CHAPTER IV.
Another enemy of the water-vole—The pike—Pike in brooks—The Oxford giant pike—A sad failure—An ignominious end—The pike and the eel—The pike and the duck—Links in Nature—Cousins of the water-vole—The campagnol, or short-tailed field mouse—Damage which it works—Its natural enemies—the kestrel and the owls—How to detect and catch a campagnol—The kestrel—Its peculiar mode of flight—Altering the focus of the eye—The nest of the campagnol—Beans and the mouse—The humble-bee and wasp—More connecting links—Store chambers of the campagnol—Its bird-purveyors—The blackbird, thrush, and campagnol—The winter and summer nests—A beautiful specimen and remarkable locality—Mode of eating.
We have not yet completed the life-history of the water-vole, which, as I remarked on [page 34], involves that of several other creatures.
One of its two worst foes has just been described, and we now come to the second—i.e., the PIKE, OR JACK (Esox lucius). N.B.—The latter name may perhaps recall to the reader the ancient family of the Lucys, of Charlcote Hall, Warwickshire, so mercilessly satirised by Shakspeare. They bore upon their shield the “luce”—i.e., the pike, the coat of arms being a good example of “canting” heraldry—i.e., in which the blazonry of the shield contains a play upon the name of the bearer.
There is no more inveterate foe of the water-vole than the pike. In the stomach of a single pike were found the remains of three water-voles and some bird, which was probably a duck.
It might be imagined that a pike large enough to swallow a water-vole would not be likely to venture into a brook, and would restrict itself to the river where it would have plenty of room. But experience has shown that a very large pike will sometimes make its way into a very small brook, partly for the sake of food, but sometimes through sheer cunning, in the hope of evading its enemies.
By the time that a pike has attained the weight of twelve or fifteen pounds, he has had to face many and varied dangers, and escape from many foes.
While he is young and small his worst foes are those of his own species. Anglers know that there is scarcely any bait so attractive to an old pike as a small pike. All the earlier part of his life is spent in perpetual watchfulness, he having to be always on the look-out for prey by which he can still his insatiable hunger; while he has to be equally on guard lest a larger pike should satisfy its hunger with him.
No pike, therefore, can attain to a large size without developing a considerable amount of cunning, and anyone who sets himself the task of catching such a fish will find that he must employ all his resources of intellect, aided by experience, before he can delude the fish even into touching the bait. In spite of its large size, the fish manages to elude observation in a most puzzling manner, and it is no easy matter to make sure of its position. An old fox or old rat is scarcely more cunning and full of devices than an old pike.
The largest pike that I ever saw at liberty was in a small tributary streamlet of the Cherwell river, near Oxford.
A pike of enormous dimensions had for some time been reported as having been seen in various parts of the Cherwell, the general rumours giving its weight as at least thirty pounds. All the anglers of the neighbourhood had tried to capture this mighty prize, but had failed. Contrary to the habit of most large pike, it did not seem to have established itself in any particular spot, but roamed about from place to place.
Now, the Cherwell itself is but a very small river, so that the locality of a large fish might appear easily discoverable. But it is a very “weedy” river, and its banks are edged with willows, whose long, red, plume-shaped roots hang into the water from the banks, and form admirable hiding-places for the fish.
One day I was trying my fortune at trolling in the Cherwell, with a six-inch gudgeon for bait, and, on coming to a tributary stream, walked along the bank until I could find a spot narrow enough to be jumped.
Coming to a deep-looking pool, I dropped in the bait, by way of not wasting time, and almost immediately felt the bait taken by a pike. Following the golden rule then, and perhaps now, in force among anglers, I sat down on the bank, watch in hand, in order to wait through the weary ten minutes prescribed by custom, and which almost seem to drag themselves out into as many centuries.
Barely half the time had elapsed when a huge head rose to the surface, and the bait was blown out, as it seemed, into the water, the head sinking with a swirl of water where it disappeared. On examining the rejected bait, which had naturally been seized crosswise, I found that it was pierced from head to tail with the teeth of the pike.
I learned that the big fish was afterwards ignominiously taken with a net in one of these tributary brooks, so that its cunning was baffled at last. I also learned that the fish had repeatedly treated other anglers as it treated me, holding the bait for a short time in its mouth and then rejecting it.
So it is clear that the water-vole will by no means be safe from the pike when it is the inhabitant of the brook instead of the river.
Moreover, it does not need a very large pike to devour a full-grown water-vole. The pike can swallow an animal which seems quite disproportionate to its size. A young pike of barely five inches in length was seen swimming about with the tail of a gudgeon projecting from its mouth. The gudgeon was quite as long as its captor, and there is no doubt that if the fish had been let alone the pike would soon have digested the gudgeon sufficiently to swallow it entirely.
The late Frank Buckland mentions that a pike weighing eight pounds was caught in the River Itchen. After it was taken out of the water it disgorged a trout of a pound weight. This must have been a sore disappointment for the captor, who would think himself defrauded of a pound weight in his angling record.
The reader will remember that a heron and a cormorant lost their lives by capturing an eel which was too large for them, and it is a remarkable fact that a pike has been known to suffer a similar fate. It can easily be understood that an eel, twisting itself about convulsively in the struggle for life, should coil itself round a bird’s neck long enough to cause its death by strangulation; but it seems almost impossible that a pike, being a fish, and therefore breathing by gills, should be suffocated while in the water by an eel.
Yet in the Fisheries Exhibition of 1883 there were two very remarkable stuffed groups, illustrating the voracity of the pike. In one of them a pike weighing ten pounds had attacked an eel weighing only one pound less. Now, an eel of nine pounds weight is a very large one, lithe, active, and muscular as a snake, and by no means a despicable antagonist. The pike had begun to swallow the eel, but the latter in its struggles forced its way out of the mouth through the gills, and thence into the water beneath the right gill-cover. But it could go no farther, the teeth of the pike having almost met through its body.
The result was fatal to both. The body of the eel having been forced beneath the gill-cover, the gills could not perform their office, and so the pike was as effectually suffocated for want of breath as were the heron and the cormorant. The dead bodies of the pike and eel were found on the bank of the River Bure in October, 1882.
The second group consisted of a pike and a duck. The pike had attacked the duck as the bird was diving, and had tried to swallow it. It succeeded in getting the head, neck, and part of the breast down its throat; but the duck, in its struggles for life, had naturally spread its wings. These formed an insurmountable obstacle to the fish, and the result was that the duck was drowned and the pike suffocated, both having died for lack of respiration.
So the “plop” of the water-vole into the brook from the bank has not been to us the mere splash of a frightened animal into the stream. It has opened for us many trains of thought, and taken us into several sciences. It has shown us something of the links which connect it with man, birds, and fishes, and so has led us into ornithology and ichthyology. It has shown how the inventions of man have their prototypes in the animal kingdom. Comparative anatomy and physiology have also been shown to form portions of the life-history of the familiar animal, and have demonstrated the truth of the axiom enunciated on [page 34], that no animal and no branch of science can stand alone.
Like other beings, the water-vole has its relatives, two of whom will come within the range of our subject. Being small creatures, they go by the popular name of mice, just as their larger relative is popularly called a rat. These are the FIELD-VOLE and the BANK-VOLE, both of which we may expect to find on the banks of our brook, especially when the banks are clothed with shrubs. The former of these animals is a very old acquaintance of mine, and when I was a lad I could go into a field and make almost certain of catching a field-vole (Arvícola agrestis) within about ten minutes.
A CORMORANT STRANGLED BY AN EEL.
This little animal looks very much like a water-vole seen through the wrong end of an opera-glass, except that the fur is redder and the ears are longer in proportion to the size of the head. The tail is only about one-third as long as the body—a peculiarity which has earned for it the popular name of “short-tailed field-mouse.” A more appropriate name for it is “campagnol.”
Even in this country the campagnol is apt to be one of the worst foes of the agriculturist, especially at harvest and seed time.
Not only does it devour the ripe corn in the field, but it makes its way into ricks and barns, and eats large quantities of the gathered corn. Moreover, just after the seed-corn has been sown it digs the grains out of the ground, thus doing mischief which is often attributed to the sparrow and other small birds. In France, however, where not a kestrel, or, indeed, any unprotected bird, can be seen, the campagnol can carry out his depredations without hindrance, and consequently increases until it becomes an actual plague. In the Department of Aisne alone a few years ago the fields were honeycombed with the burrows of the animal, and the farmers spent some seventy thousand pounds in ridding their fields of the nuisance. First poison was laid down; but so many hares and rabbits were killed that another plan had to be tried. Stacks of hay and straw were then made, containing quantities of poisoned carrots, turnips, and beetroot. The agriculturists, therefore, had to pay heavily for doing that which the kestrel would have done to a great degree, if they had suffered it to live and carry out its appointed work in preserving the balance of Nature.
The owls, again, are determined enemies of the campagnol, more than half the food on which they and their young live being composed of these mischievous little animals. Fortunately for the owls, their nocturnal habits save them from the destruction which would have befallen them had they sought their food in the light of day.
If we wish to see this pretty little creature, we have only to watch carefully the field through which our brook runs, and we shall be almost certain to find it. But we must know where to look and how to look.
The favourite locality of the campagnol has already been mentioned; but the detection of the little animal requires some practice. A novice in the art may traverse a low-lying field, and hunt along the banks of the brook from daybreak to dewy eve, and never catch a glimpse of a campagnol. Another will go into the same field, and in a quarter of an hour will produce several specimens.
Those who wish to catch it must know its ways. It is not of the least use to hunt up and down the field in chase of the campagnol, and those who wish to see it must reverse the old aphorism about Mahomet and the mountain. They cannot go to the campagnol, for it will keep out of their way; but if they will wait patiently, the campagnol will come to them.
The secret for catching the campagnol is as follows:—
Go into any field which is bounded by a brook, and lie down, taking care that the sun faces you; otherwise your shadow will be thrown on the grass, rendering the detection of the animal extremely difficult.
When you have arranged yourself in an easy posture, keep your eyes on the ground, and try to look between the green blades, so as to see the colour of the soil. On a first trial you may probably wait until your patience is exhausted, and yet see nothing. But do not be disheartened, and try again, as nothing but practice will give the needful skill.
Only a small portion of ground can come under your observation as you recline on your arm, and a few minutes ought to make you acquainted with the colour of every inch of the soil. Presently you will become aware that a little patch of soil is redder than it was a minute or two ago. Bring your free hand down smartly on the spot, and you will find a campagnol in your grasp.
Immediately afterwards you will find that the campagnol has teeth, and knows how to use them. But if you understand the animal’s ways, you will seize it without danger of being bitten, just as if you know the nettle’s ways you can grasp it without danger of being stung.
Like its larger relative, the campagnol, when suddenly startled, loses its presence of mind, and remains for a moment or two without motion. During that moment of consternation, shift your grasp so that the body of the animal rests in the palm of the hand, while the finger and thumb seize the sides of the head, so that the creature cannot turn its head to bite. The knack is soon learned, though perhaps at the expense of a bite or two, and the shifting of the grasp becomes instinctive.
Want of practice soon causes the eyes to become slow to detect the creature which steals so silently among the grass-blades, and the ready knack of the fingers is equally apt to fail just when it is wanted. However, a little practice soon restores the keenness of sight and deftness of touch, and in a short time the campagnol will be unable to pass under the observer’s eyes without detection, or to escape the grasp of his fingers without capture.
So stealthily does the campagnol glide among the grass stems, that the field may be swarming with them, and yet their presence will not even be suspected by man. This fact brings us to another illustration of the assertion that the life-history of one animal always involves that of others.
The natural food of the KESTREL (Tinnúnculus alaudârius) largely consists of the campagnol, so that where the one is seen the other will probably be at no great distance. High in air the kestrel hovers with quivering wings, its bright eyes directed downwards, and scanning the field below. Suddenly it drops down to the ground, rises with something in its claws, and flies away. It has seen and caught a field-vole, and is carrying it home to its young. From its custom of balancing itself in the air with its head to the wind, it is often known by the name of “windhover.”
With what astonishing sight must not the kestrel be gifted to perform such a feat! It is difficult enough for a human being to watch a square yard of ground so carefully that a field-vole shall be seen as it glides among the grass. How wonderful, therefore, must be the powers of vision which enable the bird to watch a large field, to detect from that height the little, dusky animal, and pounce down upon it with unerring swoop!
How astonishing must be the optical mechanism of those eyes which at so great a distance from the prey can act like telescopes, and yet can alter their range so rapidly that in the few seconds which are consumed in making the stoop, they have accommodated themselves to an entirely different focus.
In his “At Last,” C. Kingsley mentions that in passing through a tropical forest the traveller is frequently checked by some creeper which hangs in the path, and which is not seen because the eye cannot focus itself with sufficient rapidity. Yet the traveller is only proceeding at a walking pace, whereas the stoop of the kestrel on its prey is swift as the fall of a stone through the air, and in a second or two the eye has to accommodate itself from a range of many yards to that of a few inches.
The value of the kestrel in keeping down the numbers of the field-vole, and so aiding in preserving the balance of Nature, can hardly be over-estimated.
There have been cases where the field-voles had increased to such a degree that pitfalls had to be dug for their capture, and they had to be destroyed artificially, because the kestrels and other predacious birds and animals had been almost extirpated.
Other enemies to agriculture are also destroyed by the kestrel. Mr. Johns mentions an instance where the stomach of a kestrel was opened, and was found to contain, beside a field-vole, nearly eighty caterpillars, twenty-four beetles, and a leech!
Now, we will return to our field-vole. Like the squirrel and several other rodents, it makes two nests, one for the winter and the other for the summer.
The winter nest is mostly made at some distance from water, is formed at the end of a burrow, and seldom reaches more than a few inches below the surface of the ground. It is to this winter nest that the poet Burns refers in his exquisite stanzas addressed to a mouse whose nest had been destroyed by his ploughshare, and beginning,
“Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie.”
Such, indeed, is the fate of many a winter nest. Supposing, however, that the creature should be snapped up by the kestrel while out in search of food, the nest will be deserted, but it will not be wasted. There are always beings who are glad to find a ready-made burrow which will save them the trouble of excavating one for themselves. Among them are several species of wasp and humble-bee, most of whose nests are made in the deserted burrow of the campagnol.
Here, again, is an example of the manner in which the life-histories of dissimilar animals are linked together. Few persons would think that there could be any connection between the wasp and the kestrel, and yet our walk along the banks of our brook has shown us that such is the case, and that the connecting link is the campagnol.
Like the water-vole, the campagnol lays up a store of winter provisions, not in its living-room, but in a chamber excavated for the purpose. The treasure-house sometimes contains a very miscellaneous store, the fruit of the hawthorn and wild rose being the staple.
Cherry-stones mostly form a large proportion of the stores, as many as three hundred having been found in a single chamber. The mode in which the campagnol obtains the cherry-stones would hardly be suspected except by those who are in the habit of watching the varied phases of animal life.
The chief purveyors of cherry-stones are the blackbird and thrush.
Both these birds are exceedingly destructive among the cherry crops, as I know from personal experience. My study overlooks a number of fine cherry-trees, one of them being so close to the house that by leaning out of the window I can touch the fruit with an ordinary walking-stick. As soon as the fruit ripens, the thrush and blackbird hold high festival, eating the cherries from the branches and feeding their young with the ripe fruit.
It is really amusing to watch the proceedings of the birds, especially the unmerciful manner in which the young birds peck their parents when they considered that they are not fed fast enough. Neither young nor parent is in the least afraid of me as I sit at the open window, so that I can see every movement.
Sometimes the entire cherry is pulled off the branch, but when the fruit is very ripe the soft portion only is eaten, the stone still being attached to the stalk. In either case, the stone will be sure, sooner or later, to fall to the ground, whence it is picked up by the campagnol and added to its store for the coming winter.
Here, again, is a link connecting together the life-histories of the blackbird, thrush, and campagnol. Furthermore, it affords an example of the care that is taken that nothing on the earth shall be wasted.
Whenever a living being has no further use for anything which once was connected with its life-history, there is sure to be some other animal which wants it and is waiting for it.
We have already seen how the abandoned winter nest of the campagnol is utilised by the wasp or humble-bee, and we now see that when the blackbird and thrush have abandoned the cherry-stones as useless to them, there is the campagnol waiting for them and ready to carry them off to the store-chamber which it has previously prepared.
A PIKE STRANGLED BY AN EEL.
Beside the winter nest, there is the summer nest, which is primarily intended for the reception and nurture of the young. This, like the corresponding nest of the squirrel, is made of slight materials and loose structure, so that the air is freely admitted. It is generally composed of grass blades, which have been torn in strips by the campagnol. It is globular in shape, and is mostly placed on the ground, amid concealing grass or herbage.
There is, however, before me a photograph of the nest of a campagnol, which was discovered in a very remarkable position, and made of very unusual materials. It was found in a garden store-house at Castle Carey, by the Rev. W. Smith-Tomkins, Vicar of Durstow. He kindly sent me a copy of the photograph, together with the following description—
“Bedford Villa,
“The Shrubbery,
“Weston-super-Mare.
“August 8th, 1886.
“This nest of the short-tailed field-mouse was found by me a few years ago on a heap of barley straw, which was used to cover a small store of potatoes. Its chief interest to the finder, in addition to its beauty, consists in this. It was all manufactured out of one kind of raw material, namely, the leaves of the barley straw, which the maker shred up into thin threads according to her taste, so as to suit the different parts of the structure. There was no other material available for use.
“The mouse had found its way into the storehouse through a hole under the wall. I am sorry to say that she was killed when found, and before the nest had been used for its proper purpose. Two or three weeks before I had looked over the place, and she had not commenced operations.
“On referring to ‘Homes without Hands,’ I find it stated by Mr. J. J. Briggs that he could never find an entrance to the interior (the nests being closed up, as you say is the case with the nest of the harvest mouse). I infer from this, that it is due to its incompleteness that the entrance in this case is open and visible, and that its structure is therefore so open to inspection.”
With the description and photograph Mr. Tomkins sent a few portions of the nest, some of the barley leaves being of their original width, and others split up into fibres as fine as ordinary sewing cotton. In a subsequent letter he states that the hole through which the campagnol made her entrance into the house opened into the stable yard of a neighbour.
Its mode of eating the provisions which it stores is rather remarkable. It would naturally be supposed that, as other beings (including man) do, it would eat the thick, soft, and sweet exterior of the “hip” or fruit of the wild rose, and reject the hard, small seeds, with their fluffy envelope. But it does just the contrary, eating the seeds and rejecting the exterior.
When in America in 1884, I saw a flock of pine grosbeaks busily feeding upon the berries of the mountain ash at Worcester. Very pretty they looked, the rosy plumage of the two or three males contrasting boldly with the dark, sombre green of the many females. I should not have noticed them but for their mode of feeding.
It was at the beginning of February—the very depth of a New England winter. I had to make my way up a rather steep hill, and over paths which, by reason of constant traffic over snow, were as slippery as ice. Many persons are in the habit of scattering sand or pulverised brick on the paths, and seeing, as I fondly thought, a few yards of the latter material, I gladly made my way towards it. To my disappointment—on that ground at least—I found that the red material was not brick, but the soft, external part of the mountain ash berry, the birds only eating the seeds, and allowing the rest of the fruit to fall to the ground.
Then, the campagnol has a remarkable way of eating the cherry stones.
When the squirrel eats a nut, it nibbles off a little piece of the sharp end, inserts the edges of its incisor teeth in wedge fashion, and splits the nut in two. The campagnol begins like the squirrel, but when it has bitten off the end of the cherry-stone, it does not split the shell asunder, but in some way of its own contrives to get the kernel out.
(To be continued.)
