Birds in Flight

BIRDS IN FLIGHT

Kingfisher and Young

BIRDS IN FLIGHT

BY

W. P. PYCRAFT

Zoological Department, British Museum (Natural History).
Fellow of the Zoological Society of London.
Hon. Member of the American Ornithologists' Union.
Associate of the Linnean Society.
Member of the Marine Biological Association of the United Kingdom.
Member of the Royal Anthropological Institute.
Author of “A History of Birds,” “The Infancy of Animals,” “The Courtship of Animals,” “The Sea-shore,” Etc., Etc., Etc.

Illustrated by
ROLAND GREEN, F.Z.S.

LONDON
GAY & HANCOCK LIMITED
34 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.2.
1922

All Rights Reserved.

[CONTENTS.]

ILLUSTRATIONS

Coloured Plates

Black and White Plates

Line Illustrations

[Preface.]

T

There are hosts of people who have a genuine love of our native birds without yearning to possess their skins, or desiring to acquire the reputation of being “Ornithologists.” They would call them all by name if they could, but seek, alas! in vain, for some book wherein they will find some magic phrase which will enable them to identify every bird they meet by the wayside.

Most of our native birds have learnt that “discretion is the better part of valour,” when in the neighbourhood of Man. Hence one gets but too often no more than a fleeting glance at their retreating forms, which, from frequent encounters, have become familiar, yet they leave no more than a vague image in the memory. “What bird was that? I have often seen it but have never succeeded in taking it unawares.” This is a question, and its comment, often put to me.

Those who are in this quandary, and they are many, are always hoping to find some book which will enable them to correctly name the retreating forms. That book will never be written. In the following pages an attempt is made to aid such enquirers, and at the same time the difficulties of the task are pointed out.

It is hoped, however, that this attempt will find a welcome among those for whom it is made. If it helps them to understand something, at least, of the absorbing and fascinating problems which the study of flight in the animal kingdom presents, it will at least have served some useful purpose.

The pursuit of the flying bird will inevitably stimulate a desire to know more about the bewildering changes of plumage presented at different seasons of the year, as well as by the striking differences which often distinguish the two sexes, and the immature birds. The endeavour to satisfy this desire will open up a new world. Those who would pass to this knowledge should possess themselves of the “Practical Handbook of British Birds.” Though most severely practical, and designed for the serious student alone, even the beginner will find interest in the description of these several plumages, and much else beside that it is essential to know.

Now that the study of flight is so much to the fore, some may turn to these pages in the hope of gaining useful information on the theme of mechanical flight. Some help they may find. But it was not for this that they were written. The flight of an aeroplane and the flight of a bird have little in common—at present; though something may be learned by the study of gliding flight and soaring, which of course have their place in this book. But anatomical details and mechanical formulæ, necessary to the serious student of flight, would have been entirely out of place here, and they have been omitted.

My task has been by no means easy. But it has been enormously helped by the extremely skilful and beautiful work of the artist, Mr. Roland Green. Where birds are concerned, few artists in the past, and very few in the present, have shown any ability to combine accuracy in drawing with ingenuity of composition and faithfulness in colouring. Mr. Green has shown this rare combination; his coloured plates and line-drawings speak for themselves.

W. P. PYCRAFT.

London,
September, 1922

[CHAPTER I.]

Concerning Wings.

"Divinity within them breeding wings
wherewith to scorn the earth."—Milton.

What a wing is—The quill feathers and their function—The skeleton of the wing—The muscles of the wing—The great air-chambers of the body—The Bat’s wing—The wing of flying Dragons—The wings of Dragon-flies and beetles.

T

The flight of birds has always aroused man’s envy and stirred his imagination. David longed for the wings of a dove: the writer of the Book of Proverbs tells us that “the way of an eagle” surpasses his understanding. Icarus, spurred on by dire necessity, actually, we are told, contrived to fly—but his maiden effort ended in disaster! To-day we have, in a sense, succeeded where he failed. But only because we have given up the idea of flight by personal effort, and make our aerial journeys in a flying machine.

That we owe much of our success to a study of the flight of birds is common knowledge, but the machine which has evolved as a consequence of this study pursues its way through the air after a very different fashion from that of the birds, for its vast body is thrust, or drawn, through the air by means of a propeller, driven at incredible speed, its immobile wings sustaining the weight. The wings of the bird, on the other hand, not only lift the body from the earth, but they sustain it in the air by their marvellously complex movements. And this is true, in varying degrees of bird, and bat, and butterfly: of dragon-fly and beetle.

Even they who must perforce dwell in crowded cities see daily the miracle of flight performed. For even here sparrows and pigeons, at least, are everywhere, and it is just because this is so, just because they have become so “common-place,” that their very presence escapes notice. Yet the wonder of their movements in the air might become a never-ending source of delight if only we went about our business with open eyes and minds alert.

Watch the wary sparrow spring from the ground and dart across the road, or up to the nearest house-top. How is it done with such incredible speed and accuracy?

To understand even the broad principles of flight, it is necessary to realize, at the very beginning, that the wing, in the case of the bird, or the bat, is a specially modified fore-leg. So also is the human arm and hand. But its transformation has not been so drastic as that of the bird, or the bat. Wherein the hand has been, as it were, completely re-modelled to fulfil the peculiar and complex functions demanded of it.

How should one describe the wing of a bird, as one sees it in flight?

The Dictionary, obscure and inaccurate as Dictionaries usually are, defines a wing as “the organ of a bird, or other animal, or insect, by which it flies—any side-piece.” Might not the impression one gathers of a wing, during flight, be defined as of a lateral extension of the body, presenting a relatively large surface, but having no appreciable thickness? That surface, examined in a dead bird, is seen to be formed, for the most part, of a series of parallel, tapering, elastic rods, fringed with an innumerable series of smaller, similar, but much shorter rods, closely packed, and linked together by some invisible means to form an elastic web? These we call the “quill,” or “flight-feathers.” The rest of the wing, and the body itself, is clothed with precisely similar structures, differing only in their smaller size. We call them “feathers” commonly, without realizing that they are the “Hall-mark” of the bird, for no other creature has ever been similarly clothed.

These quill-feathers play such a tremendously important part in flight that their arrangement, and relation to the underlying skeleton must be carefully examined by all who would understand the flight of birds. To begin with, then, note that they are so arranged as to overlap one another, the free edges of the quills facing the outer edge of the wing. Only by this arrangement would flight be possible, for on the upstroke of the wing through the air the quills act like the shutters of the sails of a windmill, allowing the wind to pass between them and so relieving pressure on the uplifting wing-stroke. On the down-stroke, the opposite effect is produced. The full force of the stroke is conserved, because, owing to the overlap, the several feathers are now pressed closely together to form an impervious sheet.

How are they fixed to the skeleton? To see this all the smaller feathers and the muscles, or “flesh” of the wing must be removed. It will then be found that the flight-feathers are divisible into two series. One, widely spaced, runs along the upper surface of the fore-arm: the other, closely packed, along what answers to the back of the hand. In effect this is but a single rod of bone, but it is composed of three elements, answering to three of the digits of the human hand—the thumb and the first and second fingers. But they are scarcely recognizable as such, for the thumb is reduced to a mere stump, while the two fingers have become welded together. The third finger, indeed, has become reduced to the palm-bone, and a short stump answering to the first finger joint. To this frame-work, which can be folded up into the shape of a Z when the bird is at rest, the quills are fixed by their base by means of slender, but very strong elastic tendons. In birds which have a long upper arm bone, like the Albatross, Gull, or Heron, there is a third series of long, almost “quill-like” feathers running from the elbow to the body, thus closing up what would otherwise be a gap between the wing surface and the body, rendering flight impossible.

Swans. Heron.
Geese.

The most important muscles of the wing are those which have to provide the power for the down-stroke of the wing. And these are the “pectoral” or “breast-muscles”—which form such dainty meat in a roast fowl. Owing to their great bulk the breast-bone itself would be insufficient to afford them attachment. This is furnished by the development of a deep, median keel, so that the breast-bone of a bird, such as a pigeon, bears a fanciful resemblance, when seen in profile, to the hull of a ship—unusually shallow—with a very deep keel. The front end of the breast-bone supports two slender rods of bone, and these in their turn support the long, sword-like blade-bone, and the “merry-thought.”

The general appearance of this frame-work for the support of the wing and its muscles can be seen in the adjoining illustrations. But it must be remembered that in their relative sizes and disposition these various parts present a very considerable range of differences. That these differences are correllated with different forms of flight goes without saying, but, be it noted, no one, as yet, has attempted to discover in what way they are related. Some of the readers of this book may, perhaps, be tempted to try and solve the problems which these differences present. To begin with, a collection of breast bones of different species of birds with their attached shoulder-girdles should be made, and these should be studied together with careful observations of the flight of the living bird. So far only a few comparisons of this kind have been made.

It must not be supposed that the whole secret of flight in birds is concentrated in the skeleton of the breast-bone and its shoulder-girdle, and the muscles attached thereto. But those who would investigate the modifications of the rest of the body which have taken place in harmony with the requirements of flight, must turn to more learned treatises. There is, however, one point which demands notice here. And this is the popular belief that birds have the power of materially reducing their weight when on the wing by drawing air into their lungs, and storing it in large air-chambers enclosed within the body. These chambers are indeed concerned with the needs of flight. But the precise part they play is yet to be discovered. They certainly have no effect of rendering the body lighter. So far as our knowledge goes it would seem that they act as regulators of the temperature and as reservoirs of breathing air, during the strenuous efforts of flight.

Jays

It is a mistake to suppose that it is unnecessary to consider other kinds of flight when studying that of birds. Even those who are not interested in the abstruse problems of the mechanism of bird’s flight, will find that comparisons made between birds, bats, butterflies and beetles when on the wing, are immensely interesting, and help to bring out the peculiarities of each.

During the twilight hours of a still summer evening one may compare, with advantage, the rushing swoop of the screaming swift, borne with lightning speed upon long, ribbon-like pinions, with the curiously erratic flight of the woolly bat with beaded eyes, who has ventured abroad for his evening meal. One cannot but feel astonishment at the marvellous dexterity with which he twists and turns, now shooting up into the sky, now darting downward. What bird can beat him, or even match him, in the art of doubling back on his tracks? And one can put his skill at lightning turns to the test if one attempts to catch him in a butterfly net. Often indeed have I attempted this feat, but never yet with success.

In the glare of noon-day this aerial athlete may perhaps be found in a deep slumber, hanging head downwards behind the shutters of a cottage window, or in some crevice of a barn-roof. Gently seize him and as gently stretch out his wing. The moment one opens it one sees that it is constructed upon a totally different plan from that of a bird. In the first place a thin membrane, or fold of skin is seen to take the place of the series of quill-feathers found in the wing of the bird. In the second it will be found that this membrane is stretched between a series of long and very slender bony rods. These are excessively attenuated fingers. And if the hinder border of the wing-membrane be traced inwards it will be found to be attached to the hind limb. In some species it will be found that this membrane passes backwards beyond the leg to attach itself to the tail. Here, then, is a wing as efficient for its purpose as that of a bird, but constructed on a totally different plan.

Ages ago, before even the birds or the beasts had appeared on the earth, the winged dragons, which the Men of Science call Pterodactyles, held the proud position of being, not only the first, but the only creatures blessed with a backbone that could fly. Their wings resembled those of the bats, but differed in this, that instead of the wing-membrane being stretched between all the fingers, leaving only the thumb free, it was attached only to the fifth finger, leaving the remaining fingers free, and these were reduced to mere vestiges. As with the birds, the breast-bone was very broad and was furnished with a keel, while in the bats it takes the form of a jointed rod, down which no more than a slight keel is ever developed.

But millions of years before the Flying-dragons, birds, and bats came into being, the stupendous problem of flight had been solved. Far away in the distant Devonian Epoch, when the distribution of land and water over the earth’s surface was totally different from that of to-day, dragon-flies and caddis-flies disported themselves in the summer sun, amid landscapes that would seem strange to our eyes. For there were no trees and flowering plants, such as we know.

The dragon-flies of that remote epoch were very like those of to-day, whose dancing flights and graceful, swooping movements are such a delight to watch by reed-fringed pools, or river-banks, during the sweltering days of summer. This flight is very different from that of a bird, though it would be hard to say precisely in what it differs. But we have no such difficulty in regard to the broad outlines of the mechanism of such flight. To begin with there are two pairs of wings, and these appear to be fashioned out of some curiously gauze-like material, a sort of mesh-work tissue, often strikingly coloured. And they are obviously driven after a very different fashion from those of the bird. For in the bird they are moved by quivering muscles, attached to a bony, internal skeleton. In the dragon-fly—as with all insects—the hard skeleton, composed of a material known as “chitin,” forms the outside of the body and encloses the muscles. Finally, for we may not dwell very long over this aspect of flight, it is clear that the wings cannot have been derived from modified fore-legs, like those of the bat, or the bird. Rather, it would seem, they have developed out of plate-like breathing organs.

The restful twilight hours of summer tempt not only bats from their hiding places, but a host of other winged creatures which are rarely to be seen, or heard, during the glare of noon. Among these is the lumbering dor-beetle, who, with lazy drone steers clear of solid objects only with difficulty. Many, indeed, are his failures. He and his kin are no match for bats and owls, who find them juicy morsels! On the next opportunity catch one and examine him. His wings are curiously interesting. There are the usual two pairs: but the fore-wings have been changed to serve as covers for the hind-wings. During flight they are spread outwards, and indirectly, no doubt, assist flight. But the hind-wings are the real propellers. And it will be noticed that when not in use they can be folded up in a perfectly wonderful manner, so as to lie completely underneath the fore-wings, or “elytra,” so that when the creature is crawling it appears to be wingless.

Now compare these with the transparent wings of the bee, or the gorgeously scale-covered wings of the butterfly. It is well worth while. If this examination be done very carefully, and with the aid of a magnifying glass, it will be found that the fore and hind wings are yoked together in the wing of the bee, by a delicate mechanism of hooks. In the moths, but not in the butterflies, a bristle, or sometimes two or three bristles, serve the same purpose. Further, in the case of the bee it will be found that the fore-wing, when at rest, is folded longitudinally back upon itself.

Finally, turn to the flies. Herein it will be seen that there is but a single pair of wings, the hind pair having become reduced to mere stumps, known as “balancers.”

Much, very much more, might have been said of these wings: but our conversation is of birds. We cannot, however, properly appreciate either the essential characters of their wings, or their flight, without some such standards of comparison as is afforded by the wings of other creatures.

A Primaries. B Secondaries. C Tectrices. D Bastard Wing.

The upper figure shows the under side of wing with the coverts removed to show attachment of flight feathers to skeleton.

The lower figure shows the quill or flight feathers and the coverts in their natural condition.

[CHAPTER II]

The First Bird.

"And let Fowl fly above the earth; with wings
Displayed in the open firmanent of heaven."—Milton.

The ancestors of birds—The first known bird and its many remarkable features—The gradual evolution of the birds of to-day.

S

Sooner or later all bird-lovers find themselves pondering over the problem of the origin of birds: how they evolved their peculiar covering of feathers: what was the fashion of the original arm and hand out of which the wing was fashioned: and finally, whence have the birds been derived?

Since these pages are avowedly devoted to the subject of Flight, any attempt to summarize the state of our knowledge on these aspects of the history of birds would be in the nature of a trespass on the space, of necessity limited, which even a cursory survey of flight demands.

Let it suffice, then, to say, that birds are descended from reptiles. The skeleton of modern birds bears undubitable testimony of this. For we have the evidence furnished us by the remains of two remarkable skeletons, belonging to that very wonderful reptile-like bird, Archæopteryx.

Only two skeletons of this wonderful bird are known, and they were obtained, many years ago, from the Solenhofen, or Lithographic slates of Bavaria. The wing and tail-feathers are as perfectly developed as in modern birds. But these precious fossils present two characters which have long since been lost by birds. The first of these is the presence of well developed teeth in the jaws. The birds of to-day have horny beaks. The teeth bespeak the reptile. The second is the long, tapering tail, which is composed of a series of cylindrical bones, forming a lizard-like appendage. But each bone, be it noted, supported a pair of stiff, tail-quills, so that the tail of this ancient bird, in its general appearance, differs in a very striking way from that of a modern bird, wherein these feathers seem all to spring from a common base, fan-wise. But as a matter of fact this appearance is deceptive, for the large bone, or “pygostyle” which supports the tail feathers of the adult, is found, in the embryo, to be made up of a series of separate pieces, agreeing in number with those of the tail of the fossil ancestor, Archæopteryx. Each of these separate bones has, in fact, in the course of the ages, been shortened up to the condition of mere discs; and this “telescoping” of the vertebræ has brought the once separated feathers close up, so that their bases lie packed in like the spokes of a fan. As a result, a much more efficient tail for the needs of flight has come into being. And the tail, it must be remembered, plays, especially in some birds, an important part. But this is not all. We have now to consider the wing. In all essentials this agrees with that of living birds. And this agreement is strikingly close when it is compared with the embryonic and early nestling stages. A detailed account of these resemblances, and differences, would be out of place here. Suffice it to say that its closest modern counterparts are to be found in the wing of the nestling of that strange South American bird, the Hoatzin, and the “Game-birds,” such as of a young pheasant, or a young fowl. The evidence these can furnish in this matter of the evolution of the birds wing will be found in [Chapter VI]. For the moment it will be more profitable to discuss the broad outlines of the origin of flight, so far as this is possible.

On this theme there are, as might be supposed, many opinions—some of them bearing little relation to fact.

The feet of Archæopteryx, it is important to remember, bear a very extraordinary likeness to the feet of a “perching” bird, say that of a crow. They are without any semblance of doubt, the feet of a bird which lived in trees. Archæopteryx, then, was an arboreal bird. And this being so, the most reasonable hypothesis of the origin of flight is that it developed out of “gliding” movements, made for the purpose of passing from the topmost branches of one tree to the lower branches of another, after the mode of the “flying-squirrels,” and “flying-lemur” of to-day. The wing, at this primitive stage of its evolution, was even then, probably, a three-fingered limb, provided with a broad fringe of incipient feathers along its hinder border. At this stage the body would have been less bird-like than that of Archæopteryx, and have been still more like that of the ancestral reptilian stock from which the birds have sprung. That feathers are, so to speak, glorified reptilian scales cannot be certainly demonstrated, but men of Science are generally agreed that this was their origin.

By the time that Archæopteryx had come into being, true flight had been arrived at, though probably it could not have been long sustained. As these primitive birds increased in numbers, and spread from the woodlands to the open country, life became more strenuous. New enemies had to be evaded, longer journeys had to be made for food. Only the very best performers on the wing could survive, and thus, in each generation, the failures would be speedily weeded out, while competition among the survivors would raise the standard. We see the result of this “struggle for existence” in the many and varied types of wings, and of flight, which are presented in this book.

Archæopteryx.
Pterodactyles.

[CHAPTER III.]

The Sizes and Shapes of Wings and their relation to Flight.

"… the fowls of heaven have wings,
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight:
* * * * *
Chains tie us down by land and sea."—Wordsworth.

The evasiveness of flight—The size of the wing in relation to that of the body—Noisy flight—“Muffled” flight—The swoop of the sparrow-hawk—The “flighting” of ducks—The autumn gatherings of starlings and swallows—“Soaring” flights of storks and vultures—The wonderful “sailing” feats of the albatross—The “soaring” of the skylark—The “plunging” flight of the gannet, tern, and kingfisher.

W

Who needs to be told that birds fly? So common-place has this fact become that the many, and varied forms of wings, and the peculiarities of flight which are associated with these differences, are rarely perceived. Even sculptors, and artists show a hopeless unfamiliarity with the shapes of wings, and their meanings, at any rate, as a general rule. Look at their attempts to display birds in flight, or in the fanciful use of wings which convention has ascribed to angels. For the most part these superbly beautiful appendages are atrociously rendered.

Yet it must be confessed that any attempt to explain exactly how birds fly must fail. We can do no more than state the more obvious factors which are indispensable to flight, and the nature of its mechanism. The subtleties, and delicate adjustments of actual flight evade us.

Our appreciation, however, of this supreme mode of locomotion will be materially quickened, if we make a point of studying the varied forms of flight as opportunities present themselves.

To begin with, it is worth noting that the size of the wing decreases with the weight of the body to be lifted—up to a certain point, of course. This, perhaps, may seem strange a statement to make. But it can be readily verified. Compare, for example, the size of the body in relation to the wings, in the case of the butterfly and the dragon-fly, on the one hand, and the partridge and the crow, on the other. The two first named, by comparison, have enormous wings.

Birds, it will be noticed, which haunt woods, or thickets, have short, rounded wings, like the wren, the pheasant, or the tawny owl. Such, on the other hand, as live in the open, like the gull, and the swallow, have long, pointed wings. The reason for this is fairly plain. Birds which must steer their course through the intricate mazes of a wood, or thicket, would find their flight seriously hampered by long wings.

Pheasants

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black-game.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brown Owl

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

1 Bat
2 Butterfly
3 Beetle
4 Dragon-Fly
5 Bone of Birds Wing, Showing the three Divisions, Arm—Fore-arm—Hand.
6 Breast Bone of Swan
7 “ ” " Pigeon
8 “ ” " Pelican
9 & 10 Apteryx, Cassowary (degenerate wings).

[CHAPTER IV.]

Modes of Flight.

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

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

W

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wild Duck

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sketches of Ducks in flight 1922

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peregrine chasing Duck.

[CHAPTER V.]

Courtship Flights

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

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

O

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

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

Woodcock carrying Young

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lapwings.

Throughout, this delightful performance is accompanied by a wild and joyous song, which seems to be attuned to the somewhat bleak surroundings. It thrills one even to remember it in later days: and it defies one to express it in human fashion. It has been as nearly rendered as any version I have ever seen—and I have seen many—by Mr. Brock. It is not a whistle, nor is it like any sound that can be faithfully rendered by the human voice, yet it seems to say “whey-willuchooee-willuch-willuch-cooee.” It suffers a break, remarks Mr. Farren, commenting on this theme, during the flutter of the wings at the end of the fall, but is picked up at once with a triumphant “coo-whee, coo-ee,” as the bird dashes off at the end of the somersault.

The lapwing is very intolerant of any trespass on his breeding territory on the part of his neighbours. As soon as the intruder is sighted, the owner of the territory charges. And the two then mount up into the air, often to a great height, each striving to get above the other for a downward swoop. As the one “stoops” at the other, the lower bird dodges, and so rapidly are the wings moved that they are often brought smartly together over the back, producing a clapping noise.

Even the black, forbidding raven has his amorous moods. And at such times he will even outdo the more lively, though irascible lapwing in the art of aerial somersaults; if somersaults they can be called. For in the middle of an ordinary spell of flying he will suddenly fold up his wings and bring them close up to the body, at the same time turning completely round, as though he were turned on a spit; the body being held horizontal as the turn is made. For a moment or two there he is suspended, as it were, between earth and sky, with his back towards earth, and his breast towards the heavens. Lest he should forget the manner of the trick, it would seem, he will practice it at times, during the stern work of chasing intruders from his territory; for he will brook no competitors on his ground.

The woodpigeon, during the courtship season, makes frequent sallies into the air for the purpose, apparently, of giving vent to his exuberant feelings. During such flights he will dart up from the tree-tops and sail round, high above, in great circles, rising and falling as he goes, with out-spread wings, every now and then bringing them over his back with a resounding snap. During such displays the white bar across the wing is most conspicuous, serving at once to identify the performer.

Among our native birds, the only other species which habitually, and especially during the courting season, produce characteristic sounds during flight, by bringing the wings smartly together over the back, is the night-jar. But there are certain small passerine birds, known as mannikins, inhabiting the forests of South America, which have the shafts of the quill-feathers of the fore-arm enormously thickened. By means of these transformed and translated “castenets,” at will, the bird can produce a sound which has been likened to the crack of a whip.

So far this discourse has been concerned solely with “courtship” flights, or flights associated with peculiar sounds, dependent on rapid movements of the wing in mid-air for their production. And with the mention of these instances this Chapter might, quite legitimately, be brought to an end. But it must not. And this, because there are a number of birds which put their wings, during Courtship season, to very different purposes. Spectacular flights and evolutions in mid-air do not appeal to them. They use their wings instead as lures, as a means of adding intensity to strange poses and pirouettings; whereby they desire to give expression to the amorous feelings which possess them, in the hope—if for the moment, we may accord to them human standards of intention—of arousing kindred emotions in their mates.

Darwin was the first to draw attention to these curious displays. Which, on the evidence then available, seemed always to be made, and only to be made, by birds having wings conspicuously coloured. It seemed as though the possessors of such wings were conscious of their beauty, and so displayed them that nothing of their glory should be missed.

The sun-bittern affords a case in point. This bird, a native of Brazil, is soberly, but very beautifully coloured when at rest; its plumage presenting an indescribable mixture of black, grey, brown, bay, and white; blended in the form of spots, bars, and mottlings. But during times of sexual excitement it will spread out its wings in the form of a great fan, encircling the long, slender, neck. And in this position they present a very conspicuous appearance, taking the form of beautifully graded bands of black, white, and bright grey, forming patterns which vanish the moment the primaries fall into their place behind the quills of the fore-arm. But when thus spread the bird seems to find the greatest delight in displaying their chaste splendour before his mate. He seems to spread his wings just because he is conscious of their beauty when thus opened out.

But we need not travel so far as Brazil to find examples of displays of this kind. Among the birds of our own Islands we can find many close parallels. The chaffinch and the goldfinch, when seeking to arouse the sympathy of their mates make much play with their wings, not only in short “nuptial flights,” designed, apparently, to display the conspicuous and brilliant colouring of the plumage as a whole, but when perched on some convenient spray. At such times the wing is more or less completely spread out, as if to reveal, to the fullest possible advantage, the bright bars and splashes of colour which this extension alone can bring into being.

Since these gaily coloured vestments seemed always to be associated with striking, stilted, attitudes, sometimes bordering on the grotesque, and always to be paraded in the presence of the female, Darwin drew the inference that they were the outcome of female choice persistently exercised during long generations. That is to say he held that, far back in the history of the race, these performers were soberly clad, as their mates commonly are. Then certain of the males of these now resplendent species began to develop patches of colour, small at first, but gradually increasing, generation by generation, in area and intensity. This progressive splendour, he believed, was due to the “selective” action of the females, which, from the very first, chose from among their suitors those who stood out among their fellows by reason of their brighter plumage. Thus the duller coloured males died without offspring. On this assumption each succeeding generation would be, in some slight degree, brighter than the last, until the process of transformation ended in the glorified creatures we so admire to-day.

It would be foreign to the purpose of this book to pursue this theme at length. Let it suffice to say that while the “Sexual Selection” theory still holds good, it has, so to speak, changed its complexion. And this largely owing to the accumulation of new facts. For the most important of these we are indebted to the singularly exact and laborious observations analysed, clarified, and interpreted with remarkable insight and sagacity of Mr. H. Eliot Howard, one of the keenest Ornithologists of our time. He has set forth his case, and interpreted his facts with masterly skill, and there seems no escape from his conclusions. Briefly, he has shown that birds of quite sober coloration like the warblers, which formed the basis of his investigations, engage in displays quite as remarkable, and of precisely the same character as in birds of gaily coloured plumage. From this it is clear that this wing-play is not prompted by a more or less conscious desire to display conspicuously coloured patches of colour, for of colour there is none save that of the general hue of varying shades of brown, as in the case of the grasshopper warbler, for example. Nor is the display, apart from colour, to be regarded as a performance slowly perfected through long generations through the selection of females, coy and hard to please. We must regard these “Nuptial flights” and wing-displays, as the outward and visible signs of a state of ecstatic amorousness on the part of the males which, by their persistence and frequent recurrence, at last arouse sympathetic response in the females. They play the part of an aphrodisiac. Without them there would be no mating. In my “Courtship of Animals” those who will may pursue this subject further.

Herons

Before closing this Chapter mention must be made of the most remarkable wing-display to be found among birds, and of the equally remarkable uses to which they are put. The possessor of these wonderful appendages, for they are wonderful, is the argus pheasant of the Malay Peninsula and Borneo. Though efficient for short flights in jungles, all that is ever required of them, they would be quite useless in open country where an extended journey had to be made, or escape attempted from some vigorous enemy. And this because the secondary wing-quills—the quills attached to the fore-arm—are of enormous length, making, as we have remarked, sustained flight impossible. They have, indeed, come dangerously near losing their normal functions altogether. And this because they have passed over into the category of specialised “secondary sexual characters.” But for the fact that this bird lives in an environment where food is abundant all the year round, and can be obtained without any undue exertion, and that there are no serious enemies to be evaded, it would long since have become extinct. For this exuberant growth of quill-feathers must be borne all the year round, though they are not required to function in their later role, save during the period of courtship.

Their great length is not their only striking feature, or even their chief feature. This, indeed, is represented by their extraordinary coloration. For each feather bears along its outer web a series of “ocelli,” so coloured as to look like a series of dull gold balls lying within a deep cup. Outside the ocelli run numerous pale yellow longitudinal stripes on a nearly black background. The inner web is of a delicate greyish brown hue, shading into white and relieved by innumerable black spots, while the tips of the quills have white spots bordered with black. The primaries, too, are most exquisitely coloured, though in the matter of size they are not very exceptional. These, indeed, are the only true flight feathers.

The full beauty and significance of the coloration of these feathers can only be appreciated during periods of display. Then the two wings, in some indescribable manner, are opened out so as to form a huge circular screen, concealing the whole of the rest of the body. The effect produced from the human standpoint is one of great beauty, after the first burst of astonishment has spent itself. His mate is less easily moved. Perchance “familiarity breeds contempt.” At any rate it is only after persistent and frequent attempts to charm her to his will that success rewards him.

Those who have the good fortune to be able to make frequent visits to the Zoological Gardens in London may, with great good fortune, and at rare intervals, have an opportunity of witnessing such a display, and of studying in detail these wonderful wings. They are wonderful, not merely because of the manner of their display, or of their colouring, but also because in them we see ornament pushed to its furthest limit since, as wings, they have become well nigh useless, and therefore almost dangerous to the well-being of their possessors.

Sunbittern Displaying.

[CHAPTER VI.]

How to tell Birds on the Wing.

“I can tell a hawk from a hernshaw.”—Shakespeare.

The small perching-birds and the difficulty of distinguishing them—The wagtails—The finches—The buntings—The redstart-wheatear, Stonechat—The thrushes—The warblers—The tit-mice—The nuthatch, and tree-creeper—The spotted-flycatcher—The red-backed shrike—swallows, martins, and swifts—The night-jar—owls—Woodpeckers.

T

The experienced ornithologist apart, there are hosts of people who are interested, at least, in our native birds: who would fain call them all by name; yet who can distinguish no more than a very few of our commonest species. They are constantly hoping to find some book which will give, in a word, the “Hall-mark” of every bird they may meet in a day’s march. But that book will never be written. For some species present no outstanding features by which they may be certainly identified, when no more than a momentary examination is possible, and this at a distance. And it is often extremely difficult to set down in words, exactly, what are the reasons for deciding that some rapidly retreating form belongs to this, or that, species.

And then, too, there are difficulties due to seasonal changes of plumage—often striking—sex, and age; since immature birds often differ totally from the adults in appearance. The young robin and the starling afford instances in point.

The adult starling, as everybody knows, is “black” with a yellow beak and reddish legs. But seen close at hand his feathers gleam with a wonderful metallic sheen reflecting changing hues of violet, green, and purple. The young bird, in the early summer, is of a pale brown colour. In the autumn the plumage is changed for a “black dress,” like that of the adult, but heavily spotted with white. As the winter wears on the white spots become abraded, and disappear. The robin needs no description. But the young bird, in its first plumage, is commonly mistaken for the female, which, of course, is practically indistinguishable from the male. It is certainly unlike one’s notion of a “cock-robin,” being of a yellowish brown colour, with pale spots, a type of plumage characteristic of the young of the “thrush tribe.”

In some nearly related species, again, the males are strikingly different, the females barely distinguishable.

But nevertheless, a very considerable number of our British birds can be more or less easily distinguished during flight—sometimes by the manner of that flight, sometimes by characteristic markings, sometimes by the notes they utter; and these are briefly summarised in this Chapter.

When it is realized that no less than 475 species, and sub-species, of British birds are now recognized, it will be apparent that it would be impossible to do more than briefly epitomise the commoner species, and some of these, like the robin, and the wren, need no interpreter.

The aim of this Chapter is primarily to give, as far as possible, the salient features of our commoner native birds, as seen during flight. But some species merely “flit,” from one place to another, and that so rapidly that no details of coloration can be distinguished. They can only be examined at favourable, and often fleeting moments, when at rest, and clear of foliage. Only such as are frequently encountered are included here. To attempt more would be to lead to confusion. Enough, it is hoped, will be said to help the beginner. Experience will soon lead to an ever increasing proficiency—and with this will come an ever increasing conviction that the identification of birds, during flight, is an extremely difficult task. Whoever essays it should, whenever possible, supplement his efforts by the aid of a pair of good field-glasses. These, indeed, are indispensable.

The small perching birds are, perhaps, the most difficult to name at sight, and this because their flight presents so little to distinguish one species from another. All fly with rapid wing-beats, alternating with a period during which the wings are practically closed, causing the body to travel forward on a rapidly descending curve in the interval between the wing-beats. This gives rise to what is known as an “undulating” flight. But the large passerines, like the crows, differ conspicuously in their method of progress. With them the wing beats relatively slowly, so that its shape can be readily seen; and their course is direct—hence the familiar saying “straight as the crow flies.” Further, the inner webs of the outer primary quills are, what is called “emarginate,” that is to say, the width of the web is suddenly reduced towards the tip of the feather, so that the outstretched wing has a conspicuously fringed appearance, as may be seen at a glance at the beautiful pen-and-ink sketches on another page. The eagles and falcons have similar emarginations.

But to return for a moment to the smaller passerines. There are very few of our native species which could be distinguished in the field by their flight alone. For the most part one has to rely on this and clues afforded by characteristic markings: while a further aid is afforded by at least a slight knowledge of the haunts of birds. One would not expect to find a wheatear in a wood, or a wren in a reed-bed.

The wagtails are among the easiest of the “undulating” fliers to distinguish, if only because of the great length of the tail. The pied-wagtail, with its black and white plumage—or black, grey, and white in the winter—can be identified at a glance. And so too, may the yellow, and the grey wagtails. The last named has the longest tail of all, and is further marked by his beautiful grey back and bright sulphur abdomen and under tail coverts. All have white feathers in the tail. The pipits and skylark, like the wagtails, have very long inner secondaries, but they can never be confused on this account. They can never be mistaken for wagtails, but on the other hand, the several species can be distinguished, when on the wing, only by long practice.

The chaffinch, greenfinch, and goldfinch are with us all the year round, keeping each to his favourite haunts. Most people know them well. But one meets even people living in the heart of the country, who cannot call them by name! The cock chaffinch can be distinguished at once by its white “shoulders,” and white bars across the wing, apart from the bright hues of the body, so well shown in the adjoining Plate. The hen has similar wing-marks, but lacks the bright colours of her lord. His cousin, the brambling—who comes to us in the winter—is just as easily identified by his orange-coloured shoulder patch—in place of white—and white rump, which is most conspicuous during flight. The greenfinch is marked, when in flight, by the yellow rump and bright yellow patches at the base of the tail feathers. Who could mistake the goldfinch for any one else but himself? He looks like a butterfly as he flutters about on the tops of tall thistles. The crimson and black bands on his head, the glorious blaze of gold on his black wings, which are further marked with white spots, as also is his tail, make him the most gorgeous of our native finches. The bullfinch, again, is easy to distinguish; though from his habit of haunting thickets and dense hedgerows, he is seldom seen. In flight you may know him by his white rump, rosy breast, and black head. But his mate is more soberly clad: though her black head and white rump, will suffice to make sure of her when, by good fortune, she is encountered.

One of the commonest of what we may call “road-side” birds, is the yellow-hammer; which can be recognized at once by the bright yellow colour of its head. As soon as it takes to flight the white feathers in the tail, and the chestnut rump will make assurance doubly sure. But in some parts of England one meets with another, and similar species—the cirl bunting. In this species, however, the male has a black throat and ear-coverts, and an olive-grey chest-band; while the female, lacking these distinctive marks, may be recognized by a brown, instead of a chestnut rump. When in the neighbourhood of swampy places and reed-beds, a look-out must be kept for the reed-bunting. A small bird with a black head and throat, and white collar, this is the male. The female will display a brown head, buff throat and eye-brow, and white outer tail feathers. In the winter time, near the sea, one may frequently come across the snow-bunting, which, on the wing, will at once attract attention by the large areas of white displayed in the wing and tail.

Chaffinch and Young

The redstart, one of our summer visitors, is a bird which can never be mistaken. A sight of the russet-red tail alone suffices. But the cock has the further glory of a mantle of grey, a black head and russet under parts. He is fond of country rich in old timber, or hill-sides, where stone walls attract him. His kinsman, the wheatear, returns to us in the early spring; to give an added charm to our bare hill-sides, and warrens, sea-cliffs, sand-dunes, and waste places. If you see a small bird flying low over the ground, with a white rump, and black wings, you may know that the wheatear is before you. That delightful, restless little bird, the stonechat, is a near relation of the wheatear. He too, is fond of waste places, and heaths; more especially such as will provide him with plenty of furze bushes, or ling, on the topmost twigs of which he loves to perch, flitting his tail and uttering his fussy little notes “hweet-chat, hweet-chat.” On the wing you may tell him by his conspicuous white wing-patch, and the broad blaze of white on his neck, set off by a jet-black head. The female and young lack the bright chestnut on the breast. The stone-chat’s cousin, the whinchat, may be found in similar situations, but he is of a more roving disposition, and may be found also in lowland pasture and water-meadows. More slender in form, he is further to be distinguished by the dark streaks down his back, white-eye stripe, and greater amount of white at the base of the tail. Further, there is no white neck patch.

Most people know the common thrush and the blackbird when they see them, and many country-folk, indeed, recognize no more. Yet there are five species in all, which may be called “common.” They are to be distinguished, not so much by their flight, as by their general coloration. Neither the common thrush, nor the blackbird need be described here: they cannot easily be confounded with any other bird. But for the moment it might be possible, it is true, to mistake the mistle thrush for the more common song-thrush. It is, however, an unmistakably larger bird, and when on the wing appears greyer, and if seen at close quarters, shows white tips to the outermost tail-feathers, and a white underwing. On the ground, of course, there can be no mistaking it, on account of its much more spotted breast; the spots, too, being much larger, and fan-shaped. During the autumn and winter there are two other thrushes which should be looked for. These are the fieldfare and the red-wing. The first-named, it is to be noted, will be found in small flocks, and if examined on the ground through field-glasses will be seen to have a slate-grey neck and rump, and chestnut-brown wings and tail; while the breast is streaked instead of spotted. In flight the underwing is white, as in the mistle-thrush, from which it can easily be distinguished by its smaller size, and the absence of white on its tail. The red-wing, like the fieldfare, is gregarious. This is an important point to bear in mind; since it might otherwise be confused, by the novice, with the song-thrush, the two being about the same size. But seen at rest, close quarters, there can be no mistake; the red-wing having a conspicuous cream-coloured eye-stripe, and chestnut-red flank-feathers. The underwing is similarly coloured. Finally there is the ring-ousel, which, haunts the moorlands and rocky ravines. But it may be recognized at once by its conspicuous white gorget, contrasted with its otherwise black plumage.

Of the forty species of British warblers there is not one which the most expert of our Ornithologists would venture to identify by the character of the flight alone. Most of these species, of course, are rare and accidental visitors; many need an expert to distinguish them, since they represent but Continental Races of our own summer visitors. About ten species can be called common, or fairly common, in suitable localities, and the novice must not expect to recognize even these with anything like certainty. They have no characteristic flight, and they rarely do more than “flit” from one place to another. In the pages of this book, then, they can rightly have no place. But some may, perhaps, be glad of a few notes concerning one or two of the commoner species. The black-cap, for example, may be readily distinguished by its grey plumage contrasting with a black cap—reddish brown—in the female. It has also a peculiarly delightful song, which some prefer to that of the nightingale. This, the most celebrated of all our warblers—though for some inscrutable reason some ornithologists appear to regard it as a near ally of the redstarts and robin!—frequents woods with thick undergrowth and tangled hedgerows, and hence, is seldom seen, but may be recognised by the uniform russet-brown coloration of its upper parts, shading into pale chestnut on the tail, and the ash-grey of the under parts, shading into white on the throat and abdomen. The whitethroat may be recognized by the fine white ring round the eye, grey head, brown upper parts, and buffish pink breast, set off by the conspicuous white throat, from which the bird derives its name. It is perhaps the only British warbler which can really be distinguished during flight, and this only because the outermost pair of tail feathers are almost wholly white. It may be looked for in hedges and thickets, as well as on gorse-covered commons. Its near relation, the lesser-whitethroat, differs in its smaller size, whiter under parts, and the absence of the rufous edges to the secondaries, which are one of the distinguishing features of the common whitethroat. The garden-warbler is much more frequently heard than seen, its song, a continuous, sweet, and mellow warble, rivalling that of the black-cap, though softer and less varied. Haunting shrubberies and gardens, it is yet the mere ghost of a bird, its uniform brown upper parts, and brownish-buff under-parts, coupled with its shy, retiring disposition make it exceedingly difficult to see. Three other tantalizing little members of this numerous tribe are the chiff-chaff, willow-warbler, and wood-warbler. Tantalizing because so frequently seen during the summer months, so much alike, and yet, somehow, different. The novice has no name for them; the expert can only tell them by a combination of characters, and their contrasts. He is guided rather by their notes and habits, than by their appearance, so closely do they resemble one another! The chiff-chaff, as its name suggests, is to be identified by its song—Chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff, chiff, chiff-chaff-chiff—uttered from the top of a high tree. The singer is too small to be seen, so that he who would discover what manner of bird is the songster, must watch in the direction of the sound, till the singer elects to descend. The willow-warbler is a rather larger bird with a tinge of yellow in his plumage. Also it is less restricted to woods and coppices, and has a sweet, indescribable warble. The wood-warbler is the largest of this trio—from the tip of his beak to the tip of his tail he may measure as much as five inches—and is also the most brightly coloured. Above he is greenish, with an eye-brow of sulphur-yellow, and a sulphur-yellow breast and throat. Since he is rarely to be found, save in woods of beech and oak, he will, on this account, the more easily be distinguished from his cousin, the chiff-chaff and the willow-warbler. This fact again, can be taken into account when the identity of one or other of these two is in question.

The warblers are essentially birds of the country-side—they cannot abide the busy haunts of men, who seem unable to settle anywhere without setting up hideous tramways and ugly buildings. Kindly Nature is crowded out. The garden, hedgerow, and shady woods are the chosen haunts of the warblers, though some prefer the reed-grown stream, or the thickets round quiet pools. The reed and the sedge-warbler will be found here, but by no means easily so, for after the manner of their tribe they love seclusion. To find the reed-warbler you must go to reed-beds, or to osier-beds, and there watch for a little bird, chestnut-brown above, and white below. But for his constantly babbling chatter—“churra, churra, churra”—you would never, probably, find him. Guided, however, by his song, you may succeed in finding him nimbly climbing up and down the reed stems. Very like him is the rarer marsh-warbler: but, for your guidance, note that the marsh warbler has a really melodious song, and is even more likely to be found in swampy thickets of meadow-sweet than the reed-beds. The sedge-warbler, though showing a decided preference for streams fringed by osier-beds and thickets, is more of a wanderer than the other two, since tangled hedgerows, and thickets, at a distance from the water will often suffice him. You may know him by the fact that he is of a dark brown colour above, streaked with a paler shade of brown, while the under parts are white, tinged on the breast and flanks with creamy buff.

Ornithologists rarely concern themselves with anything but the superficial characters of birds. Not even the structure of the feathers interests them, but only their coloration. Hence it is that they have come, quite commonly, to regard the gold-crest, or “gold-crested wren,” as it is sometimes called, as one of the tit-mouse group! There is not even the remotest justification for this view. It is an indubitable warbler. A glance at the coloured Plate will render any description of its appearance unnecessary. From autumn to spring you may find it in most parts of England and Scotland—save the extreme north—hunting in hedgerows and woods for food. During the breeding season it favours coniferous woods. Along the south and east of England, one may also meet with a closely similar species—the fire-crest. But while in the gold-crest the crown is of a bright lemon-yellow, in the fire-crest it is of a bright red-orange hue, while the side of the head is marked by a white stripe bordered with black.

The gold-crest is our smallest British bird. The ranks of our resident “gold-crests,” in the autumn, are swollen by immigrants from northern Europe, who seek shelter with us because unable to withstand the rigours of the more northern winter. In the matter of size the gold, and fire-crested wrens agree, measuring but a trifle more than three and a half inches from the tip of the beak to the tip of the tail! By the way, the shape of the beak should be carefully noted. It is that of a typical warbler.

It may be urged that this description of the warblers might well have been omitted from these pages, since, in regard to “Flight,” nothing whatever can be said, save that they “fly.” There would indeed, be some justification for such criticism, but it is to be remembered that this volume is written, not for the expert, but for the novice, who, because he needs a few concrete examples of the hopelessness of expecting to identify every bird he may encounter by its flight, and of the methods he must occasionally adopt, when seeking to name a bird which will not come out into the open. His course of training, and discovery, will be much shortened by the realization that birds by no means always reveal their presence by taking long flights.

What is true of the warblers, in this regard, is true also of our numerous species of tit-mice. We do not distinguish between them in the field by their flight, but by their coloration.

But since these are such confiding little birds, coming to our very windows during the winter months, for food, a few notes concerning them may be acceptable. The commonest of all is the little blue-tit, or “tom-tit,” as it is so often called. Its beautiful cobalt-blue crown, blue back, wings, and tail, white face, and yellow breast, are familiar to us all. Its larger relative, the great tit-mouse—the largest British tit-mouse—bears a close general resemblance to the smaller species, but is readily distinguished, not only by its greater size, but by the broad band of black running down the abdomen. Its flight, as of all the tit-mice, is weak, and as it were, uncertain, confined to short passages from tree to tree. The coal tit-mouse and the marsh tit-mouse are seldom recognized as distinct species, by the novice. They are very soberly coloured little birds, the coal-tit being of an olive-grey, tinged with olive-buff, while the sides of the body are buff: the head and throat are black, relieved by a broad patch of white on each side and down the nape of the neck. The marsh-tit is, to all intents and purposes, of the same coloration, but differs conspicuously in lacking the white patches. The tiny longtailed-titmouse cannot possibly be mistaken for any other bird. Its delicate hues of pink and grey, and extremely long tail, make comparisons with any other species unnecessary.

Where, during the winter, small birds are tempted to come to a tray of nuts and seeds, placed outside the window, that charming little bird the nuthatch—a near relation of the tit-mice—will commonly be among the guests. It cannot be mistaken for any other British bird, its form and coloration being, alike, distinctive. Its upper parts are of a delicate blue-grey, its under parts buff, passing into chestnut on the flanks. The throat is white, while there is a black line from the beak to the eye, and beyond, spreading as it goes. A relatively large beak, and strikingly short tail, are features as conspicuous as is the coloration. Its flight is slow and undulating.

Another little bird which, during the winter, associates with the tit-mice, is the tree-creeper. It is never seen on the wing, save when it is flitting from one tree to another, and then its course is obliquely downwards—from the upper branches of one tree to the base of another. This it proceeds to ascend immediately on alighting, by jerky leaps. Its coloration is soberness itself—mottled brown above and silvery white below. The tail, it is to be noted, is formed of stiff, pointed feathers, like those of the woodpecker, and, as in that bird, is used in climbing.

There is scarcely a garden—save in such as are within the area of a big town—which, during the summer, is not haunted by a little grey and white bird, with a most characteristic flight—a sudden sally into the air to seize some insect, sometimes even white butterflies, and an instant return to the same perch. This is the spotted flycatcher. In Wales, Devonshire, Cumberland, and Westmorland, one may be fairly sure of meeting with the pied-flycatcher. He is, so to speak, a black and white edition of his relative, the spotted flycatcher—but the black areas in the female are represented by brown. There are, however, notable differences in the method of hunting, in the two species; for the pied-flycatcher rarely returns to the same perch after his upward flight into the air, and he often feeds on the ground.

Gold Crested Wrens

In the straggling hedgerows of the wooded districts of south and central England, and in Wales, one may often come across the red-backed shrike; a very handsome bird, with pointed wings, long tail, and low swooping flights. His red back will alone distinguish him. No other British bird wears such a mantle. And this is set off by a grey crown and nape, and black patches on the sides of the head. The topmost twig of a bush, or hedge, where he can sight his prey from afar, are his favourite perches. On the east coast of England, during the autumn, one may sometimes see the great-grey shrike, distinguished readily by his large size, fan-shaped tail, and grey coloration, relieved by black ear-coverts, black wings and tail, “blazed” with white, and white under-parts. His flight is undulating and irregular, while just before alighting he gives a peculiar upward sweep.

Strangely enough, not only country boys and girls, but their fathers and mothers, not only confuse swallows and martins with one another, but these with the swift! Yet they are readily distinguishable. All, it is true, have long, pointed wings, and forked tails: but their coloration is very different. The swallow has the most deeply forked tail of them all, and his steel-blue back, red throat, and rufous buff-and-cream under parts are unmistakable identification marks. The martin may be distinguished at once by the conspicuous white rump patch, and pure white under-parts. These are the signs by which they may be recognized when on the wing—and they are more often seen thus than at rest. The sand-martin is a much smaller bird, has a less markedly forked tail, and is of a uniform pale brown above, and white below, but with a brown band across the chest. The swift is not even related to the swallow-tribe. On the wing—and very few people ever see him otherwise—he is very different. The wing-beat is extremely rapid and intermittent. While in its shape the wing differs in its extreme length and narrowness. The flight is extremely swift—hence the name of the bird. Not its least impressive feature is its wonderful flexibility. Who has not watched, with delight, a troop of these birds sweeping down the village street, now skimming the ground, now sweeping upward and away, round the church tower, accompanied by wild, exultant screams, as though they were bubbling over with vitality. When high up they look like so many animated bows and arrows—the arrows being, perhaps, somewhat short and thick. The swift, it is worth remembering, is a near kinsman of the humming-bird, which also has a long narrow wing. Both alike agree in this peculiarity—an upper arm bone of excessive shortness, and a hand of excessive length. No other birds approach them in this. The only other bird which has wings quite so ribbon-like, when extended, is the albatross—one of our rarest British birds. But here the proportions of the wing are reversed, for the upper arm bone is of great length, while the hand is relatively short.

There is something inexpressibly soothing about the twilight of a summer’s evening. Most birds are abed. The swift can be heard high up, the “woolly bats, with beady eyes” are silently flitting all round one, turning and twisting as no bird ever turns. But for the chorus of the swifts, like black furies, and heard only at intervals, and faintly, all is silence, relieved, perchance, by the drowsy hum of a blundering dor-beetle. Then, suddenly, if one be near some gorse, or bracken covered common, the stillness is broken by a strange “churring,” like a bubbling whistle, rising and falling in volume. This may be followed by a loud "clap". And yet the source of these strange notes cannot be located, nor can any living thing be seen to which they could be attributed. But keep careful watch. Presently there may emerge from the gathering gloom a long-winged, long-tailed bird, travelling at speed, with a twisting flight, and deliberate wing-beats, alternating with long glide on motionless pinions. As it passes one may notice white spots on wings and tail. This is the night-jar: a bird of ill omen among the aged inhabitants of the country-side, for they will assure you that it is guilty of sucking the milk of cows and goats. Hence, it is commonly known as the “goatsucker.” Poor bird, it is quite innocent of such misdeeds, for though it has an enormous mouth, armed on either side with long bristles, it feeds only on moths and beetles.

If you are fortunate, your vigil in the gloaming may be rewarded by a sight of yet other night-birds. Out of some hollow tree, or swooping round the barn, may come a ghostly form, borne on absolutely silent wings: but with a reeling, bouyant flight, which is unmistakable—this is the barn owl. If you are very fortunate, you may hear its blood-curdling screech. Once heard you will never forget it! His cousin, the tawny owl, it is whose musical, if doleful “hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-o” has so commonly been misrepresented by poets—and others—as “to-whit-tu-woo.” Its flight is slower and its wings rounder than in the barn owl, and furthermore, it lacks the glistening satin-white under-parts of that bird. But its coloration and general appearance are well-shown in the coloured illustration.

The other species of owls we may reckon as fairly common residents with us. They are the long and the short-eared owls. But they are very rarely to be seen on the wing in daylight. Each has the habit, when excited, of bringing the wings together smartly over the back, so as to produce a sound likened by some to the word “bock.”

Few birds have figured so largely in our literature, perhaps, as the cuckoo. Though heard by all, he is seen by few: and this because so many people fail to recognize the charming wastrel when they see him. In general appearance he recalls the sparrow-hawk. I have known even game-keepers confuse the two. But the cuckoo is much paler on the back, and the bars of the breast are finer. On the wing he is much slower than the sparrow-hawk; his wings are shorter, and his tail is tipped with white. Immature birds may be recognized by their clove-brown coloration, and a large white patch at the nape of the neck.

One of the most brilliantly coloured of all our native birds is the kingfisher. Small streams and quiet pools are its favourite haunts. A glance will suffice to identify it at close quarters, but even if one catches sight of its fleeting form at too great a distance to see its wonderful coloration, it can be distinguished by its extremely rapid and direct flight, and curiously shuttle-shaped form: an appearance due to the shortness of its tail, as may be seen by a reference to the excellent coloured Plate.

The identification of birds in flight will be rendered easier for the novice if he makes a practice of “expecting” to find particular birds in particular places. That is to say, the haunts of birds are governed by their stomachs—they must not stray far from the source of their food. In a wood, then, you may “expect” to find woodpeckers—though you will often be disappointed, for they are by no means always to be seen. But the task of identification will be easier if one has a mental picture ready of the birds appropriate to the place.

The green woodpecker, our largest native species, often betrays itself by its remarkable cry, reminiscent of a laugh—“ha, ha, ha,” and “pleu, pleu, pleu.” Keep quite still, and presently, as likely as not, it will suddenly make its appearance with a rapid, undulating flight. As it alights on some neighbouring tree-trunk, its identity will be finally established by its green back and wings, yellow rump, and crimson crown. It ascends the tree by jerky leaps. Where ant-hills abound it may often be seen on the ground, moving about with awkward hops, exploring the hills for ants. The greater and lesser spotted woodpecker may also sometimes be seen here, especially if there is much old timber about. In spring its presence is often made known by a peculiar drumming sound—never forgotten when once heard—made by excessively rapid blows with its beak on the trunk, or branch of a tree. On the wing it may be recognized by its “dipping” flight, and strikingly piebald appearance. At close quarters the strongly contrasted black and white plumage is relieved by crimson undertail-coverts, and a crimson crown. The lesser-spotted woodpecker is a much smaller bird—about the size of a sparrow, or chaffinch—and is barred with black and white; there is a patch of crimson on the head of the male. It has a habit of keeping more to the upper branches of the tree than the other species: but, like its greater cousin, it “drums” on the tree during the spring, but less loudly. Its spring cry, “pee-pee-pee,” is like that of the wryneck. This is a near relation of the woodpeckers, but very different in coloration, being beautifully mottled and vermiculated with grey and brown. But for its spring cry, just alluded to, it would escape notice altogether, so closely does it match the bough it is perched upon. Unlike the woodpeckers its tail-feathers are not developed to form stiff, pointed spines. This is accounted for by the fact that, though it ascends tree-trunks readily, it does not hammer at the bark with its beak, and so does not need stiff tail-feathers to afford leverage. Its flight is slow and hesitating. It is commonest, it may be remarked, on the south-east of England.

Great Spotted Woodpeckers

Drumming Snipe.