 CHAPTER 10 OF BIRDS IN THE CALENDAR Music, vocal or otherwise, is always a matter of taste, and individual appreciation of birdsong varies like the rest. One man finds the cuckoo's cry intolerably wearism. Another sees no romance in the gargling of doves, while comparatively few care for the piercing scream of the starling or the rasping note of the corn-crake. Yet few birds perform to a more hostile audience than the owl. I say, advisedly, the owl, since the vast majority of people make no distinction whatever between our three resident kinds of owl, not to mention at least half a dozen more visitors. Some excuse for such carelessness might perhaps be found in the similar flight and habits of different owls, but it might have been thought that greater measure of individual recognition on their own merits would have been conceded to birds that range in size from the dimensions of a sparrow to those of a duck. But no, an owl is just an owl. Why the soft and haunting cry of these birds should not merely displease but actually alarm so many people, unaccustomed to such sounds of the gloaming and darkness, it would be difficult to say. But the voice of owls may possibly owe some of its disturbing effect to contrast with their silent flight, which, thanks to their fluffy plumage, with its broad quills and long barbs, prevents their making much more noise than ghosts when hunting rats and mice in moonlit fields. Only one other English bird has so quiet a flight, and that is the nightjar, another creature of the darkness, which, though no cousin to these nocturnal birds of prey, is known in some parts of the country as the fern owl. Visitors unprepared for the eerie woodland music of these autumn nights shudder when they hear the cry of the owl, as if it suggested midnight crime. For myself I have more agreeable associations, since I never hear one of these birds without recalling a gallant fight I once had with a big tweed salmon in the weak light of a young moon, while three owls hooted amid the ghostly ruins of Norum Castle. Yet even apart from this wholly agreeable memory I find nothing unpleasant in their music, and can readily conceive that the moping owl may sing to his mate as passionately as Philomel. Not only is there the popular lack of distinction between one owl and another already referred to, but scientific ornithologists have displayed similar want of finality in classifying these birds. There are, as in seals, eared and earless owls, though the so-called ears in the birds are not actually ears at all, but tufts of feathers that give rather the impression of horns. There are bare-legged owls and owls with feather stockings. There are owls that fly by day and owls that fly by night, though this is a less satisfactory distinction than that between the diurnal butterflies and nocturnal moths. Any reliable classification of owls must, in short, rest on certain structural bony differences of interest only to the student of anatomy. Nearly all these birds are able to turn the outer toe completely round, and most of them also have very keen hearing, which must be an invaluable aid when hunting small animals in the dark. Did the ancients actually regard the owl as a wise bird, or was the fashion of depicting it in the following of Minerva merely dictated by the presence of these birds on the Acropolis? It seems hardly conceivable that they could so have blundered as to call the owls that we know clever birds, and the alternative assumption that owlish intellect can have appreciably changed in the interval is even less acceptable. It is probable that too much significance need not be attached to such association between the Greek goddess of wisdom and her attendant owls. For Hindu symbolism represented Ganesa, god of wisdom, with the head of an elephant, yet that animal which the natives of India know better than the men of any other race, has never figured in their folklore as a type noted for its cunning. About the owl as we know it today, with its spectacled face and blinking eyes, there is nothing strikingly intelligent, and schoolboy slang in which the word does duty as synonymous with foolishness, discovers a more accurate appreciation of these birds. Seen at its worst when surprised in the glare of daylight, and mobbed by a furious rabble of little birds, an owl looks a helpless fool indeed, though this is not the proper moment to judge of the bird's possibilities under happier circumstances. Why these small fouls should bully it at all is one of those woodland problems that no one has yet solved. The first and obvious explanation is that they know it for their enemy, and it may be indeed that owls commit depredations on the nests of wild birds, of which we, who academically regard their food as consisting of rats, bats and mice, or in the case of larger species of young game and leverettes, have no inkling. If however such is the case, it is strange that the habit should have been overlooked by those who have paid close attention to this curious and interesting group. Bird catches at any rate without troubling to inquire into the reason, turn the instinct to profitable account, and in some parts of the country a stuffed owl is an important item of their stock in trade. The majority of owls that either reside in or visit these islands are benefactors of the farmer and should be spared. The larger eagle owl and snowy owl eat more expensive food, though seeing that they come to us, at any rate in the south country, only in winter, and even then irregularly, they can do no damage to young game birds, and are probably incapable of capturing old. The worst offender among the residents is the tawny owl, to which I find the following reference in the famous Marmsbury manuscripts. Common here, a great destroyer of young game and leverettes, they sit in ivy bushes during the day, and I have known one remain, although its mate was killed, in the same tree, in such a state of torpor did it appear to be. The screech owl is a harmless bird and a terror to mice, and any doubt as to its claim on the farmer's hospitality would at once be removed by cursory examination of the undigested pellets, which, in common with hawks, these birds cast up after their meals. On the other hand there is sometimes good reason for modifying any plea for kindness to owls. Handsome is, as handsome does, and many of these birds are during the nesting season not only savage in defence of their young, but actually so aggressive as to make unprovoked attack on all and sundry, who unwittingly approach closer to the tree than these devoted householders think desirable. Accounts of this troublesome mood in nesting owls come from several parts of the country, and notably from Wales. In one case on record a pair of barn owls had their home in a tree overlooking Milford Haven, and the vicinity of the nest soon became dangerous. The male owl tore a boy's ear, knocked a man down, and attacked numerous human beings and dogs that made use of a path leading past the tree. And these episodes were in fact of daily occurrence, until someone shot the bird. Another pair of barn owls nested in a wood on the shore of Menai Strait, and in this case the young birds managed to fall out of the nest and lay on the ground in full view of a public right of way. Why the old birds did not put their offspring back in the nest no one knew. Possibly they realised that the talons, which so efficiently gripped rats, might not prove gentle enough for the transport of owlets. At any rate, whatever their reason, they left the young birds on the ground, feeding them in that position, and flew at every one who passed that way, clawing face and ears, and eventually establishing a reign of terror. Another owl behaved in somewhat similar fashion in a spinny close to Axmouth, South Devon, punishing a coastguard so severely that the man took to his heels. Such determined tactics in defence of the young are the more singular when we remember that owls are, in normal circumstances, shy and retiring birds. Yet they occasionally seem to be possessed by more sociable instincts, in proof of which one of the long-eared kind has been seen feeding in the company of tame hawks. A pair of owls once nested in a dove-cut close to a keeper's lodge in the Highlands, and wild owls have been known to pay nightly visits to a cage in the Botanic Gardens at Launston, Tasmania, in order to bring food to their captive friends. Even apart from these rigorous measures of defence, the nesting habits of owls are not without interest. The majority lay their eggs in either hollow trees or ruins, and it is worth remark that these nocturnal birds bring up their young in darkness, whereas the hawks, birds of daylight, rear theirs in open nests, high up in trees or on rocky ledges in the full glare of the sun. One owl indeed habitually burrows in the prairies and pampers, in the curious company of marmots and rattlesnakes, and this burrowing habit is also, in some parts of the United States, adopted by the common barn owl. Owls generally brood from the laying of the first egg, with the obvious result that young birds in various stages of plumage are found together in the nest. It has been suggested that the body of the first to leave the egg helps to keep the unhatched eggs warm, while the parents are away foraging, else its presence would be a serious handicap. The first little owl to hatch out is usually ready to leave the nest soon after the arrival of the last, though these chicks come into hold more helpless even than the majority of birds. End of Chapter 10 Recording by Ruth Golding Chapter 11 of Birds in the Calendar This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ruth Golding Birds in the Calendar by Frederick G. Aflalo November, Waterfowl Had these notes been written from the standpoint of sport, the three familiar groups of birds, which together make up this worldwide aquatic family, might better have borne their alternative title, Wildfowl, with its covert sneer at the hand-reared pheasant, and artificially encouraged partridge, that between them furnish so much comfortable sport to those with no tendency for the arduous business of the mud-flats. It is true that of late years the mallard has, in experienced hands, made a welcome addition to the bag in covert shooting, as those will remember who have shot the Lockwood beat on the last day of the shoot at Noonam, and there is historic evidence of wild duck having been reared for purposes of sport with hawks, in the reign of Charles I. Yet such armchair shooting of Wildfowl was ignored by Colonel Hawker, and the second Earl of Marmsbury, both of whom gunning in the creeks and estuaries of the south coast, made immense bags of ducks and geese, working hard for every bird, and displaying spartan indifference to the rigours of wintry weather. To hardy sportsmen of their type Wildfowl offer red-lettered days with punt or shoulder guns, not to be dreamt of under the aegis of the game-keeper. In this country, at any rate, we associate the V-shaped companies of Wigeon and Gaggles of Geese with an ice-bound landscape, though in exceptional years, even where they no longer stay to breed, these night-flying northerners linger to the coming of spring, and Hawker noticed the curious apparition of grey geese and swallows in company on the first day of April, 1839. This wedge-formation of flight over land and sea is not only peculiar to these Wildfowl, but is not apparently adopted by any other long-distance migrants. No satisfactory explanation of their preference for flying in this order has been found, but it is thought to lessen the air-resistance, which must be a consideration for these short-pinion foul that weigh heavy in proportion to their displacement, and at the same time lack the tremendous speed of wing that enables the wandering albatross to soar for days together over the illimitable ocean. With one noticeable exception, these water-fowl exhibit a more extraordinary range of size and weight than any other family of birds, from the Hooper Swan, five feet long and twenty-five pounds on the scales, down to the Little Teal, with an overall measurement of only fourteen inches, and a weight that does not exceed as many ounces. The only other family of birds running to such extremes is that of the Birds of Glory, which include at once the stately condor of the Andes, with its wing-spread of fifteen feet, and the miniature red-legged fork in it of India and adjoining countries in which the same measurement would scarcely reach as many inches. Since even game-birds are derisively referred to as tame only by those ignorant of the birds, the birds now, under notice, differ in this respect from all those previously dealt with, and they are geographically apart, again, from our other domesticated animals, since they are not, like the barn-door-fowl and most of the rest, of Asiatic origin, but must often, in the grey of a winter morning, be conscious of their near-relations flying at liberty across the sky. The geese and ducks have been remarkably transformed by the process of domestication, and a comparison between those of the farmyard and their kindred in the marshes should illustrate not only the relative value of most virtues, but also the all-importance of Aristotle's how, when, and where. Strictly speaking, no doubt, the tame birds have degenerated both mentally and physically as surely as the tame ass. They have lost the acute perceptions and swift flight of their wild relations. Economically, on the other hand, they are immeasurably improved, since the farmer, indifferent to the more inspiring personality of the grey goose and the mallard, merely wants his poultry to be greedy and stupid, fattening themselves incessantly for ledden-hall and easily captured when required. Between swans, geese and ducks, there is little anatomical difference, save in the matter of size. The swans are the giants of the race, and the swans of three continents are white. It was left for Australia, land of topsy-turvydom, to produce a black swan. I spare the reader the obvious classical tag. This remarkable bird, first observed by Europeans in the early days of 1697, was quickly brought to Europe, and figures in the earliest list of animals shown in the London Zoological Gardens. All these birds have a curious trick of hissing when angry, and this habit, perhaps because it is usually accompanied by a deliberate stretching of the neck to its full length, is seriously regarded by some as conscious mimicry of snakes, a proposition that must be left to individual taste, but that strikes me as somewhat far-fetched. At any rate it gives to these birds a formidable air, and though the current belief in its power of breaking a man's arm with a blow from its wing is probably unwarranted, an angry swan disturbed on its nest is an awesome apparition, of which I have twice taken hurried leave. On the first occasion I had nothing but a valuable camera with me, and it was, in fact, after a futile attempt to photograph the bird on the nest, that I was moved to seek the boat and push off from the little island in the upper Thames on which it had its home. The other encounter was on a Devonshire trout-stream, and my only weapon was a fragile trout-rod. The certainty that discretion is, under these circumstances, the better part of valour, is emphasised by the knowledge that any violence to the bird would probably lead to a prosecution. Even the smaller geese can inspire fear when they dash hissing at intruders, hence no doubt the nursemaid's favourite reproach of children too frightened to say boo to a goose, an expression made classical by Swift. The majority of these waterfowl are insectivorous in the nursery stage, and vegetarian when full grown. Fish forms an inappreciable portion of their food, with the two notorious exceptions of the Goosander and Maganza, though anglers are much exercised over the damage, real or alleged, done by these birds to their favourite roach and dace in the Thames. These swans belong for the most part to either the crown or the dyers and vintners' companies, and the practice of upings, which consists in marking the beaks of adult birds and pinioning the signets, is still, though shorn of some of its former ceremonial, observed sometime during the month of June. Swans, like both of the other groups, are distinguished by a separate name for either sex, pen and cob for the swan, gander and goose, drake and duck. And the figurative use of some of these terms, in such popular sayings as making ducks and drakes of money, sauce for the goose, etc., is too familiar to call for more than passing mention. Nearly all these waterfowl, though seen on dry land to much the same disadvantage as fish out of water, are exceedingly graceful in either air or water, though not all ducks are as capable of diving as the name would imply. The proverbial futility of a wild goose-chase recognizes the pace of these birds on the wing, which, though in common with that of some other birds popularly exaggerated, is considerably faster than owing to their short wings and heavy build, might appear to the careless observer. Ducks have a curious habit of adding down to the nest after the eggs are laid and before incubation. And this provision of warm packing is turned to account in Iceland and other breeding places of the ida-duck, commercially the most valuable of all ducks. The nest is robbed of this down once, before the eggs hatch out, with the result that the female plucks another store from her own breast, supplemented if necessary from the body of the drake. The sitting bird is then left in peace till the nest has fulfilled its purpose, when the remaining down is likewise removed. This down, which combines warmth and lightness, gives a high market value to the ida, which throughout Scandinavian countries is strictly protected by law, and even more effectively by public opinion. The majority of ornamental ducks interbreed freely in captivity. Those who apparently on reliable evidence, distinguished between the polygamous habit in tame ducks, and the constancy of the mallard and other wild kinds, to a single mate, have hastily assumed that such hybrids are unknown in the natural state. This however is incorrect, as there have been authentic cases of crosses between mallard and teal, potchard and scorp and other species, such hybrids having at different times been erroneously accepted as distinct species, and named accordingly. The wild duck's nest is usually placed on the ground in some sheltered spot, close to still or running water, and the ducklings swim like corks, soon learning the proper use of their flat little bills in gobbling up floating insects and other waterlogged food. Occasionally ducks nest in trees, and they have been known to take possession of a deserted rook's nest. There has been some discussion as to whether in this case the mother conveys her ducklings to the water in her bill, but this has not actually been witnessed. In cases where, as is often observed, the nest overhangs the water, it has been suggested that the young birds may simply be pushed over the edge and allowed to parachute down to the surface as they might easily do without risk. Tamed ducks are among the most sociable of birds, and can even display bravery when threatened by a common enemy. The naturalist Ussay once learned this as the result of a somewhat cruel experiment that he made in order to ascertain whether ducks invariably, as alleged, fall upon a wounded comrade and destroy it. Wishing to satisfy himself on the point, Ussay, having come upon some ducks in a small pond, deliberately pelted them with stones till he had wounded one of their number. Yet, however, of behaving as he had been led to expect, the rest of the ducks formed close order round the wounded bird and sheltered it from further harm. Few domestic animals, none possibly with the single exception of the camel, are less suggestive of pets than such gross poultry, yet even a gander, the most vicious tempered of them all, has been known to show lasting gratitude for an act of kindness. The bird, which had long been the terror of children in the little Devonshire village near which it lived, managed one day to get wedged in a drain, and there it would eventually have died unseen if a passing labourer had not seen its plight and set it at liberty. Down to the day of its death, the bird, though no wise relinquishing its spiteful attitude towards others, followed its rustic benefactor about the place like a dog. End of Chapter 11, Recording by Ruth Golding. CHAPTER 12 of BIRDS IN THE CALENDAR This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Ruth Golding. BIRDS IN THE CALENDAR by Frederick G. Aflalo December the Robin Redbreast Of all the old proverbs that are open to argument, few offer more material for criticism than that which has it that a good name is more easily lost than one. And if ever a living creature served to illustrate the converse to the proverbial dog with a bad name, that creature is the companionable little bird that we peculiarly associate with Christmas. Traditionally, the Robin is a gentle little fellow of pious associations, and with a tender fancy for covering the unburied dead with leaves. But in real life he is a little fire eater, always ready to pick a quarrel with his less pugnacious neighbours. Yet so persistently does his good name cling, that while ever ready to condemn the aggressive sparrow for the same fault, all of us have a good word for the Robin, and in few of our wild birds are character and reputation so divergent. Surely, however, the most interesting aspect of this familiar bird is its tameness, not to say attachment to ourselves. And so marked is its complete absence of fear that it is a wild bird in name only, and indeed few cage birds are ever so bold as to perch on the gardener's spade on the lookout for the worms as he turns them up from the damp soil. The Robin might in fact furnish the text of a lay's sermon on the fruits of kindness to animals, and those dialectical people who ask whether we are kind to the Robin because it trusts us, or whether on the other hand it trusts us because we are kind to it, ask a foolish question that raises a wholly unnecessary confusion between cause and effect. It is a question that those at any rate who have seen the bird in countries where it is treated differently will have no difficulty whatever in answering. Broadly speaking, the red breast has the best time of it in northern lands. This tolerance has not, as has been suggested, any connection with Protestantism. For such a distinction would exclude the greater part of Ireland, where as it happens the bird is as safe from persecution as in Britain, since the superstitious peasants firmly believe that anyone killing a spidog will be punished by a lump growing on the palm of his hand. The untoward fate of the Robin in Latin countries bordering the Mediterranean has nothing to do with religion, but is merely the result of a pernicious habit of killing all manner of small birds for the table. The sight of rows of dead robins laid out on polterers stalls in the markets of Italy and southern France inspires such righteous indignation in British tourists as to make them forget for the moment that larks are exposed in the same way in Bond Street and at Leidenhall. In Italy and Provence, taught by sad experience, the Robin is as shy as any other small bird. It has learned its lesson like the robins in the north, but the lesson is different. The most friendly Robin I ever remember meeting with, out of England, was in a garden attached to a café in Trebizond, where, hopping round my chair and picking up crumbs, it made me feel curiously at home. Similar treatment of other wild birds would in time produce the same result, and even the suspicious starling and stand-off rook might be taught to forget their fear of us. The Robin, feeding less on fruit and grain than on worms and insects, has not made an enemy of the farmer or gardener. The common, too common, sparrow is another fearless neighbour, but its freedom from persecution of late somewhat threatened by sparrow-clubs is due less to affection than to the futility of making any impression on such hordes as infest our streets. No act of the robins more forcibly illustrates its trust in man than the manner in which, at a season when all animals are abnormally shy and suspicious, it makes its nest not only near our dwellings, but actually, in many cases, under the same roof as ourselves. Letter boxes, flowerpots, old boots and book-shells have all done duty, and I even remember a pair of robins many years ago in Kent, bringing up two broods in an old rat-trap, which, fortunately too rusty to act, was still set and baited with a withered piece of bacon. Pages might be filled with the mere enumeration of curious and eccentric nesting-sights chosen by this fearless bird. But a single proof of its indifference to the presence of man during the time of incubation may be cited from the manuscript notebooks of the Second Earl of Marmsbury, which I have read in the library at Herron Court. It seems that, while the east wing of that pleasant mansion was being built, a pair of robins, having successfully brought up one family in one of the unfinished rooms, actually reared a second brood in a hole made for a scaffold pole, though the sitting bird, being immediately beneath a plank on which the plasterers stood at work, was repeatedly splashed with mortar. The egg of the robin is subject to considerable variety of type. I think it was the late Lord Lillford, who, speaking on the subject of a bill for the protection of wild bird's eggs, then before the House of Lords, gave it as his belief that no ornithologist of repute would swear to the name of a single British bird's egg, without positively seeing one or other of the parent bird's fly off the nest. This was perhaps a little overstating the difficulty of evidence, since any schoolboy with a fancy for bird's nesting might, without hesitation, identify such pronounced types as those of the Chaffinch with its purple blotches, the song thrush with its black spots on a blue ground, or the nightingale, which resembles a miniature olive. Eggs on the other hand, like those of the House Barrow, Red Shank, and some of the smaller warblers, are so easily confused with those of Allied species, that Lord Lillford's caution is by no means superfluous. Ordinarily speaking the robin's egg is white, with red spots at one end, but I remember taking at Bexley nearly thirty years ago an immaculate one of coffee-colour. As the robin is a favourite foster parent with cuckoos, my first thought was that this might be an unusually small egg of the parasitic bird, which was very plentiful thereabouts. It so happened, however, that three days after I had abstracted the first and only egg I took from that nest, there was a second of the same type, and much as I would have liked this also for my collection I left it in the nest, so as to set all doubts at rest. My moderation was rewarded for no one else found the nest, and in due course the coffee-coloured egg produced a robin like the rest. The robin is anything but a gregarious bird. Its fighting temper doubtless leads it to keep its own company, and we rarely see more than one singing on the same bush, or seeking for food on the same lawn. Yet though it is with us all the year, it is known to perform migrations within these islands, and possibly also overseas, chiefly connected with commissariat difficulties, and it is probable that on such occasions many robins may travel in company, though I have not been so fortunate as to come across them in their pilgrimage. Equally interesting, however, is the habit which the bird has in Devonshire, of occasionally going down to the rocks on the seashore, as I have often noticed in the neighbourhood of Tinmouth and Torquay. What manner of food the red-breast may find in such surroundings is a mystery, but there it certainly spends some of its time bobbing at the edge of the rock-pools in much the same fashion as the dipper on inland waters. Young robins are turned adrift at an early age to look after themselves, a result of the parent bird always rearing two families in the year, and in many cases even three, so that they have not too much time to devote to the upbringing of each. Another consequence of this prolific habit is that the robin has to make its nest earlier than most of our wild birds, and its nest has, in fact, been found near Torquay during the first week of January. It has long been the pardonable fancy of Englishmen exiled to new homes under the palms or pines, in the scorching tropical sun, or in the biting northern blast, to misname all manner of conspicuous birds, after well-remembered kinds left at home in the woods and fields of the old country. As might be expected of a bird so characteristic of English scenes, and so closely associated with the festival that always brings nostalgia to the emigrant, the robin has its share of these namesakes, and several of them bear little likeness to the original. In New South Wales I remember being shown a robin, which, though perhaps a little smaller, was not unlike our own bird. But the robin that was pointed out to me in the States, from Maine to Carolina, was as big as a thrush, yet it had the red breast, by which particularly conspicuous against the background of snow, this popular little bird is always recognisable, the male as well as the female. Indeed to all outward appearance the sexes are absolutely alike, a striking contrast to the cock and hen pheasant the first bird dealt with in these notes, as this is the last. End of CHAPTER XII and END OF BIRDS IN THE CALENDAR by FREDERICK G. AFLALO Recording by Ruth Golding