and into it open the mouths of glands which secrete the digestive juice of the stomach. But the muscular part of the stomach—the gizzard—has to grind down the frequently hard food of the bird, so it has not merely a strong wall made of muscle, but also a very tough lining; the whole organ, therefore, forms a highly efficient mechanism for crushing and grinding the seeds and other hard vegetable food which is swallowed. It is rendered more useful still for this purpose by the pebbles which every bird takes care to swallow. The true and singular stories about the varied contents of an Ostrich’s stomach are founded upon the fact that, like other birds, it picks up stones, and with them occasionally other objects. But all birds do not possess a hard gizzard; in Hawks and fish-eating birds the walls are thinner, and the organ is flaccid instead of being rigid. By a very curious and unique exception certain Tanagers, a race of large, often bright-coloured, American, finch-like birds, have nothing at all that can be compared to the gizzard of other birds; this part of the alimentary canal is totally wanting. Now the difference between the gizzard of the grain-eating fowl and the flesh-eating hawk is chiefly a matter of diet. The celebrated anatomist, John Hunter, who lived in the last century, and wrote so much about the anatomy of all kinds of animals, including birds, found that he could feed a soft-stomached bird into one with a hard gizzard, and vice versâ.

We can pass briefly over the rest of the alimentary system, which does not vary a great deal in different birds. The intestines are always rather short, and are diversely coiled, the method of coiling being often characteristic of a particular group. A good way down the intestine are a pair of cæca, which may be entirely absent, as in the Hornbills, for example; and if present may be extremely short, as in the Sparrow, or very long, as in the Ostrich; various intermediate degrees exist. As in all vertebrated animals, two glands pour their secretion into the intestine; these are the pancreas and the liver. The secretion of the liver is the bile; this fluid is accumulated as it is formed in a largish bag—the gall-bladder, in those birds which possess one. Shakespeare used the epithet ‘pigeon-livered,’ which meant literally the absence of a gall-bladder; but, oddly enough, there are some kinds of pigeons which have a gall-bladder, while others, like the common pigeon, have not. The intestine ends in the cloaca, which is the common chamber into which the urinary and generative organs also open.

Tongue and Teeth.

In the inside of a bird’s mouth we find only one of the two things that we might expect to find: there is a tongue, but no teeth. We shall come back to the teeth immediately. The tongue is not so useful among the majority of birds as it is in most mammals. But some do make use of it to a great extent. If you watch a parrot eating its food, you will observe that its thick and fleshy tongue is of the greatest assistance in helping it to manipulate the pieces of food—to extract, for instance, the kernel from a seed or nut. It plays exactly the same part as it does with us. In one kind of parrot, called the ‘Brush-tongued Parakeet,’ the tongue is frayed out at the free end into a brush-like extremity. And there are some small birds, which peck at flowers and live upon honey, in which the tongue is thin and delicate, and frayed out in the same way; this allows them to suck up the juices of the flower. In the Hummingbird the tongue is rolled up so as to form two tubes running side by side, and the same power of sucking up juices is acquired by this means, which, curiously enough, is exactly paralleled by the proboscis of the butterfly. In other birds the tongue is sometimes merely a thin, flat, horny projection, and in others, again, it is just not absent altogether.

A little reflection about the habits of birds will show that they really do not want teeth; and we know that Nature is a most rigid economist: nothing superfluous is allowed in the body. Even rapacious birds like Owls and Hawks have no teeth, because they have a powerful beak and claws, with which the food may be as effectually torn to pieces. Birds such as the Pigeon, which feed upon grain, possess a gizzard—which we have had something to say about already—that performs effectually the function of a mill, grinding into a powder the hard grains of wheat and other seeds which the bird swallows. Nevertheless birds once did possess teeth. In earlier times of the history of this earth there were some birds whose jaws had as formidable a range of teeth as the mouth of many reptiles. They were fish-eaters, and have been named Hesperornis and Ichthyornis. The first was something like a Diver in shape, the latter more like a Gull. A still more ancient bird, the oldest form of bird known to us, the Archæopteryx, had also toothed jaws. In fact, in the old days it was the rule for birds to have teeth, whereas now it is the rule, without a single exception, for birds to be toothless. Perhaps these ancient and extinct forms had some corresponding disadvantage when compared with their modern representatives; their teeth and claws, for example, may have been less effective. But although there is no bird now living which has real teeth, traces of these organs have been discovered in the young embryos of certain birds, which seems to be an absolute proof that they, at any rate, had for their first parents toothed birds. But although modern birds have no teeth, with enamel, dentine, and so forth, all complete, the horny beak has occasionally ridges which to some extent play the part of teeth. The inside of the Duck’s mouth is rough with such ridges, which occur also in some other birds. The large Flamingo was for some time regarded as a long-legged and awkward Duck that had partially adopted the habits of a Stork, partly on account of the fact that the inner edges of the beak were ridged in a fashion exactly like that of the Duck. But it happens that there is a Stork, a true Stork, in India, whose scientific name is Anastomus, which has similar ridges. Ducks feed to some extent upon shellfish, which the roughened edges of the beak are well suited to crush. The replacement in the course of ages of true teeth by horny teeth is seen—a curiously parallel case—in the Duck-billed Platypus of Australia, which has when adult horny plates instead of teeth, but when young has real teeth.

Heart.

As with all vertebrated animals, birds have a centrally placed heart, with which are connected arteries and veins, the two systems of tubes being connected at the ends farthest away from the heart by minute vessels—the capillaries. In relation, no doubt, to the intelligence and activity of birds, as compared with their slower relatives, the reptiles, we find a heart of much more perfect organisation. There are four distinct chambers, as in the mammal, so that the arterial and venous blood are separate, and do not commingle. The two sides of the heart are only in indirect communication by way of the arteries and veins and capillaries. The left ventricle gives rise to the aorta, which is the great arterial trunk of the heart; this divides into the carotid and other arteries, which supply the entire body, with the exception of the lungs. The blood, which is sent out through this vessel by the contractions of the ventricle, permeates the system generally, and is then collected into a series of veins, which ultimately unite into two great veins, the venæ cavæ in front, and a large vein situated posteriorly, the inferior vena cava. These pour the blood back into the right auricle, whence it passes at once to the right ventricle. From the right ventricle it is driven into the lungs, whence it is returned to the left auricle, and so into the left ventricle to renew the circulation. The two chambers of each half of the heart are guarded from each other by valves, which only allow the blood to flow in the proper direction, as stated in the above brief description of the course of the circulation. It is a curious fact that the valve which separates the right auricle and ventricle is a completely muscular structure, while the other is membranous. Moreover, it does not form a complete circle, but is deficient upon one side of the orifice. The interest of this fact is not merely in its abnormality, its divergence from what one would expect, but in the resemblance which is thus shown to a group of mammals, the Monotremata. This group includes only the Duck-billed Platypus of Australia and the spiny Anteater (Echidna) of the same continent and New Guinea. In both of these animals the heart valve in question is also largely muscular, and does not entirely encircle the opening from the auricle. These two mammals also, as everyone knows by this time, have the strange habit for a mammal of laying eggs, which is one among some other reasons which once led naturalists to place them in the neighbourhood of birds. The egg-laying, of course, is not distinctive, since reptiles have the same way of bringing forth their young; and as to the heart valve, it is rather to be explained by the fact that both types of animals are low in the scale of their respective groups, and therefore both approach a common ancestral form.

Voice Organ.

Fig. 15.—Syrinx of Raven (Posterior Surface).

g, tympaniform membrane.

Fig. 16.—Syrinx of Raven (Lateral View)

a, b, c, e, f, intrinsic muscles; d, sterno-tracheal muscle.

Fig. 17.—Syrinx of Raven cut open Longitudinally.

i, pessulus; h, vibrating membrane; g, membrana tympaniformis.

By their voice, too, birds are distinguished from the rest of the animal creation. Though there may be legends of singing serpents and of talking monkeys, a harsh scream or a growl is the only manifestation of the emotions through the voice which exists until we arrive at man. Among birds, the possession of a melodious voice is limited to that group which we term the Passeres. Other birds can scream or utter a dull note, while many are mute. So flexible is the voice organ of these creatures that they are the only animals that can imitate human speech. Here, however, it is not only the Passeres which can imitate the essential attribute of man. The Parrots, of course, are always supposed to be the birds which can talk, but this is far from being the truth. The hoarse utterances of most Parrots are left far behind in clearness of sound and correctness of imitation by the little Indian Mynah, which may be usually seen at the Zoological Gardens, and heard to speak. But the Parrot cannot sing. These are the only two groups of birds which have so elaborate and flexible an organ of voice. From this it might be inferred that some peculiarities of mechanism would distinguish the organ in question of these birds, and that is what we actually find to be the case. But, oddly enough, it is not only those birds which have a beautiful voice whose voice organs are so elaborate in structure. The harsh croak of the Raven issues from a syrinx which is as delicately fashioned as that which allows of the exquisitely varied tones of the Nightingale. The word ‘syrinx’ has been mentioned; that is the technical term for the voice organ of the bird, which is formed from a part of the windpipe, as in man and the mammalia, but from a different part of that tube. In man and in mammals the voice organ is placed in the throat just a little way down, at the prominence often spoken of as ‘Adam’s apple.’ This is a wider part of the tube, with larger rings of cartilage, which contains a pair of tightly stretched membranes that can be made to vibrate and cause a sound. In the bird, the voice organ is situated farther down, at the very point where the trachea forks into the two bronchi, one for each lung. Here are figures which illustrate the voice organ of a singing-bird (figs. 15, 16, 17). At this forking of the trachea the rings of the tube, which are of gristle or cartilage, become somewhat different in form. In the middle is a piece, which is often converted into bone, like the ‘three-way’ piece used to fix together the stick and the hoop of cane of a butterfly-net. To the upper side of this, and therefore within the tube, and directed upwards, is a little crescent-shaped piece of membrane (h, fig. 17); this can be set vibrating by the stream of air passing up and down the windpipe. At the sides of the syrinx there are shown in the figure (fig. 16) three pairs of muscles; these when they contract shorten the syrinx, and of course produce alterations in the note, just as the shortening of the tube in a cornet alters the sound. In many passerine birds, and in most other birds, there is only one pair of these muscles; but the Parrots agree with the passerines in having several pairs of muscles, and therefore a more easily alterable syrinx. In a good many birds there are no muscles at all in this place; for example, in the Storks, which have not by any means a flexible voice. The syrinx, in fact, is one of those organs which show a great deal of difference in different kinds of birds. But it is never entirely absent, though rather rudimentary in the Ostrich. The Australian Emu has a curious way of producing its sounds which is not found in any other bird. The cock and hen Emus can only be recognised by their voice, which is duller in the hen and sharper in the cock. When the bird is uttering its note, it seems almost to come from somewhere else, and not from the throat of the bird; the bird is something of a ventriloquist. The sound, which is a low bellow, is produced by a bag of skin opening into the windpipe some way up the neck; a current of air passing down the tube is believed to set the air in this bag in vibration, just as the air in a key may be caused to vibrate by blowing over its edge. Generally speaking, the windpipes of birds are straight tubes running to the lungs by the shortest route; but in the Cranes, and in a few other birds, the pipe is coiled upon itself once or twice, and the coils are even hidden in an excavation of the breast-bone. The increased length of tube gives a louder and more resonant note, such as we know characterises the Crane.

Lungs and Air-sacs.

It is not only by virtue of their powerful muscles and stiffened fore limbs that birds can fly. The body is rendered lighter in proportion to its bulk by air-cavities, which permeate everywhere, even into the substance of the bones. So thorough is this aëration in the Screamer of South America, that when the skin of the recently dead bird is roughly pressed it crackles. Curiously enough, there seems to be no very definite relation between the degree of thoroughness to which the aëration of the body is carried out and the capacity for flight. The Screamer, that has just been mentioned, is fuller of air-cavities than the Frigate-bird, in which the art of flying is carried to the highest extreme—the ‘triumph of the wing,’ as Michelet says in ‘L’Oiseau.’ Anyone who has the opportunity of dissecting a Hornbill will be struck by the large and abundant air-spaces between the muscles. This applies even to the Ground Hornbill of Abyssinia; and yet the latter, as its name denotes, lives upon the ground, while the flight of other hornbills is heavy and most unsuggestive of lightness of body. These air-spaces are in direct communication with the windpipe. It is much easier to understand their arrangement by the actual dissection of a bird. We must first get a notion of the position and form of the lungs, which differ very much from the lungs of other animals. In a rabbit, for example, or any other mammal, the lungs lie freely on each side of the heart, and are capable of being pushed here and there after the body is opened, and of much expansion and diminution of volume during the movements of respiration. But the lungs of all birds are tightly fixed to the wall of the chest cavity, being, as it were, moulded on to the ribs and vertebræ; when they are carefully picked away from their place, they retain the impressions of the bones which they touch. There is no great possibility here of independent movements on the part of the lungs. Respiration is effected in a totally different manner; it is, in fact, bound up with the mechanical filling of the air-spaces. Each of the two lungs is contained within a large compartment, which is bounded externally by an obliquely disposed septum, often spoken of, on account of its direction, as the ‘oblique septum.’ Others call it the diaphragm, imagining that it is the equivalent of the diaphragm in the mammal, that partly fleshy, partly tendinous plate which shuts off the cavity of the chest, in which lie the heart and lungs, from the cavity of the abdomen, in which lie the intestines, stomach, and liver. Now, this oblique septum does not by any means closely invest the lungs; on the contrary, a deep space is thereby shut off, at the bottom of which are the lungs. This cavity is subdivided by two partitions into three separate compartments. It requires a very skilful manipulation to show the fact, but it can, with care, be demonstrated that each of these compartments is lined by a delicate membrane, which is continuous with the lung, and is actually a kind of bubble, as it were, blown out of the lung; these delicate sacs are the air-sacs. There are altogether nine of them, but all these sacs do not lie within the cavity bounded by the oblique septa. The largest pair of all the abdominal air-sacs project into the body cavity far behind the gizzard. Now these sacs are fairly easy to see in a dissection; but it is not so easy to make out that they are all of them, except the middle two, connected with a system of ramified air-spaces which, as already said, permeates the body generally, lying among the viscera, between the muscles below the skin, and deep into the actual interior of the bones. But though it is difficult to see this by a dissection, it is easy enough to prove it by inflating them. If a syringe is passed down the windpipe and tied carefully into it, so that no air can escape at the sides, and air is blown down the tube, the passage of the air into the skin and other parts can be followed; if a bone be cut across, the air can be noticed to issue from the cut surface; and if the experiment be varied by using a coloured fluid instead of air—which is pumped in by a syringe—the fluid can be seen to ooze from the end of any bone or muscle that has been cut across. A bird, therefore, when it takes in a deep breath, not only supplies its lungs with fresh air, but fills its whole body with the superfluous air. It has been proved that a bird can continue to breathe if it be held under water, and only the end of a broken limb allowed above the surface; for, as all the spaces of air are in communication with the lungs, they (the lungs) can obviously be as conveniently filled from one end as from the other. When you are bathing, and take a very deep breath as you are swimming, you can detect a sensible increase in the buoyancy of the body; in a bird, of course, the difference is enormous, after the sacs are filled, from a condition of comparative emptiness. The way in which a bird breathes is different from the way in which a human being breathes. There is, of course, the essential resemblance that is shown between all animals that have definite organs which are set apart for respiration: the feathery gills of the marine worms, the closely set branchiæ of the fish, the lungs of the bird and of the mammal, are all constructed upon one plan, so far as essentials are concerned. In all of them blood-vessels are brought into close relation, though not into actual contact, with water or air containing oxygen. The blood-vessels are separated from the water or air by the thin membranes of the lungs or gills, through which the oxygen can pass in to the blood, and the carbonic acid and effete gases can pass out; it is this exchange which is the essential act of respiration. We cannot, however, in this book pretend to go into general matters of this kind, which would take us too far from the subject at hand; but anyone who would pursue this further can consult Professor Huxley’s ‘Elementary Physiology,’ or any other elementary text-book upon physiology. When a mammal—a human being, for example—breathes certain muscles are called into play. If a person is watched, it will be seen that the chest expands during inspiration, and that its calibre diminishes during expiration. What happens is this. The lungs are contained in a cavity which contains no air. This cavity can be increased in size in two directions. When the ribs are moved out—which they can be by the movements of the muscles called intercostal, which lie between them—the cavity of the chest from before backwards is evidently enlarged. On the other hand there is the diaphragm, which we have already spoken of as bounding the chest cavity below. Now this diaphragm is muscular, with a tendinous centre. When the muscles contract, like all muscles do, the surface of the diaphragm, which was before rather convex towards the chest cavity, becomes more flat; hence the cavity lying above it, i.e. the chest cavity, becomes larger in a downward direction also. When it is increased in this way by the action of the two separate sets of muscles, some space—more space than before—is left between its walls and the lungs which lie within it; it follows, therefore, that, as there is no air in the cavity, the pressure of air outside the body forces more air into the lungs, because there is no counterbalancing pressure to prevent this. The principle is the same in the bird, but the details are different. If you will turn again to the bird’s skeleton, you will see that the backbone and ribs and sternum form a bony box, which is jointed in the middle; this acts precisely like a pair of bellows: the bones at top and bottom represent the wood, and the soft intervening leather of the bellows is represented by the muscles which lie between, and which connect the sternum with the abdomen and with the ribs. When these muscles contract, the sternum is obviously brought nearer to the backbone, and air is expelled from the inside; when they are relaxed, a vacuum is created and air rushes in. The air-spaces, then, are really ramified tags of lung which have no blood-vessels in their walls, and are therefore not meant for respiration, but serve as reservoirs of air, lightening the body of the creature. It is curious that birds are not the only animals which possess expansions of lung that are apparently useless for breathing purposes. The lungs of the Chameleon have quite similar sacs appended to them. There is, it is true, no such complicated a ramification as that which we find in the bird, but still there is no doubt that the structure is of the same nature. It looks almost like a first step in the path towards a bird. Very possibly the extinct Pterodactyles, which flew through the woods of the middle ages of the earth, had bodies lightened in the same or a similar way; for we know that their bones have thin walls, the large cavity of which in all probability contained air-sacs. Even some of the jumping Dinosaurs, to which reference has already been made, seem to have possibly had lungs constructed on the bird type. We see, therefore, that even where a bird is, so to speak, most characteristically a bird—in the subsidiary mechanisms of flight—it betrays a likeness to the comparatively grovelling reptile, letting alone the aërial and more bird-like Pterodactyles.

Brain.

The brain of birds is large in proportion to the body, thus contrasting with that of the unintelligent reptile. From some tables on the matter which have been published, it appears that, if weight of brain goes for anything, the goldfinch is one of the most intelligent of birds. The weight of its brain is one-fourteenth of the entire weight of the body. The most unintelligent of all is the domestic fowl, whose body is 412 times heavier than its brain. The size of brain, however, seems to be largely a matter of the size of the bird: generally speaking, the smaller birds have heavier brains, and vice versâ. One might have expected something from the apparently intelligent Parrot; but the brain of the ‘Amazon’ is only one forty-second part of the weight of its body. Even the cruel and bloodthirsty Hawk, which one associates with brutality and ignorance, has a brain which is but little heavier.

The front part of the organ, known as the cerebral hemispheres, or, more briefly, as the cerebrum, is that part of the brain which is associated with intelligence. Now among the mammals this part of the brain is generally much furrowed, the brain surface being, therefore, increased without any actual increase in the skull-space required. This furrowing is met with in most mammals, but not always in the smaller and in the less intelligent kinds. But in the bird’s brain there are no convolutions: the surface is as smooth as in the reptile. Not even in the artful Raven, which some hold as the most highly developed of birds, is there a trace of the furrowing which one rightly associates, so far as the mammalia are concerned, with a high position in the series. The hinder part of the brain is known as the cerebellum; between this and the cerebrum are the optic lobes, of which there are only two, the mammals having four. From the brain arises the spinal cord, or marrow, which runs in the canal formed by the vertebræ, just as the brain lies in the brain-case. The nerves of the body come off either from the brain or the marrow, but it is not important to enumerate them. They show no difference in different kinds of birds.

The Muscles.

The muscles of a bird are what is popularly known as its flesh. When the skin is removed, the bones are seen to be covered by a mass of this flesh, which is of a red colour, darker in some birds than in others. For instance, in a Duck the colour is a dark red; in a Pigeon, quite a pale brown. The flesh is not, however, merely a thick sheet covering the bones: it can be separated into layers which are themselves made up of a number of separate pieces of muscle. These individual muscles are very commonly of a spindle-like shape, being thickest in the middle and dwindling towards both ends, where they often end in a tough substance called the tendon, which has a glistening and very characteristic appearance. All muscles are not of this form—sometimes they are strap-shaped; and not all of them end in tendons. As the most important act of the bird’s life that depends upon its muscles is flying, it is not surprising to find that the muscle which effects the downward stroke of the wing is the largest. This muscle is known as the great pectoral, and it is said to be almost as large as all the other muscles of the body put together. The way in which a muscle effects the movements of the bones to which it is attached is by contracting. All muscles are able to contract; they shorten, and, accordingly, the ends, with whatever they happen to be attached to are brought closer together. The contraction is governed by the nerves, and it has been discovered that the nerves actually end in communication with the fibres of which the muscle is composed. This pectoral muscle lies on the breast-bone, and nearly completely covers it; indeed, only the edge of the keel appears, and a very little tract at the sides. When this muscle is dissected away another muscle, not nearly so large, comes into view underneath it; this is called the pectoralis secundus, or the second pectoral. Its action is precisely the reverse of that of the great pectoral: it pulls the wing up instead of down. Between them, these two muscles do most of the work in flying. Naturally, in the ostrich tribe, which do not fly, they are much reduced in bulk. But they are never absent altogether, even in the Apteryx, which is, perhaps, further removed from the possibilities of flight than any other bird.

A very curious muscle runs into the patagium of the wing, which is that fold of skin which lies between the shoulder and the hand. This muscle is called the patagial muscle. It starts from the shoulder as a fleshy band, but soon ends in two long tendons: one of these follows the upper margin of the patagium, and finally ends in the wrist; the other passes down over the patagium, and ends below in connection with some of the muscles of the arm, and also by being attached in a fan-shaped way to the skin itself. The function of this muscle is to assist in the folding up of the wing when it is, so to speak, put away after use. The tendons in which the latter part of this muscle ends often show a most complicated branching in the patagium; they frequently offer characteristic differences in different birds, and are made some use of by the systematist. The bird has got a biceps to its arm just as we have. It sometimes happens that this biceps gives off a muscular slip, which runs into the patagium and becomes attached to the upper of the two tendons of the patagial muscle. A good deal of stress is laid by certain ornithologists as to whether this biceps slip is absent or present. Several of the common British birds will afford material to the beginner to ascertain for himself some of the chief variations in these and the other muscles of the body. It will be a good exercise to get a few birds, and to carefully dissect two of them, belonging to as widely different kinds as possible, side by side. You might select, for instance, a Crow and a Pigeon, which are fairly extreme types. To revert to our account of the muscular anatomy of a bird, it will be impossible to attempt any comprehensive account of this branch of the subject, because the facts are so appallingly numerous. We shall content ourselves, therefore, with the mention of a highly characteristic bird muscle which occurs in the leg. This muscle is known as the ambiens. This muscle is thin and ribbon-like. It takes its origin from a little process of the pubic bone usually called the prepubic process. From this point it runs along the inside of the thigh until it reaches the knee; it then bends over the knee and comes out on the other side, where it runs down the leg to join the deep flexor muscle of the foot. When this ambiens muscle contracts it pulls upon the flexor muscle, already referred to; the effect of this is that the toes are brought together by the tendons in which the last-mentioned muscle ends. The ambiens is far from being universally present among birds. It is notably absent from the passerine birds (the Sparrows, Crows, Rooks, and small perching birds generally), and from the Hornbills, Toucans, Woodpeckers, and that varied assemblage known as picarian birds. On the other hand, the Storks, Hawks, and most of the larger birds, have the muscle. But among some of these it is absent; thus, the Owls on the one hand, and the Herons on the other, have no ambiens; but from their general resemblance in other particulars to birds which have an ambiens, it was thought by Professor Garrod that the loss in them was a recent event, and that they might be fairly placed in one great group of birds with an ambiens which he termed, somewhat lengthily, the ‘homalogonatæ,’ or normal-kneed birds, reserving the name ‘anomalogonatæ,’ or abnormal-kneed birds, for the passerines, &c., without an ambiens.

CLASSIFICATION.

One great advantage of the study of birds is that the amount of facts to be learnt in anatomy is far less than with some other groups. They are wonderfully uniform in structure. There is less difference in structure between an ostrich and a humming-bird than between, say, a lizard and a crocodile. Though this may be gratifying to the student of birds who is content with a broad knowledge of anatomical fact, it has its disadvantages—very distinct disadvantages—to those who want to arrange and classify the species. As there are computed to be over eleven thousand different kinds of birds, it is clear that an arrangement of some kind is wanted; we must have an artificial brain in which to store the characters of each bird in their proper place. But before we can consider this it is necessary to consider first what place birds as a whole occupy in Nature. It used to be thought that warm-blooded birds ought to be put near to the warm-blooded mammals. But it is now the general opinion that, as we have before pointed out in relation to certain details of structure, their proper place is in the neighbourhood of the reptiles. In fact they are regarded as a separate division of an order of vertebrated animals which has received the name of Sauropsida, which signifies ‘lizard-like’ animals.

Now, as to these eleven thousand, how are they to be divided? To this simple question innumerable answers have been given—it is hardly an exaggeration to say as many answers as there are ornithologists. Every part of the body has had its turn in affording a base for a classificatory scheme. At first, and with the older generation, it was bill and claw; then came a period of bones; later the muscles were held to be all-important; at present the fashion is in favour of taking all characters into consideration, which is clearly a more reasonable way of looking at the matter. The reason for the divergences of opinion—which implies great difficulty in the subject—is that birds are so modern a race. They are now at their heyday of development. By-and-by, when gaps appear in the now serried ranks, classification will be an easier matter; for classification, after all, is an artificial, unnatural sort of thing, if we believe in a gradual modification of species out of pre-existing species. It is not too much to say that, the more perfect our scheme of classification, the greater our ignorance of the group classified. If the only birds known to science were a Hornbill, a Duck, and a Crow, together with a few of the immediate allies of each, we could easily sort them. But there are so many intermediate forms which absolutely decline to fit accurately into any system. Then the would-be systematist has to distinguish between those characters which imply a deep-seated relationship and those which are only due to similar needs. The aim of classification is, of course, to indicate real relationship, not merely to pigeon-hole in a convenient way. Real relationship is often masked by superficial differences. For instance, the common blindworm of our hedgerows is not, as might be thought, a snake, but a lizard; it appears to be unlike the lizard in having no legs, and to be so far a snake. Indeed, the terror inspired by this peaceful reptile must stand it in good stead with any except human foes. But its whole anatomy is built upon the lizard, and not upon the snake, plan. We disregard, therefore, in a scheme of classification the likeness to a snake, remembering that in Nature, as in morals, appearances are apt to be deceptive. The owls, among birds, are believed by many to offer an instance of the same kind of deception. By all the older systematists, and by many of the more modern, they are placed with the hawks in one group. No doubt the owls bear a certain likeness to the hawks. They have formidable claws and a hooked and powerful beak; they kill their prey; and only differ superficially in that they love the darkness, while the hawks hunt by day. Now, in certain details of anatomy, particularly in the windpipe and the muscles, the owls are much more like that division of birds which includes the goatsuckers. The mention of this latter family brings us face to face with another difficulty. If the superficial likeness of the owls to the hawks is to be distrusted, as merely due to a similar mode of life, and therefore to the development of certain structures which are in direct relation to that mode of life, how about the superficial likeness of the owls to the goatsuckers, which is almost as well marked as to the hawks? In Australia and other parts of the East there are two genera of goatsuckers which have received the names of Podargus and Batrachostomus. These birds are wonderfully like owls. They have the same brown-and-grey and soft plumage; their flight is equally noiseless—and, altogether, anyone who saw the living Cuvier’s Podargus recently on view at the Zoological Gardens might well be pardoned for thinking it an owl. The fact is that we must be careful not to be prejudiced in any direction. Superficial similarities may or may not go with real likeness. Speaking generally, one should be disposed to lay greatest stress upon characters which have no obvious relation to mode of life as likely to be of the most use in indicating blood relationship. It is easier, however, to lay down general principles of this kind than to apply them to birds. As has been already mentioned, birds are so uniform in anatomy that in such characters as brain, lungs, and other internal organs which are not so directly under the immediate influence of their surroundings, there is but little difference. Such characters afford no help to the systematist. We are obliged, therefore, to rely upon other and really less important points.

In most books upon ornithology—in this one, for instance—the scheme of classification is set forth in the shape of a list beginning with one particular group and ending with another. This is merely due to the physical properties of sheets of paper. A linear scheme is really an impossibility; to represent classification properly we want a solid diagram, showing how from a root-stock branches arose and pushed their way in every direction. Another defect of the linear scheme is that we must begin somewhere and end somewhere. In this book we begin with the Passeres and end with the Parrots; others start with the Accipitres, in spite of the protest of Michelet against placing the cowardly, flat-headed, stupid hawks at the summit of bird creation. It doesn’t matter where we begin or where we end as long as we carefully bear in mind that a linear classification is only a convenient way of briefly stating certain facts, and that it does not pretend to be a copy of Nature. An alternative method of expressing the facts of structure in space of two dimensions is the Stammbaum, originally made in Germany; but this inevitable tree of life is open to the serious objection of undue dogmatism; and besides, it must be inaccurate, as it is not in three dimensions. A given naturalist may have strong reasons for believing, let us say, that the Struthious birds represent the lowest bird stock, from which arose in a regular series of branches, independently, and alternately from one side or the other, the various groups into which we divide the class in the present book; if so, then the Stammbaum is easily constructed. But the general consensus of opinion is that the inter-relationships of the different groups cannot be expressed with so much simplicity. It is clear that, in any case, the most modified offshoots must occupy the highest branches of the tree, and that we may in a linear scheme conveniently begin or end with them. But it is impossible to arbitrate as to which group is the most specialised. It is, on the whole, agreed that the Ostrich tribe have retained more primitive characters than other birds; but is the elaborate voice-mechanism of the Nightingale, or the almost human intelligence of the Raven or Parrot, to rank first as evidence of high position, i.e. specialisation, remoteness from the original stock? This is a matter about which everybody can legitimately have an opinion; and we cannot at present formulate a creed—for those, that is to say, who are acquainted with the facts.

The scheme that I adopt here is the same as that which Mr. Hudson uses in the pages which follow; it is the plan followed in the B.O.U. list, and approved by most ornithologists in this country as a convenient working outline. I have added to it the fossil groups, and those groups which do not occur in Great Britain. The main scheme is that of Dr. Gadow, used in his valuable account of the anatomy of birds in Bronn’s ‘Klassen und Ordnungen des Thierreichs.’ There is no deep-seated and mysterious reason for my placing Parrots at the end of the Aves Carinatæ: it is simply sheer inability to place them anywhere in particular.

CLASS. AVES.

• Sub-class I. Archæornithes (contains genus Archæopteryx only).
• Sub-class II. Neornithes.
• Division i. Neornithes Ratitæ.
• Order i. Ratitæ (contains Struthio, Rhea, Dinornis, &c.).
• Order ii. Stereornithes (contains a few fossil genera, Gastornis, Dasornis, &c.).
• Division ii. Neornithes Odontolcæ.
• Order i. Hesperornithes (the extinct Hesperornis and Enaliornis).
• Division iii. Neornithes Carinatæ.
• Order i. Ichthyornithes (fossil Ichthyornis only).
• Order ii. Passeres (thrushes, swallows, flycatchers, tits, &c.).
• Order iii. Picariæ (rollers, cuckoos, hornbills, woodpeckers, swifts, colies, trogons, goatsuckers, kingfishers).
• Order iv. Striges (owls).
• Order v. Accipitres (hawks, eagles, American vultures, &c.).
• Order vi. Steganopodes (cormorants, pelicans, solan geese, frigate bird).
• Order vii. Herodiones (herons, storks, ibis, spoonbills).
• Order viii. Odontoglossi (flamingoes).
• Order ix. Anseres (screamers, ducks, geese).
• Order x. Columbæ (doves).
• Order xi. Pterocletes (sand-grouse).
• Order xii. Gallinæ (curassows, megapodes, pheasants, grouse, Opisthocomus, &c.).
• Order xiii. Tinamidæ (tinamous).
• Order xiv. Fulicariæ (rails, coots).
• Order xv. Alectorides (cranes, bustards, Cariama, &c.).
• Order xvi. Limicolæ (plovers, snipe, knots, &c.).
• Order xvii. Gaviæ (gulls, skuas).
• Order xviii. Pygopodes (auks, divers, grebes).
• Order xix. Sphenisciformes (penguins).
• Order xx. Tubinares (petrels, albatross).
• Order xxi. Psittaci (parrots).

It will be noticed that, out of these twenty-one groups into which we may divide the Neornithes Carinatæ of Gadow, only three are not represented in Great Britain, viz. the Sphenisciformes, Psittaci, and Tinamiformes. So that the student of bird anatomy in this country has plenty of chance of making himself acquainted with the main outlines of structure of the entire class of living birds. Out of the thirty-two minor divisions of these birds, no fewer than twenty-one are to be met with in these islands; and of those that are not, some are quite easy to get hold of—a parrot, for instance.

Fieldfares. Missel-Thrush. Blackbird.

Missel-Thrush, or Stormcock.
Turdus viscivorus.

Upper parts ash-brown; under parts white, faintly tinged with yellow, marked with numerous black spots; under wing-coverts white; three lateral tail feathers tipped with greyish white. Length, eleven inches.

There are six British thrushes. Of these the missel-thrush and blackbird are residents throughout the year; the song-thrush is also found with us at all seasons, and is a winter songster, but many birds migrate; the ring-ouzel is a summer visitor; the redwing and fieldfare are winter visitors.

The missel or mistletoe thrush, or stormcock, is the largest, exceeding the fieldfare, which comes next in size, by at least an inch in length and two inches in spread of wings. This species possesses in a marked degree all the characters that everywhere distinguish the true thrushes, which are world-wide in their range. Theirs is a modest colouring:—olive-brown above, paler and spotted below; a loud and varied song, and harsh cry; a statuesque figure; rapid, startled movements on the ground, with motionless intervals, when the bird stands with head and beak much raised, in an attitude denoting intense attention; and, finally, a free, strong, undulating flight.

The missel-thrush inhabits almost the whole of the British Islands, and is most abundant in Ireland. Throughout England and Wales he is fairly common, less common in Scotland, and becoming rarer the farther north we go. He is found in all woods and plantations, but is most partial to wooded parks, orchards, and gardens, which afford him food and shelter throughout the year. He is the hardiest of our vocalists, and is better known as a winter than a summer songster. His song may be heard in the autumn, but from midwinter until spring his music is most noteworthy. Its loudness and wild character give it a wonderful impressiveness at that season of the year. He is not of the winter singers that wait for a gleam of spring-like sunshine to inspirit them, but is loudest in wet and rough weather; and it is this habit and something in the wild and defiant character of the song, heard above the tumult of nature, which have won for him the proud name of stormcock.

This thrush is an early breeder, and pairs about the beginning of February. The birds, after mating, are exceedingly pugnacious, and attack all others, large or small, that approach the chosen nesting-site. The nest is not often made in evergreens, to which blackbirds and song-thrushes are so partial; as a rule, a deciduous tree—oak, elm, or beech—is made choice of, and the nest may be at any height, from a few feet above the ground to the highest part of a tall tree; and as it is built so early in the year, when trees are leafless, it forms a most conspicuous object. Furthermore, the missel-thrush, a shy and wary bird at other times, becomes strangely trustful, and even careless, when nesting, and often builds in the neighbourhood of a house, or in an isolated tree at the roadside. When building and breeding the birds are silent, except when the nest is threatened with an attack, when they become clamorous and bold beyond most species in defence of their eggs or nestlings.

The nest is large and well made, outwardly of dry grass, moss, and other materials, woven together; it is plastered with mud inside, and thickly lined with fine dry grass. The four eggs vary in ground-colour from bluish white to pale reddish brown, and are spotted, blotched, and clouded, with various shades of purple, brown, and greyish under-markings. Two or three broods are reared in the season.

At the end of June the missel-thrushes begin to unite in small parties numbering a dozen to twenty birds, and to range over the open country, seeking their food in the pastures and turnip-fields, and on moors and commons. Where the birds are abundant much larger congregations are seen. In Ireland I have seen them in August in flocks of about a hundred birds. They do not keep close together, as is the manner of starlings and finches, but fly widely scattered, and alight at a distance apart, a flock of fifty to a hundred birds sometimes occupying half an acre or more ground. They then look very large and conspicuous, scattered over the green grass, standing erect and motionless, or hopping about in their wild, startled manner. These flocks diminish in number as the season progresses, and finally break up about midwinter.

In autumn the missel-thrushes devour the yew-berries, and the fruit of the rowan and service trees; later in the year they feed on the glutinous berries of the mistletoe, on haws and ivy-berries, and other wild fruits; but their food for the most part consists of earthworms, snails, grubs, and insects of all kinds.

Throstle, or Song-Thrush.
Turdus musicus.

Fig. 18.—Song-Thrush. ¼ natural size.

Upper parts olive-brown, throat white in the middle; sides of neck and under parts ochreous yellow spotted with dark brown; under wing-coverts pale orange-yellow. Length, nine inches.

The protest and recommendation implied by the use of the first name at the head of this article may be futile; but it is impossible not to feel and to express regret that so good and distinctive and old a name for this familiar bird should have been replaced by a name which is none of these things. Song-thrush is an unsuitable name, for the very good reason that we have several thrushes, all of them songsters. By most persons the bird is simply called ‘thrush,’ which is neither better nor worse than ‘song-thrush.’

The throstle is one of the smaller members of the genus, being about a third less in size than the noble stormcock. In form, colouring, motions, language, and habits, he is a very thrush. It cannot be said that his music is the best—that, for instance, it is finer than that of the blackbird. The two songs differ in character; both are good of their kind, neither perfect. The throstle is, nevertheless, in the very first rank of British melodists, and it is often said of him that he comes next to the nightingale. The same thing has been said of other species, tastes differing in this as in other matters. It is worth remarking that most persons would agree in regarding the nightingale, song-thrush, blackbird, blackcap, and skylark, as our five finest songsters, and that these all differ so widely from each other in the character of their strains that no comparison between them is possible, and there is no rivalry.

The only species which may be called the rival of the song-thrush is the missel-thrush, as their music has a strong resemblance. That of the stormcock has a wonderful charm in the early days of the year, when it is a jubilant cry, a herald’s song and prophecy, sounding amidst wintry gloom and tempest. Heard in calm and genial weather in spring, the throstle is by far the finer songster. His chief merit is his infinite variety. His loudest notes may be heard half a mile away on a still morning; his lowest sounds are scarcely audible at a distance of twenty yards. His purest sounds, which are very pure and bright, are contrasted with various squealing and squeaking noises that seem not to come from the same bird. Listening to him, you never know what to expect, for his notes are delivered in no settled order, as in some species. He has many notes and phrases, but has never made of them one completed melody. They are snatches and portions of a melody, and he sings in a scrappy way—a note or two, a phrase or two, then a pause, as if the singer paused to try and think of something to follow; but when it comes it has no connection with what has gone before. His treasures are many, but they exist jumbled together, and he takes them as they come. As a rule, when he has produced a beautiful note, he will repeat it twice or thrice; on this account Browning has called him a ‘wise bird,’ because he can

recapture

The first fine careless rapture.

There is not in this song the faintest trace of plaintiveness, and of that heart-touching quality of tenderness which gives so great a charm to some of the warblers. It is pre-eminently cheerful; a song of summer and love and happiness of so contagious a spirit that to listen to it critically, as one would listen to the polished phrases of the nightingale, would be impossible.

The throstle is a very persistent singer: in spring and summer his loud carols may be heard from a tree-top at four o’clock or half-past three in the morning; throughout the day he sings at intervals, and again, more continuously, in the evening, when he keeps up an intermittent flow of melody until dark. His evening music always seems his best, but the effect is probably due to the comparative silence and the witching aspect of nature at that hour, when the sky is still luminous, and the earth beneath the dusky green foliage lies in deepest shadow.

So far only the music of the throstle has been considered; but in the case of this bird the music is nearly everything. When we think of the throstle, we have the small sober-coloured figure that skulks in the evergreens, and its life-habits, less in our minds than the overmastering musical sounds with which he fills the green places of the earth from early spring until the great silence of July and August falls on nature.

The song-thrush is a common species in suitable localities throughout the British Islands, being rarest in the north of Scotland. He is found in this country all the year round, but it was discovered many years ago, by Professor Newton, that a very limited number of birds remain to winter with us. Probably they migrate by night, as the fieldfare and redwing are known to do, and, being much less gregarious than those birds, come and go without exciting attention. The fact remains that, where they are abundant in summer, a time comes in autumn when they mysteriously vanish. One or two individuals may remain where twenty or thirty existed previously; and if they only shifted their quarters, as the missel-thrushes do in some parts of the country, they would be found in considerable numbers during the winter in some districts. But the disappearance is general. I am inclined to think that this thrush migration is not so general as Professor Newton believes, and that the birds that leave our shores are mainly those that breed in the northern parts of the country. During the exceptionally severe winter of 1894–5 the thrushes that remained with us suffered more than most species, and in the following spring I found that the song-thrush had become rare throughout the southern half of England.

Fig. 19.—Throstle’s Nest.

Nesting begins in March, the site selected being the centre of a hedge, or a thick holly or other evergreen bush, or a mass of ivy against a wall or tree. The nest is built of dry grass, small twigs, and moss, and plastered inside with mud, or clay, or cow-dung, and lined with rotten wood. This is a strange material for a nest to be lined with, and is not used by any other bird; the fragments of rotten wood are wetted when used, and, being pressed smoothly down, form a cork-like lining, very hard when dry. Four or five eggs are laid, pale greenish blue in ground-colour, thickly marked with small deep brown spots, almost black. Two, and sometimes three, broods are reared in the season.

During the day, when not singing, the thrush is a silent bird; in the evening he becomes noisy, and chirps and chatters and screams excitedly before settling to roost.

Insects of all kinds, earthworms, and slugs and snails, are eaten by the song-thrush. The snail-shells are broken by being struck vigorously against a stone; and as the same stone is often used for the purpose, quantities of newly broken shells are sometimes found scattered round it. He is a great hunter after earthworms, and it would appear from his actions that the sense of hearing rather than that of sight is relied on to discover the worm. For the worm, however near the surface, is still under it, and usually a close bed of grass covers the ground; yet you will see a thrush hopping about a lawn stand motionless for two or three seconds, then hop rapidly to a spot half a yard away, and instantly plunge his beak into the earth and draw out a worm. The supposition is that he has heard it moving in the earth. He is also a fruit and berry eater, both wild and cultivated.

Redwing.
Turdus iliacus.

Upper parts olive-brown; a broad white streak above the eye; under parts white, with numerous oblong, dusky spots; under wing-coverts and flanks orange-red. Length, eight and a half inches.

In size and general appearance the redwing resembles the song-thrush. Like the fieldfare, he is a winter visitor from northern Europe, arriving a little earlier on the east coast, and differing from his fellow-migrants in being less hardy. He is more of an insect-eater, and is incapable of thriving on berries and seeds; hence in very severe seasons he is the greater sufferer, and sometimes perishes in considerable numbers when, in the same localities, the fieldfare is not sensibly affected. Nor is he of so vagrant a habit as the larger thrush: year after year he returns to the same place to spend the winter months, feeding in the same meadows, and roosting in the same plantations, until the return of spring calls him to the north. He is partial to cultivated districts where there are woods and grass-lands, and passes the daylight hours in meadows and moist grounds near water, returning regularly in the evening to the roosting-trees.

At all seasons the redwing is gregarious, and in its summer haunts many birds are found nesting in close proximity. A good deal of interest attaches to the subject of its song, which Linnæus thought ‘delightful,’ and comparable to that of the nightingale—an opinion ridiculed by Professor Newton in his edition of Yarrell. Richard Jefferies, who found the redwing breeding and heard its summer song in England, describes its strain as ‘sweet and loud—far louder than the old, familiar notes of the thrush. The note rang out clear and high, and somehow sounded strangely unfamiliar among English meadows and English oaks.’[1]

Fieldfare.
Turdus pilaris.

Head, nape, and lower part of the back dark ash-grey; upper part of the back and wing-coverts chestnut-brown; a white line above the eye; chin and throat yellow streaked with black; breast reddish brown spotted with black; belly, flanks, and lower tail-coverts white, the last two spotted with greyish brown; under wing-coverts white. Length, ten inches.

In size and colouring, more especially in the spotted under parts, the fieldfare comes near enough to the missel-thrush to be sometimes confounded with it. Thus, flocks of missel-thrushes seen in autumn are sometimes mistaken for fieldfares that have come at an exceptionally early date to warn the inhabitants of these islands that the winter will be a severe one. The fieldfare is slightly less in size than the missel-thrush, and has a more variegated plumage, and when seen close at hand is a handsome bird.

He is one of the latest winter visitors to arrive, seldom appearing before the end of October. The return migration takes place at the end of April, or later; flocks of fieldfares have been known to remain in this country to the end of May, and even to the first week in June. Like the redwing, he is gregarious all the year round; in his summer home in the Norwegian forests he exists in communities, and the nests are built near each other. The migration is usually performed by night, and the harsh cries of the travellers may be heard in the dark sky, on the east coasts of England and Scotland, at the end of October, and in November. From the time of their arrival until they leave us they are seen in flocks of twenty or thirty to several hundreds of individuals. They do not, like the redwings, attach themselves to certain localities, but wander incessantly from place to place, ranging over the entire area of Great Britain and Ireland. Owing to this vagrancy, the fieldfare is an extremely familiar bird to the countryman, and invariably its first appearance, and harsh yet joyous clamour, as of jays screaming and magpies chattering in concert, call up a sudden image of winter—cold, brief days and a snow-whitened earth, and memories of that early period in life when the great seasonal changes impress the mind so deeply.

In open weather the fieldfares seek their food in meadows and pastures, also in the fields. Unlike the missel-thrushes, that move about in all directions over the ground, the fieldfares when feeding all move in the same direction. In like manner, when the flock repairs to a tree, the birds on their perches are all seen facing one way—a very pretty spectacle. When their feeding-grounds are frozen, or covered with snow, they go to the hedges and devour the hips and haws, and any other wild fruit that remains ungathered; if severe weather continues, they take their departure to more southern lands. Their flight is strong, easy, and slightly undulating, and before settling to feed the flock often wheels gracefully about over the field for some time.

The song of the fieldfare, described by Seebohm as a ‘wild desultory warble,’ uttered on the wing, is not known to us in this country—it is a song of summer and of love; but in genial weather, when the birds are faring well, they often burst out into a concert of agreeable sounds just after alighting in a tree.

In the evening when settling to roost they are extremely noisy like most thrushes, and their cries may be heard until dark.

Blackbird.
Turdus merula.

Black; bill and orbits of the eyes orange-yellow. Female: sooty brown. Length, ten inches.

Fig. 20.—Blackbird’s Nest.

Among the feathered inhabitants of these islands there is scarcely a more familiar figure than that of the blackbird. Not only is he very generally diffused, and abundant in all suitable localities, but he is attached to human habitations—a bird of the garden, lawn, and shrubberies. His music is much to us, his beautiful mellow voice being unique in character in this country. But, more than his voice, his love of gardens and their produce, and whatever else serves to make him better known than most birds, is his blackness. Excepting the crows, he is the only British bird in the passerine order with a wholly black plumage; and his bright yellow bill increases the effect of the blackness, and, like a golden crown, gives him a strange beauty. Like his companion of the garden and shrubbery, the throstle, he is a skulker, and on the least alarm takes shelter under the thickest evergreen within reach. When disturbed from his hiding-place he rushes out impetuously with a great noise, making the place resound with his loud, clear, ringing and musical chuckle. But he is not so inveterate a skulker and in love with the shade as the other. You will sometimes find him on hillsides and open moors, or nesting in the scanty tufts of sea-campion on rocky islands where he has for only neighbour the rock-pipit. But above all situations he prefers the garden and well-planted ground, and in such places is most abundant. His food is the same as that of the throstle, and is taken in much the same way: he listens for the earthworms working near the surface of the ground, and hammers the snails against a stone to break the shells. In the fruit season he is very troublesome to the gardener, and greedily devours strawberries, cherries, currants, gooseberries and mulberries.

The song of the male begins early in spring, and is mostly heard during the early and late hours of the day. Its charm consists in the peculiar soft, rich, melodious quality of the sound, and the placid, leisurely manner in which it is delivered. But the manner varies greatly. ‘He sings in a quiet, leisurely way, as a great master should,’ says Richard Jefferies; unfortunately, the great master too often ends his performance unworthily with an unmusical note, or he collapses ignominiously at the close. John Burroughs, the American writer on birds, thus describes it: ‘It was the most leisurely strain I heard. Amid the loud, vivacious, work-a-day chorus it had an easeful dolce far niente effect.... It constantly seemed to me as if the bird was a learner, and had not yet mastered his art. The tone is fine, but the execution is laboured; the musician does not handle his instrument with deftness and confidence.’ Perhaps it may be said that, of all the most famed bird-songs, that of the blackbird is the least perfect and the most delightful.

The blackbird places his nest in the centre of a hedge or in an evergreen; it is formed of herbs, roots, and coarse grass, plastered inside with mud, and lined with fine dry grass. Four to six eggs are laid, light greenish blue in ground-colour, mottled with pale brown. Two or three, and sometimes as many as four, broods are reared in the season.

In the northern and more exposed parts of the country the blackbird has a partial migration, or shifts his quarters to more sheltered localities in the winter.

Ring-Ouzel.
Turdus torquatus.

Fig. 21.—Ring-Ouzel. ⅕ natural size.

Black, the feathers edged with greyish white; a large crescent-shaped, pure white spot on the throat. Length, eleven inches. Female: plumage greyer; the white mark narrower and less pure.

The ring-ouzel is sometimes called the ‘mountain blackbird,’ on account of his likeness to the common species. He is more a ground bird and less skulking in habit than the garden blackbird, but in appearance and motions strongly resembles him. On alighting he throws up and fans his tail in the same way, and is very clamorous when going to roost in the evening. His manner of feeding is much the same: hopping along the ground, frequently pausing to look up, and anon plunging his beak into the soil to draw out a grub or earthworm. He breaks the snail-shells in the same way, and is equally fond of fruits and berries, both wild and cultivated.

The ring-ouzel is a summer visitor to this country, arriving about the beginning of April, and spends the summer months and breeds in the higher, least-frequented parts of Dartmoor, in Devonshire, and the hilly part of Derbyshire, and many localities in the north of England. He is also found in various localities in Wales, Scotland, and Ireland. On their arrival the birds are seen for a short period in flocks, sometimes of considerable size, frequenting wet and marshy grounds. As soon as pairing takes place the flocks break up, and the birds distribute themselves over the mountains and high uplands. The song of the male is heard after the birds have paired and made choice of a breeding-site. It is a powerful song, delightful to listen to, partly for its own wild, glad character, but more on account of the savage beauty and solitariness of the nature amidst which it is usually heard. The nest is placed upon or close to the ground, beneath or in a tuft of heather; and occasionally is built in a low bush or tree. Outwardly it is made of coarse grass or twigs of heather, plastered inside with mud or clay, and lined with fine dry grass. The four or five eggs are bluish green, blotched with reddish brown.

Seebohm has the following spirited description of the ring-ouzel’s action in the presence of danger to its nest: ‘Approach their treasure, and, although you have no knowledge of its whereabouts, you speedily know that you are on sacred ground.... Something sweeps suddenly round your head, probably brushing your face. You look round, and there the ring-ouzel, perched close at hand, is eyeing you wrathfully, and ready to do battle, despite the odds, for the protection of her abode. Move, and the attack is resumed, this time with loud and dissonant cries that wake the solitudes of the barren moor around. Undauntedly the birds fly around you, pause for a moment on some mass of rock, or reel and tumble on the ground to decoy you away. As you approach still closer the anxiety of the female, if possible, increases; her cries, with those of her mate, disturb the birds around; the red grouse, startled, skims over the shoulder of the hill to find solitude; the moor-pipit chirps anxiously by; and the gay little stonechat flits uneasily from bush to bush. So long as you tarry near their treasure the birds will accompany you, and, by using every artifice, endeavour to allure or draw you away from its vicinity.’

Besides the six species described, there are three thrushes to be found in works on British birds: the black-throated thrush (Turdus atrigularis), a straggler from Central Siberia; White’s thrush (T. varius), from North-east Siberia; and the rock-thrush (Monticola saxatilis), from South Europe, a member of a group that connects the true thrushes (Turdus) with the wheatears (Saxicola).

Wheatear.
Saxicola œnanthe.

Fig. 22.—Wheatear. ⅓ natural size.

Upper parts bluish grey; wings and wing-coverts, centre and extremity of the tail, feet, bill, and area comprising the nostrils, eyes, and ears, black; base and lower portion of the side of the tail pure white; chin, forehead, stripe over the eye, and under parts, white. In autumn, upper parts reddish brown and tail feathers tipped with white. Female: upper parts ash-brown tinged with yellow; stripe over the eye dingy. Length, six and a half inches.

To those who are attracted to solitary, desert places, who find in wildness a charm superior to all others, the wheatear, conspicuous in black and white and bluish grey plumage, is a familiar figure—a pretty little wild friend; for he, too, prefers the uncultivated wastes, the vast downs, the mountain slopes, and the stony barren uplands. He is one of the earliest, if not the first, of the summer migrants to arrive on our shores. They appear early in March, sometimes at the end of February, on the south and east coasts, after crossing the Channel by night or during the early hours of the morning. They come in ‘rushes,’ at intervals of two or three days. In the morning they are seen in thousands; but after a few hours’ rest these travellers hurry on to their distant breeding-grounds, and perhaps for a day or two scarcely a bird will be visible; then another multitude appears, and so on, until the entire vast army has distributed itself far and wide over the British area, from the Sussex and Dorset coasts to the extreme North of Scotland and the Hebrides, the Orkneys, and Shetlands. The return migration begins early in August, and lasts until the middle of September. During this period the downs on the Sussex coast form a great camping-ground of the wheatears, and they are then taken in snares by the shepherds for the markets. Most of the birds taken are young; they are excessively fat, and are esteemed a great delicacy. The wheatear harvest has, however, now dwindled down to something very small compared with former times; it astonishes us to read in Pennant that a century and a quarter ago eighteen hundred dozens of these birds were annually taken in the neighbourhood of Eastbourne alone. The great decrease in the number of wheatears is no doubt due to the reclamation of waste lands, where this bird finds the conditions suited to it. To a variety of climates it is able to adapt itself: the vast area it inhabits includes almost the whole continent of Europe, from the hot south to the furthermost north; and westwards its range extends to Iceland, Greenland, and Labrador. But cultivation it cannot tolerate: when the plough comes the wheatear vanishes. Fortunately, there must always be waste and desert places—the scattered areas on mountain-sides, barren moors and downs, and rocky coasts, that cannot be made productive. In such spots the wheatear is an unfailing summer companion, and at once attracts attention by his appearance and motions. He is fond of perching on a rock, stone wall, or other elevation, but seldom alights on bushes and trees. He runs rapidly and freely on the ground, and, pausing at intervals and standing erect, moves his tail deliberately up and down. He flies readily, his rump and tail flashing white as he rises; and after going but a short distance, flying close to the ground, he alights again, and jerks and fans his tail two or three times. He feeds on grubs, small beetles, and other insects picked up from the ground, but also pursues and catches flying insects. He has a short, sharp call-note that sounds like two pieces of stone struck smartly together; hence the name of ‘stone-clatter,’ by which he is known in some localities. His short and simple song would attract little attention in groves and gardens; it is charming on account of the barren, silent situations it is heard in. It gives life to the solitude, and is a love-song, accompanied by pretty gestures and motions, and is frequently uttered as the bird hovers in the air.

The wheatear breeds in a cavity under a stone, or in a hole or crevice in a stone wall; also in cairns and in the cavities in peat-stacks, and occasionally in a disused rabbit-burrow or under a clod of earth. The nest is made of dry grass, loosely put together and slightly lined with some soft material—moss and rootlets, rabbits’ fur, horsehair, or wool, or feathers. From four to seven eggs are laid, pale greenish blue in colour, in some cases faintly marked with purplish specks at the large end.

The wheatear, owing to its wide distribution in this country, is known by a variety of local names in different districts; of these may be mentioned fallowchat, whitetail, stone-cracker, chack-bird, and clod-hopper.

Two other species of the genus Saxicola have been included in the list of British birds. These are the black-throated wheatear (Saxicola strapazina), of which a single specimen has been obtained, and the desert wheatear (Saxicola deserti), of which two or three specimens have been shot.

Whinchat.
Pratincola rubetra.

Upper parts dusky brown edged with reddish yellow; broad white stripe over the eye; throat and sides of neck white; neck and breast bright yellowish red; a large white spot on the wings and base of the tail; tip of the tail and the two middle feathers dusky brown; belly and flanks yellowish white. Female: colours duller; white spot on the wing smaller. Length, five inches and a quarter.

Of the three British species forming this group of two genera (Saxicola and Pratincola)—the fallowchat, stonechat, and whinchat—the last-named is the least striking, whether in appearance or habits. His modest plumage has neither brightness nor strongly contrasted colours; and although he is a frequenter of furze-grown commons, and named on this account furzechat, or whinchat, he is not, like the stonechat, restricted to them. He inhabits both wild and cultivated grounds, rough commons and waste lands, mountain-sides, and meadows and grass fields divided by hedgerows. He roosts, breeds, and obtains most of his food on the ground; but he loves to perch on bushes and low trees, and in most open situations where these grow the whinchat may be met with. On his arrival in April he feeds very much on the fallows, but later, in May, forsakes them for the neighbouring grass fields, where he makes his nest. He is commonly seen perched on the summit of a bush, low tree, or hedgerow, and, like the stonechat, he makes frequent short excursions in pursuit of flying insects. When approached he grows restless on his perch, fans his tail at intervals, and frequently utters his low call or alarm note; then flies away, to perch again at a short distance from the intruder, and flies and perches again, and finally doubles back and returns to the first spot. Besides the insects he catches flying, he feeds on small beetles, grubs, worms, &c., found about the roots of the grass. He is frequently seen fluttering close to the surface of the tall grass, picking small insects from the leaves, and is most active in seeking his food during the evening twilight.

The whinchat’s low warbling song, which has some resemblance to that of the redstart, is mostly heard in the love season, and is uttered both from its perch on the summit of a bush or tree, and when hovering in the air.

The nest is placed on the ground, usually in a cavity under the grass in a field, not far from a hedgerow, or under a thick furze-bush on commons, or at the roots of the heather on moors. It is formed of dry grass and moss, and lined with horsehair and rootlets. Four to six eggs are laid, greenish blue in colour, faintly marked with a zone of brown spots at the larger end.

Stonechat.
Pratincola rubicola.

Fig. 23.—Stonechat. ¼ natural size.

Head, throat, bill, and legs black; sides of neck near the wing, tertial wing-coverts, and rump white; breast bright chestnut-red, paling to white on the belly; feathers of the back, wings, and tail black with reddish brown edges. Female: head and upper parts dusky brown, the feathers edged with yellowish red; throat black with small whitish and reddish spots; less white in the wings and tail; the red of the breast dull. Length, five and a quarter inches.

In his colouring and appearance, and to some extent in habits, the small stonechat is unlike any other bird. His strongly contrasted tints—black and white, and brown and chestnut-red—make him as conspicuous to the eye as the goldfinch or yellowhammer, and thus produce much the same effect as brilliancy of colour. The effect is increased by the custom the bird has of always perching on the topmost spray of a furze-bush on the open commons which it inhabits. Perched thus conspicuously on the summit, he sits erect and motionless, a small feathered harlequin, or like a painted image of a bird. But his disposition is a restless one; in a few moments he drops to the ground to pick up some small insect he has spied, or else dashes into the air after a passing fly or gnat, and then returns to his stand, or flits to another bush some yards away, where he reappears on its top, sitting erect and motionless as before. He is always anxious in the presence of a human being, flying restlessly from bush to bush, incessantly uttering his low, complaining note, which has a sound like that produced by striking two pebbles together; hence his name of stonechat. But it is a somewhat misleading name. He is not, like the wheatear, an inhabitant of barren stony places, but is seen chiefly on commons abounding in furze-bushes and thorns and brambles. He is seen in pairs, but is nowhere a numerous species, although found in most suitable localities throughout the three kingdoms. He is also to be met with throughout the year, but is much rarer in winter than in summer; and probably a great many individuals leave the country in autumn, while others seek more sheltered situations to winter in, or have a partial migration.

The stonechat has a slight, but sweet and very pleasing, song, uttered both when perched and when hovering in the air. Towards the end of March the nest is made, and is placed on or close to the ground, under a thick furze-bush; it is large, and carelessly made of dry grass, moss, heath and fibrous roots, lined with fine grass, horsehair, feathers, and sometimes with wool. Five or six eggs are laid, pale green or greenish blue in colour, and speckled at the large end with dull reddish brown. When the nest is approached the birds display the keenest distress.

Redstart.
Ruticilla phœnicurus.

Forehead white; head and upper part of back bluish grey; throat black; breast, tail-coverts, and tail, except the two middle feathers, which are brown, bright bay. Female: upper parts grey deeply tinged with red; throat and belly whitish; breast, flanks, and under tail-coverts pale red. Length, five and a quarter inches.

Fig. 24.—Redstart. ⅓ natural size.

The redstart is found from April to the end of August throughout England and Wales, but is nowhere common; in Scotland and Ireland he is rare. He is, nevertheless, a better-known bird to people in the country districts than some of the migratory songsters which are more abundant. Not, however, on account of his song, which is inferior to most, but partly because he ‘affects neighbourhoods,’ as Gilbert White says, and partly on account of his pure and prettily contrasted colours—the white forehead, slaty grey upper parts, and chestnut rump and tail. The bright-coloured tail, which he flirts often as he flits before you, quickly attracts the eye. ‘Firetail’ is a common name for this bird. Redstart is Saxon for redtail. When seen perched upright and motionless he resembles the robin in figure, but does not seek his food so much on the ground, and in his restless disposition and quick, lively motions, he is like the warblers. A peculiarity of the redstart is his fondness for old walls; he is attracted by them to orchards and gardens, where he is most often seen, although always a shy bird in the presence of man.

Seebohm says: ‘As the wheatear is the tenant of the cairns, the rocks, and the ruins of the wilds, in like manner the redstart may be designated a bird of the ruins and the rocks in the lower, warmer, and more cultivated districts. You will find it in orchards and gardens, about old walls, and in the more open woods and shrubberies. Another favourite haunt of the redstart is old crumbling ruins, abbeys, and castles, on whose battlements and still massive walls, ivy-covered and moss-grown, it delights to sit and chant its short and monotonous song.’

The song consists of one short phrase, dropping to a low twitter at the end, which varies in different singers; but the opening note is always a beautiful expressive sound.

The redstart feeds on small beetles, caterpillars, spiders, and grubs, which it picks up in walls, trees, and bushes; and on gnats, flies, and butterflies, captured on the wing after the manner of the flycatcher.

The nest is almost always made in a hole, usually in an old stone wall, but occasionally in a hole in a tree, and sometimes in the cleft formed by two branches. It is loosely built with dry grass and moss, and lined with hair and feathers. The eggs are four to six in number; sometimes as many as eight, or even ten, are laid. They resemble the hedge-sparrow’s eggs, being of a uniform greenish blue colour.

The black redstart (Ruticilla titys) is a winter visitor in small numbers to the south-west of England, and has been known to breed on two or three occasions in this country. It is common throughout Central and Southern Europe, wintering in North Africa, and in its nesting and other habits and language resembles the redstart.

Between the redstarts (Ruticilla) and the redbreast (Erithacus), next to be described, the bluethroats (Cyanecula) are placed, of which two species have been recorded as casual visitors to this country—the white-spotted bluethroat (C. Wolfi), from Western Europe; and the red-spotted bluethroat (C. Suecica), a breeder in the arctic regions.

Redbreast.
Erithacus rubecula.

Fig. 25.—Redbreast. ¼ natural size.

Upper parts olive-brown; forehead and breast red, the red edged with grey; belly white. Female: a trifle smaller than the male, and less bright in colour. Length, five inches and three-quarters.

Of man’s feathered favourites—the species he has thought proper to distinguish by a kindly protective sentiment—the redbreast probably ranks first, both on account of the degree of the feeling and its universality. The trustfulness of the familiar robin, especially in seasons of snow and frost, in coming about and entering our houses in quest of crumbs, is the principal cause of such a sentiment; but the highly attractive qualities of the bird have doubtless added strength to it. The bright red of his breast, intensified by contrast with the dark olive of the upper parts, gives him a rare beauty and distinction among our small songsters, which are mostly sober-coloured. Even more than beauty in colouring and form is a sweet voice; and here, where good singers are not few, the robin is among the best. Not only is he a fine singer, but in the almost voiceless autumn season, and in winter, when the other melodists that have not left our shores are silent, the robin still warbles his gushing, careless strain, varying his notes at every repetition, fresh and glad and brilliant as in the springtime. His song, indeed, never seems so sweet and impressive as in the silent and dreary season. For one thing, the absence of other bird-voices causes the robin’s to be more attentively listened to and better appreciated than at other times, just as we appreciate the nightingale best when he ‘sings darkling’—when there are no other strains to distract the attention. There is also the power of contrast—the bright, ringing lyric, a fountain of life and gladness, in the midst of a nature that suggests mournful analogies—autumnal decay and wintry death. There cannot be a doubt that the robin gives us all more pleasure with his music than any other singing-bird; we hear him all the year round and all our lives long, and his voice never palls on us. But those who have always heard it, for whom this sound has many endearing associations, might have some doubts about its intrinsic merits as a song—they might think that they esteem it chiefly because of the associations it has for them. In such a case one is glad to have an independent opinion—that, for instance, of an ‘intelligent foreigner,’ who has never heard this bird in his own country. Such an opinion we may find in John Burroughs, the American writer on birds; and it may well reassure those who love the robin’s song, but fear to put their favourite bird in the same category with the nightingale, blackcap, and garden-warbler. He writes: ‘The English robin is a better songster than I expected to find him. The poets and writers have not done him justice. He is of the royal line of the nightingale, and inherits some of the qualities of that famous bird. His favourite hour for singing is the gloaming, and I used to hear him the last of all. His song is peculiar, jerky, and spasmodic, but abounds in the purest and most piercing tones to be heard—piercing from their smoothness, intensity, and fulness of articulation; rapid and crowded at one moment, as if some barrier had suddenly given way, then as suddenly pausing, and scintillating at intervals bright, tapering shafts of sound. It stops and hesitates, and blurts out its notes like a stammerer; but when they do come, they are marvellously clear and pure. I have heard green hickory-branches thrown into a fierce blaze jet out the same fine, intense, musical sounds on the escape of the imprisoned vapours in the hard wood as characterise the robin’s song.’

The robin is an early breeder, and makes its nest beneath a hedge, or in a bank, or in a close bush not far above the ground; it is formed of dry grass, leaves, and moss, and lined with feathers. Six or seven eggs are laid, reddish white in ground-colour, clouded or blotched, and freckled with pale red. When the nest is approached the old birds express their anxiety by a very curious sound—a prolonged note so acute that, like the shrill note of some insects and the bat’s cry, it is inaudible to some persons. Two, and even three, broods are raised in the season.

At the end of summer the old birds disappear from their usual haunts to moult; and during this perhaps painful, and certainly dangerous, period, they remain secluded and unseen in the thickest foliage. When they reappear in new and brighter dress, restored to health and vigour, a fresh trial awaits them. The young they have hatched and fed and protected have now attained to maturity, and are in possession of their home. For it is the case that every pair of robins has a pretty well-defined area of ground which they regard as their own, jealously excluding from it other individuals of their own species. The young are forthwith driven out, often not without much fighting, which may last for many days, and in which the old bird is sometimes the loser. But in most cases the old robin reconquers his territory, and the young male, or males, if not killed, go otherwhere. And here we come upon an obscure point in the history of this familiar species; for what becomes of the young dispossessed birds is not yet known. It has been conjectured that they migrate, and that not many return from their wanderings beyond the sea. And it is not impossible to believe that the migratory instinct may exist in the young of a species, although obsolete at a later period of life.

Nightingale.
Daulias luscinia.

Fig. 26.—Nightingale. ⅓ natural size.

Upper plumage uniform brown tinged with chestnut; tail rufous; under parts greyish white; flanks pale ash. Length, six inches and a quarter.

The nightingale is the only songster that has been too much lauded, with the inevitable result that its melody, when first heard, causes disappointment, and even incredulity. More than once it has been my lot to call the attention of someone who had not previously heard it to its song, at the same time pointing out the bird; and after a few moments of listening, he or she has exclaimed, ‘That the nightingale! Why, it is only a common-looking little bird, and its song, that so much fuss is made about, is after all no better than that of any other little bird.’ And then it is perhaps added: ‘I don’t think the nightingale—if the bird you have shown me is the nightingale—sings so well as the thrush, or the blackbird, or the lark.’ The song is, nevertheless, exceedingly beautiful; its phrasing is more perfect than that of any other British melodist; and the voice has a combined strength, purity, and brilliance probably without a parallel. On account of these qualities, and of the fact that the song is frequently heard in the night-time, when other voices are silent, the nightingale was anciently selected as the highest example of a perfect singer; and, on the principle that to him that hath shall be given, it was credited with all the best qualities of all the other singers. It was the maker of ravishing music, and a type, just as the pelican was a type of parental affection and self-sacrifice, and the turtle-dove of conjugal fidelity. Only, when he actually hears it for the first time, the hearer makes the sad discovery that the bird he has for long years been listening to in fancy—the nightingale heard by the poet with an aching heart, and the wish that he, too, could fade with it into the forest dim—was a nightingale of the brain, a mythical bird, like the footless bird of paradise and the swan with a dying melody. Beautiful, nay, perfect, the song may be, but he misses from it that something of human feeling which makes the imperfect songs so enchanting—the overflowing gladness of the lark; the spirit of wildness of the blackcap; the airy, delicate tenderness of the willow-wren; and the serene happiness of the blackbird.

The nightingale arrives in this country about the middle of April, returning to the same localities year after year, apparently in the same numbers. It is scarcely to be doubted that the young birds that survive the perils of migration come back to the spot where they were hatched, since the species does not extend its range nor establish new colonies. It is most common in the southern counties of England, above all in Surrey, but rare in the western and northern counties, and in Scotland and Ireland it is unknown.

The nightingale so nearly resembles the robin in size, form, and manner that he might be taken for that bird but for his clear, brown colour. Like the robin, he feeds on the ground, seeking grubs and insects under the dead leaves, hopping rapidly by fits and starts, standing erect and motionless at intervals as if to listen, and occasionally throwing up his tail and lowering his head and wings, just as the robin does. He inhabits woods, coppices, rough bramble-grown commons, and unkept hedges, and loves best of all a thicket growing by the side of running water.

Two or three days after arriving he begins to sing, and continues in song until the middle, or a little past the middle, of June, when the young are hatched. In fine weather he sings at intervals throughout the day, but his music is more continuous and has a more beautiful effect in the evening. For an hour or two after sunset it is perhaps most perfect. In the dark he is silent, but if the moon shines he will continue singing for hours. That is to say, some birds will continue singing; as a rule, not half so many as may be heard during daylight.

The nest is nearly always placed on the ground beneath a hedge or close thicket; it is rather large, and composed of dry grass and dead leaves loosely put together, the inside lined with fine dead grass, rootlets, and vegetable down. The eggs are four or five in number, and of a uniform olive-brown colour.

During incubation and after the young are hatched the parent birds display the most intense solicitude when the nest is approached, and flit from bough to bough close to the intruder’s head, incessantly repeating two strangely different notes—one low, clear, and sorrowful, the other a harsh, grinding sound.

The return migration is in August and September.

Whitethroat.
Sylvia cinerea.

Fig. 27.—Whitethroat. ⅓ natural size.

Head ash-grey tinged with brown; rest of upper parts reddish brown; wings dusky, the coverts edged with red; lower parts white faintly tinged with rose colour; tail dark brown, the outer feathers white on the tips and the outer web, the next only tipped with white. Female without the rosy tint on the breast. Length, five and a half inches.

The whitethroat, or greater whitethroat, as the name is sometimes written, is one of the commonest and best known of the soft-billed songsters that spend the summer and breed in our country. It inhabits all parts of the British Islands, excepting the most barren. Even to those who pay little attention to the small birds that come in their way the whitethroat is tolerably familiar, less on account of its song, which is in no way remarkable, than for the excited notes and actions of the bird, sometimes highly eccentric, which challenge attention. The whitethroat is, moreover, readily distinguishable from its colour—the reddish brown hue of its upper plumage and the unmistakable white throat, which give it a conspicuous individuality among the warblers. It inhabits the wood-side, the thickets, the rough common, but of all places prefers the thick hedge for a home. Shortly after the bird’s arrival, about the middle or near the end of April, he quickly makes his presence known to any person who walks along a hedgeside. The intruder is received with a startled, grating note, a sound expressive of surprise and displeasure, and, repeating this sound from time to time, the bird flits on before him, concealed from sight by the dense tangle he moves amidst. Presently, if not too much alarmed, he mounts to a twig on the summit of the hedge to pour out his song—a torrent of notes, uttered apparently in great excitement, with crest raised, the throat puffed out, and many odd gestures and motions. Sometimes he springs from his perch as if lifted by sheer rapture into the air, and ascends, singing, in a spiral, then drops swiftly back to his perch again. It is a peculiar song on account of its vehement style and the antics of the singer, more so when he flies on before a person walking, now singing, now moving farther ahead in a succession of wild jerks, then suddenly ducking down into the hedge. It is also a pleasing song in itself, although for pure melody the whitethroat does not rank very high among the greatly gifted birds of its family, or sub-family. If we include the nightingale and robin, it should be placed about the sixth on the list, the other singers that come before it being the willow-wren, blackcap, and garden warbler.

The nest of the whitethroat is a round, flimsy structure, formed of slender stalks of grass and herbs, and lined with horsehair, and is placed two or three feet above the ground, in the brambles and briers of the hedge, or in a large furze-bush. The five eggs are of a greenish white, speckled with olive, and sometimes blotched and marked with grey and light brown. One brood only is reared. Nettle-creeper is a common name for this bird, on account of its love of weeds, especially of nettles, no doubt because the small caterpillars it feeds on are most abundant on them. It is also fond of fruit, wild and cultivated, and visits the gardens near its haunts to feed on currants and raspberries.

Lesser Whitethroat.
Sylvia curruca.

Head, neck, and back smoke-grey; ear coverts almost black; wings brown edged with grey; tail dusky, outer feather as in the last species, the two next tipped with white; lower parts nearly pure white; feet lead colour. Length, five and a quarter inches.

The difference in size between this warbler and the one last described is very slight; still, there is a difference; and the descriptive epithet of lesser would also be a suitable one if applied in another sense. He is a less important bird. To begin with, he is much rarer, being only of local distribution in England and Scotland, and unknown in Ireland; in colouring he is more obscure; his trivial song has nothing in it to attract attention; he is shyer in habits, passes much of the time among the higher foliage of the trees he frequents, and is, consequently, not often seen.

He arrives in this country about or shortly after the middle of April, and is found in thickets and copses, and hedges in the neighbourhood of trees. Like most of the warblers, he is exceedingly restless, and moves incessantly among the leaves, picking up the aphides and minute caterpillars, and from time to time darts into the air to capture some small passing insect. Like the common whitethroat, he is also fond of ripe fruit, especially currants and raspberries. He is often on the wing, passing directly from place to place with an undulating flight and rapidly-beating wings. When singing he swells his throat out, and delivers his strain with considerable vigour; but his song is of the shortest, and is composed of one or two notes, hurriedly repeated two or three times without variation, and with scarcely any musical quality in it. No sooner is it finished than the bird is off again on his flitting rambles among the leaves and twigs; it is less like a song than an exclamation of pleasure—a cheerful call that bursts out from time to time.

The lesser whitethroat nests in orchards, coppices, thick hedgerows, bramble and furze bushes on commons, and among tangled vegetation overhanging streams, but in all cases the nest is placed in the midst of a dense mass of foliage. This is a somewhat loosely made and shallow structure, composed of dry grass-stems and small twigs, bound together with cobwebs and cocoons, and lined with fine rootlets and horsehair. Four or five eggs are laid, in ground-colour white or dull buff, blotched and speckled with greenish brown, with underlying markings of purplish grey.

Blackcap.
Sylvia atricapilla.

Fig. 28.—Blackcap. ⅓ natural size.

Head above the eyes jet-black, in the female chocolate-brown; upper parts, wings, and tail ash-grey slightly tinged with olive; throat and breast ash-grey; belly and under wing-coverts white. Length, five and a half inches.

This brilliant songster arrives in this country about the middle of April, in some years considerably earlier. It is found throughout England and Wales, and extends its range to Scotland and Ireland, only in lesser numbers. Though widely distributed it is rare, except in some districts in the southern and western counties of England. A person familiar with the ornithological literature of this country, but having little personal knowledge of the birds, who should go out to make acquaintance with the blackcap, would be surprised at its rarity. After much seeking, he would probably come to the conclusion that, speaking of warblers only, there are at least half a hundred willow-wrens, and perhaps twenty whitethroats, to one blackcap. Another curious point about the blackcap is that it appears to be almost unknown to the country people. It is a rare thing to find a rustic, man or boy, who knows it by that or any other name, though he may be quite familiar with the redstart and whitethroat. On these last two points I find that my experience coincides with that of John Burroughs, the American writer on bird life, in the accounts of his observations on British song-birds. There is a third point on which I also agree with him; this, however, is not a question of fact, but of opinion or of individual taste, and refers to the merit of the blackcap as a singer. His is a song which has always been very highly esteemed, and it has often been described as scarcely inferior to that of the nightingale. Gilbert White of Selborne described it as ‘a full, deep, sweet, loud, wild pipe; yet that strain is of short continuance, and his motions are desultory; but when that bird sits calmly and engages in song in earnest, he pours forth very sweet, but inward, melody, and expresses great variety of soft and gentle modulations, superior, perhaps, to those of any of our warblers, the nightingale excepted.’ After reading such a description it is a disappointment to hear the song. Nevertheless, it is very beautiful, and given out with immense energy, as the bird sits on a spray with throat puffed out, and moves its head, sometimes its whole body, vigorously from side to side. The song is a clear warble composed of about a dozen notes, rapidly enunciated, loud, free, of that sweet, pure quality characteristic of the melody of our best warblers. The strain is short, and repeated from time to time, the intervals often being filled by lower notes, sweet and varied—the ‘inward melody’ which White describes. Burroughs’s description of the song is as follows: ‘While sitting here I saw, and for the first time heard, the black-capped warbler. I recognised the note at once by its brightness and strength, and a faint suggestion in it of the nightingale’s; but it was disappointing: I had expected in it a nearer approach to its great rival.... It is a ringing, animated strain, but as a whole seemed to me crude, not smoothly and finely modulated. I could name several of our own birds that surpass it in pure music. Like its congeners, the garden warbler and the whitethroat, it sings with great emphasis and strength, but its song is silvern, not golden.’ This account of the blackcap’s song is interesting as coming from a foreigner who has paid great attention to the bird music of his own country, and it is on the whole a very good description; but I should not say that the blackcap’s strain is crude, however wild and irregular it may be; nor that there is in it even a faint suggestion of the nightingale’s.

In its active, restless habits this warbler resembles the other members of its group; but it exceeds them all in shyness. When approached it becomes silent, and conceals itself in the interior of the thicket. It frequents woods and orchards; also hedges and commons where large masses of furze and bramble are found, especially in the vicinity of trees. The nest is made of dry grass, lined with hair or fibrous roots, and is placed in the forked branches of a thick bush, three or four feet above the ground. The eggs, of which five or six are laid, are of a light reddish colour, mottled and blotched with darker red and reddish brown. They vary greatly, both in the depth of colour of the mottlings and in the pale ground-tints.

The blackcap lives on insects, which it often captures on the wing, and on fruits, and is fond of raspberries and currants. Its autumn migration is in September.

Garden Warbler.
Sylvia hortensis.

Upper plumage greyish brown tinged with olive; below the ear a patch of ash-grey; throat dull white; breast and flanks grey tinged with rust colour; rest of under parts dull white. Length, five and a quarter inches.

This warbler was first described as a British species by Willughby, more than two centuries ago, under the name of ‘prettichaps’; and Professor Newton, in a note to Yarrell’s account of it, says: ‘This name (prettichaps) seems never to have been in general use in England, or it would be readily adopted here.’ The old name of prettichaps, it may be mentioned, does not appear to be quite obsolete yet: I have heard it in Berkshire, where it was applied indiscriminately to the garden warbler and blackcap.

The garden warbler is not common anywhere. In Ireland it is scarcely known; in Scotland, Wales, and a large part of England it is very rare. It is most frequently to be met with in the southern counties, especially in Hampshire. Very curiously, Gilbert White did not know this warbler, which may now be heard singing any day in spring in the neighbourhood of Selborne village.

The garden warbler is often said to rank next to the blackcap as a melodist. The songs of these two species have a great resemblance; it is, indeed, rare to find two songsters, however closely allied, so much alike in their language. The garden warbler’s song is like an imitation of the blackcap’s, but is not so powerful and brilliant: some of its notes possess the same bright, pure, musical quality, but they are hurriedly delivered, shorter, more broken up, as it were. On the other hand, to compensate for its inferior character, there is more of it; the bird, sitting concealed among the clustering leaves, will sing by the hour, his rapid, warbled strain sometimes lasting for several minutes without a break.

The garden warbler is a late bird, seldom arriving in this country before the end of April. It builds a rather slight nest, in a bush near the ground, of dry grass and moss, lined with hair and fibrous roots. The eggs are five in number, and are dull white, sometimes greenish white, blotched and speckled with dull brown and grey.

The food of this warbler consists of small insects; and it is also fond of fruit and berries.

Six species of the genus Sylvia are included in books on British birds: the four already described, the orphean warbler (Sylvia orphea), an accidental visitor from Central and Southern Europe, and the barred warbler (Sylvia nisoria), from Central, South, and East Europe.

Furze-Wren, or Dartford Warbler.
Melizophilus undatus.

Upper parts greyish black; wing-coverts and feathers blackish brown; outer tail feathers broadly, and the rest narrowly, tipped with light brownish grey; under parts chestnut-brown; belly white. Tail long; wings very short. Length, five inches.

Fig. 29.—Dartford Warbler. ⅓ natural size.

The furze-wren, never a common species in this country, is now become so scarce, and is, moreover, so elusive, that it is hard to find, and harder still to observe narrowly. Its somewhat singular appearance among the warblers—its small size, short, rounded wings, great length of tail, and very dark colour—its peculiar song, and excessively lively and restless habits, and the fact that it was first discovered in this country (1773), where, though so small and delicate a creature, it exists on open, exposed commons throughout the year, have all contributed to make it a fascinating subject to British ornithologists. In England it inhabits Surrey and the counties bordering on the Channel; but it has also been found in suitable localities in various other parts of the country, and ranges as far north as the borders of Yorkshire. I have sought for it in many places, but found it only in Dorset. Forty or fifty years ago it was most abundant in the southern parts of Surrey; it was there observed by the late Edward Newman, who gave the following lively and amusing account of its appearance and habits in his ‘Letters of Rusticus on the Natural History of Godalming’ (1849): ‘We have a bird common here which, I fancy, is almost unknown in other districts, for I have scarcely ever seen it in collections.... I mean the furze-wren, or, as authors are pleased to call it, the Dartford warbler. We hear that the epithet of Dartford is derived from the little Kentish town of that name, and that it was given to the furze-wren because he was first noticed in that neighbourhood. ... If you have ever watched a common wren (a kitty-wren we call her), you must have observed that she cocked her tail bolt upright, strained her little beak at right angles, and her throat in the same fashion, to make the most of her fizgig of a song, and kept on jumping and jerking and frisking about, for all the world as though she was worked by steam; well, that’s more the character of the Dartford warbler, or, as we call her, the furze-wren. When the leaves are off the trees and the chill winter winds have driven the birds to the olive-gardens of Spain, or across the Straits, the furze-wren is in the height of his enjoyment. I have seen them by dozens skipping about the furze, lighting for a moment on the very point of the sprigs, and instantly diving out of sight again, singing out their angry, impatient ditty, for ever the same. Perched on the back of a good tall nag, and riding quietly along the outside, while the foxhounds have been drawing the furze-fields, I have often seen these birds come to the top of the furze.... They prefer those places where the furze is very thick, and difficult to get in.... And although it is so numerous in winter, and so active and noisy when disturbed by dogs and guns, still, in the breeding season it is a shy, skulking bird, hiding itself in thick places, much in the manner of the grasshopper lark, and seldom allowing one to hear the sound of its voice.’

Spring is, however, the season of the furze-wren’s greatest activity: its lively gestures, antics, and dancing motions on the topmost sprays of the bushes are then almost incessant, as it pursues the small moths and other winged insects on which it feeds; and its curious and impetuous little song is then delivered with the greatest vigour. It has also a harsh, scolding note, uttered several times in rapid succession, and a loud musical call-note.

The nest is placed among the dense masses of the lower, dead portion of a thick furze-bush. It is a flimsy structure, composed of dead furze-leaves, small twigs, and grass-stems, lined with finer stems, and sometimes with horsehair. Four or five eggs are laid, white in ground-colour, sometimes tinged with buff or with greenish, thickly spotted and freckled with pale brown over paler brown and grey markings. Two broods are reared in the season.

Golden-crested Wren, or Goldcrest.
Regulus cristatus.

Upper parts olive tinged with yellow; cheeks ash-colour; wing greyish brown, with two transverse white bands; crest bright yellow in front, orange behind, bounded by two black lines; under parts yellowish grey. Female: colours not so bright; crest lemon-colour. Length, three and a half inches.

The golden-crested wren has the distinction of being the smallest British bird; it is also one of the most widely distributed, being found throughout the United Kingdom. Furthermore, it is a resident throughout the year, is nowhere scarce, and in many places is very abundant. Yet it is well known only to those who are close observers of bird life. The goldcrest is not a familiar figure, owing to its smallness and restlessness, which exceed that of all the other members of this restless family of birds, and make it difficult for the observer to see it well. Again, it is nearly always concealed from sight by the foliage, and in winter it keeps mostly among the evergreens, and at all times haunts by preference pine, fir, and yew trees. In the pale light of a winter day, more especially in cloudy weather, it is hard to see the greenish, restless little creature in his deep green bush or tree. Standing under, or close to, a wide-spreading old yew, half a dozen goldcrests flitting incessantly about among the foliage in the gloomy interior of the tree look less like what they are than the small flitting shadows of birds.

In March, and even as early as the latter part of February, the male is frequently heard uttering his song; but he is not of the songsters that perch to sing, and pour out their music deliberately and with all their might. The goldcrest’s song comes in as a sort of trivial distraction or relief—a slight interlude between the more important acts of passing from one twig or spray to another, and snatching up some infinitesimal insect so quickly and deftly that to see the action one must watch the bird very closely indeed. And the music, of which the musician makes so little, is of very little account to the listener. It is the smallest of small songs—two notes, almost identical in tone, repeated rapidly, without variation, two or three times, ending with a slight quaver, scarcely audible, on the last note. The sound is sharp and fine, as of young mice squealing, but not quite so sharp, and more musical; it is a sound that does not travel: to hear it well one must stand not farther than a dozen or fifteen yards from the singer.