‘TELEGRAPHED.’
‘Have you seen the Purple Sandpiper at Mr Walton’s, telegraphed near here?’ The above sentence in a friend’s letter, a keen ornithologist, set me thinking. How many species of birds do I know of that have been ‘telegraphed?’ or, in other words, killed by flying against the telegraph wires? On looking up notes which extend over several years’ observations, I found the list not a long one, but somewhat varied. As my own knowledge of this subject extends over only a small district, yet one thickly set with wires, and taking into consideration the destruction of birds by this peculiar means in this particular portion of the kingdom, and the thousands of miles of wires which extend over the rest of the British Islands, the thought crosses my mind that there must be an immense death-rate among birds through this modern invention, now a necessity of our present life.
But to return to our Purple Sandpiper (Tringa maritima). What brought it so far inland?—above twenty miles from its usual haunts by the shore, being purely a bird of the littoral. Was it merely a straggler lost or blown out of its course? Or was it accompanied by other Sandpipers, which escaped the fatal wires? on some line of autumnal migration which is certainly new to us, or, rather, only just suspected; and which will take some years of careful study and note-taking before being fully established.
One of the birds most commonly ‘telegraphed’ with us, both in its spring and autumn ‘flittings,’ is the Landrail (Crex pratensis), or perhaps better known as the Corncrake; indeed, in the spring migration I have known of its presence among us through this means, some time before its well-known call-note was heard; although, occasionally, individual birds stay all the winter with us. Lately, a new line of wires has been put across a common near us, to join others on one of the great north roads. These wires were put up to meet the increase of work which was expected through the introduction of the sixpenny telegrams. The first Sunday after these wires were stretched, I found a Corncrake which had met its death by them. But it had suffered considerably from the attentions, presumedly, paid to it by a pair of Carrion Crows (Corvus corone), which flopped away from its immediate neighbourhood on our approach. Shortly after, I picked up a fine cock Blackbird (Turdus merula) alive, but in sore condition. The skin of the breast, by the force of the blow, was rolled backward down to the thighs, one of which was broken. The contrast between the blackness of its plumage and the golden brown of the fallen beech-leaves on which it lay was something startling. I stood looking at it some time before attempting to lay hold of it, wondering what was the matter, as it lay perfectly still, looking at me with its fearless black eyes. It made no effort to get away when I laid hold of it, though it bit as well as it could. Blackbirds are common victims to this form of death: I have seen three in one week, and it is really difficult to explain why. The habit they have, might account for it, of flying about and alarming the neighbourhood by their warning note till nearly dark, long after most light-loving birds have gone to roost. A rare stranger was ‘telegraphed’ among us, Leach’s or the Fork-tailed Petrel (Procellaria leucorrhoa), just after the heavy gales near the end of last October. Most of the British specimens of this bird have been obtained inland, after heavy gales blown to us, I suppose, across the Atlantic, from the Banks of Newfoundland. Snipes, both the Common and Jack, often come into collision with the wires, thus showing that they also fly after dark. A very beautiful specimen of the Common Snipe, in full breeding plumage, was brought to a friend of mine on the last day of February by a tramp, who had picked it up by the roadside, ‘telegraphed.’ That Owls should meet with this fate, seems very curious, as they are so specially adapted for seeing in a dull light; but such is the case. I know of several, both Barn (Strix flammea) and Wood (Strix stridula) Owls, which have been picked up dead beneath the wires. One can only account for it on the supposition that they are intent on looking for prey beneath them, perhaps watching some particular mouse or shrew at the moment the fatal contact takes place.
The Peewit or Green Plover (Vanellus cristatus) is another common victim to this form of death, sometimes in great numbers. Three winters ago, large flocks of plovers used to frequent particular fields at night-time, flying to and from the coast morning and night. In these daily migrations they had to pass, at one particular place, a perfect network of wires; and though odd birds had been got from time to time, yet great was the astonishment of the signalman at a box near at hand, when daylight broke one morning after a stormy night, to see the ground near his box strewn with Peewits. I should not like to say how many there were, but it took him at least twice to carry them to the nearest gamedealer’s. Golden Plovers (Charadrius pluvialis) occasionally fall victims to the same means; and I have seen a young bird of this species killed, while on its way to the coast, as early as the 9th of July, and many miles from the nearest breeding-ground. The Missel Thrush (Turdus viscivorus) in its short autumnal migrations often shares the same fate; and at the same period I once saw that hideling bird, the Spotted Crake (Porzana maruetta). I know of no instance of any of the hawks being done to death in this manner, though other observers may have been more fortunate as regards these birds. Instead, the Kestrel (Falco tinnunculus) often makes use of the wires as a post of observation, mice being very plentiful as a rule along railway sides; and in winter they often come out of their holes to feed on the horse-refuse on the highways. Wild-ducks also escape, as far as my knowledge goes, and we might naturally expect to see them occasionally; but that may be accounted for by their flying too high in their passage from coast to coast or to inland feeding-grounds.
Of the orthodox bird, as Sydney Smith called the Pheasant, it is in some places a very common victim. I think I could pick out one stretch of railway which at certain seasons of the year produces for the surfaceman who goes along it in early morning a never-failing supply of wounded and dead birds. On one side of the railway is a long belt of plantation, where the birds are turned into after being hand-reared, on the other side a river with cornfields stretching down to it; and it is in the passage from the covers to the cornfields, when the grain is ripe or standing in stook, that the accidents occur. Partridges also often fall victims to the wires, as also did the Red Grouse where the telegraph crossed their native heaths. In more than one instance have the wires been laid underground, where crossing grouse-moors, to prevent the birds killing themselves; but even when crossing these moors in the usual style from post to post, grouse after a time get to beware of them, and deaths through this cause get fewer and fewer. One instance of this peculiar adaptation of themselves to new circumstances came very forcibly under the writer’s notice. A wire-fence was put across a very good grouse-moor in Cumberland, dividing the fell into two allotments. For some time after this was done, dead or dying birds were picked up daily, until it was well known that whoever was first along the fence was sure of a grouse-pie. It was amusing to see the different stratagems employed by the shepherds and others to get along the fence without seeming to do so. Indeed, I have seen two farmers meet at the ‘Townfoot,’ and after a short gossip, separate, going in different directions and away from the fell; and an hour after, I have heard of them meeting about the middle of the fence, both intent on dead or wounded birds. While for some time this slaughter of grouse went on, another fellow put in his appearance, this time with four legs, and made a track by the side of the fence to replenish his larder; and Mr Stoat had even the temerity to dispute the claim in one instance with the two-legged hunter. But the grouse in time got to know the dangers of the fence, and now the victims, like angels’ visits, are few and far between.
The ‘vermin,’ as weasels and stoats are generally called, have often a regular track beneath the wires, for the purpose of looking for dead and wounded birds. The other day I found beneath the new wires I have already mentioned a lot of scattered feathers belonging to a Redwing (Turdus iliacus), but no bird. Thinking it might only be wounded, I set to look for it, and after some patient hunting, found a few more feathers farther on the common. These traces I followed diligently, finding them every four or five yards apart, till in a hedge-bank fifty yards from the wires I found them thick about a small hole—no doubt the burrow of a weasel, not an uncommon animal in that same old hedge. One would have liked to have seen the weasel carrying or dragging its prey, whichever it was, the former more likely, from the traces of the feathers being left at such regular intervals. A friend informs me that he has seen the Carrion Crow regularly hunting along the wires in his district.
Another victim has just come to hand in the shape of a young Guillemot (Uria troile) in its first year’s dress; and in the month of May I saw a Sanderling (Calidris arenaria) which had partially put on its nuptial garb, and was no doubt making north to the arctic regions as fast as wings could carry it, when arrested by the stretched wire.
If it were possible to get authentic statistics of all the different species and numbers of birds ‘telegraphed,’ we should have a mass of information which no doubt would greatly assist our ornithologists in their study of the migration of the feathered tribes. This, I am afraid, is impossible, as birds mostly fall during the hours of darkness or semi-light; and there are others, both quadrupeds and birds, which have the advantage of the genus homo in hunting propensities, and who are at work before he is out of bed. They are not in search of information; their hunting is prompted by something keener than even a search for knowledge. The cravings of an empty stomach must be satisfied if possible, and who can tell how many a rare bird—which an ornithologist would have tramped miles to see—has formed a breakfast dish for a lot of hungry young weasels, or swelled out the crop of some gaunt carrion crow!
Any one living near a line of wires will find something to interest him, if he is an early riser, by searching underneath the wires in his morning walk. And when a specimen is found, a note should be taken of its name, the date, direction of wind during night, and weather; and thus in time a quantity of information would be gathered which would materially assist our migration committees. The death-rate through being ‘telegraphed’ is generally greatest during the spring and autumn migrations.