From North Pole to Equator: Studies of Wild Life and Scenes in Many Lands

by Alfred Edmund Brehm

With the scenery of the Rhine, of the Upper, or even, it is said, of the Lower Danube, the stretch of country through which we were now rapidly borne cannot be compared. A few kilometres below the sister towns the banks become flat, the hills on the right side of the stream sink into featureless heights, and only in the dim blue distance does the eye catch the gently curved lines of moderately high ranges. From the left bank extends the broad plain. Without end, without change, it stretches in uniform monotony; hardly one of the large, rich villages is conspicuous enough to catch the eye. Here and there a herdsman in shepherd’s dress leans on his strong staff, but his charge is not a flock of simple sheep; grunting, bristly pigs crowd around him—how brown with the sun he is!—or lie in rows about him enjoying comfortable rest. Around the pools filled by the floods the lapwing flutters; over the broad flats the hen-harrier wings its unsteady flight; the martins sweep in and out of their nests burrowed in the steep banks; dainty water-wagtails trip about on the shingle-roofs of the innumerable boatmills; ducks and cormorants rise in noisy alarm from the stream; while kites and hooded crows fly in circles over its surface. Such is a picture of this region.

Soon, however, the landscape changes. The alluvial plain, traversed by the river which made it, broadens out. Over the flats, not yet protected by dikes, and submerged by every flood, the river extends in numerous, for the most part nameless branches. A luxuriant growth of wood clothes the banks and islands, and as the fringe is too dense to allow any glimpse of the interior, this meadow-wood bounds the view for mile after mile. Variable and yet monotonous are the pictures which appear and disappear, as in a dissolving view, while the ship follows the windings of the stream. Willows and poplars—white, silvery, and black—elms and oaks, the first predominating, the last often sparse in their occurrence, form the material of these pictures. Above the dense fringe, which consists almost wholly of willow, there rise older trees of the same kind; beyond these in the woods, which often extend far inland, rise the impressive crowns of lofty silver poplars and black poplars, and the bald heads of old gnarled oaks. A single glance embraces all phases of tree-life from the sprouting willow-shoot to the dying giant—trees living, sprouting, growing, and exultant in the fulness of their strength; trees withered at the top, victims of fire from the heavens or from the earth and half reduced to tinder; trees prostrate on the ground, crumbling and rotting. Between these we see the gleams of flowing or standing water; above all is the great dome of heaven. In the secret shades we hear the song of the nightingale and the finches, the lyrics of the thrush, the shrill cry of falcon or eagle, the laugh of the woodpecker, the raven’s croak, and the heron’s shrill shriek.

Here and there is a glade not yet overgrown, a gap in the wood and through which we catch a glimpse of the landscape in the background,—of the broad plain on the right bank of the stream, and the fringe of hills in the distance, of an apparently endless succession of fields, from which at distant intervals rise the church spires which mark the scattered villages or, it may be, townships. In summer, when all is of one predominantly green hue, in late autumn, winter, and early spring, when the trees are leafless, this shore landscape may seem almost dull; now it is monotonous, but yet not unattractive, for all the willows and poplars have young leaves, or in many cases catkins, and, here and there at least, they make the woods gay and gladsome.

Only at a few places is such a wood as this accessible; for the most part it is a huge morass. If one attempts, either on land or by waterways, to penetrate into the interior, one, sooner or later, reaches a jungle which has no parallel in Germany. Only on those spots which are raised above the level of the river, and which have a rich, in part muddy soil, is one reminded of German vegetation. Here lilies of the valley, with their soft, green leaves and fragrant, white bells, form a most decorative carpeting, covering the ground for wide stretches; but even here the nettles and bramble-bushes grow in wanton luxuriance, and various climbing plants spread their tangled net over wide areas of the forest, so that almost insuperable obstacles and barriers prevent further progress. In other places the wood is literally a bog out of which the giant trees rear their stems. Mighty stems indeed, but many—victims of old age, tempest, thunderbolt, and the careless herdsman’s fire—lie rotting in the water, already forming, in many cases, the soil from which rises a younger and vigorous growth of underwood. Other trees, which have not yet succumbed to decay, lie prostrate and bar the way. The wind has swept the fallen wood, both thick branches and delicate twigs, into floating islands and obtrusive snags, which present to the small boat obstacles not less difficult than those which obstruct the explorer on foot. Similar floating islands, composed of reeds and sedges, form a deceptive covering over wide stretches of water. Raised mud-banks, on which willows and poplars have found a suitable soil for their seeds, have become impenetrable thickets, disputing the possession of the ground even with the forests of reeds which are often many square miles in extent. Dwarf willows, at once youthful and senile forests, form dark patches in the heart of the reed-beds. What may be concealed in the gloomy wood, with its bogs and thickets, or by the reeds, remains almost quite hidden from the searching eye of the naturalist, for he can see through no more than the fringe of this wilderness, nor traverse it except along the broader waterways.

Fig. 79.—Herons and their Nests.

Such was the district in which our sport began. The eagles, the royal rulers of the air, which formed the primary object of our quest, did not, indeed, come within range, nor even within sight, on the first day of our journey; but, on the other hand, we visited the famous heronry on the island of Adony, and had abundant opportunities of observing the life of the brooding birds. For two generations, herons and cormorants have nested on the tall trees of the island, among the much older residents—the rooks; and, though the cormorants have greatly diminished in numbers since the beginning of the sixties, they have not yet entirely disappeared. Forty years ago, according to Landbeck’s estimate, there nested here about one thousand pairs of night-herons, two hundred and fifty pairs of common herons, fifty pairs of little egrets, and a hundred pairs of cormorants; but now the rooks, of which there are from fifteen hundred to two thousand pairs, form the great bulk of the colony, while the common herons have dwindled to about a hundred and fifty, the night-herons to thirty or forty pairs, the egrets have disappeared entirely, and only the cormorants remain in approximately the same numbers as formerly. Yet at least an echo of the former life rang in our ears as we set foot on the island, and here and there the forest still presents the old picture almost unchanged.

The various birds in such a mixed heronry appear to live in the best accord, yet there is neither peace nor friendliness among them. One oppresses and supports, plunders and feeds the other. The herons invade the rooks’ colonies to save themselves the labour of nest-building; the rooks collect twigs and build their nests, and the herons drive them away, that they may take forcible possession of the nests, or at any rate of the building material; the cormorants dispute with the herons the possession of the stolen booty, and finally assume despotic authority over the entire colony. But even they, thieves and robbers as they are, are plundered and robbed in their turn, for the crows and kites—the last being seldom absent from such settlements—feed themselves and their young to no slight extent on the fish which the herons and cormorants have brought for the sustenance of their mates and young. The first meeting of the various kinds of brooding birds is hostile. Violent and protracted battles are fought, and the ten times vanquished renews hostilities for the eleventh time before he learns to submit to the inevitable. But in time the inter-relations are better adjusted, as the individual members of the colony recognize that there are advantages in social life, and that there is room enough for peaceable neighbours. Fighting and quarrelling never cease entirely, but the bitter war of species against species gives place gradually to conditions which are at least endurable. The birds become accustomed to each other, and make use of the capabilities of their adversaries as far as may be. It may even happen, indeed, that those who have been plundered follow those who have robbed them when the latter find it necessary to change their brooding-places.

Fig. 80.—Rooks and their Nests.