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

by Alfred Edmund Brehm

“In summer gay from top to toe,

In winter whiter than the snow”.

I do not allude to the ptarmigan of our mountains, which is here also restricted to the glacier region, but to the much more abundant willow-grouse. Wherever the dwarf-birch thrives it is to be found, and it is always visible, but especially when the silence of night has fallen upon the tundra, even though the sun be shining overhead. It never entirely forsakes its haunts, but, at the most, descends from the heights to the low grounds in winter. It is lively and nimble, pert and self-possessed, jealous and quarrelsome towards its rivals, affectionate and devoted towards its mate and young. Its life resembles that of our partridge, but its general behaviour has a much greater charm. It is the embodiment of life in the desert. Its challenging call rings out through the still summer night, and the coveys enliven the wintry tundra, forsaken by almost all other birds. Its presence gladdens and charms naturalist and sportsman alike.

During summer the golden plover, which also must be described as a faithful child of the tundra, is to be met almost everywhere. As the swift ostrich to the desert, the sand-grouse to the steppes, the rock-partridge to the mountains, the lark to the corn-fields, so the golden plover belongs to the tundra. Gay as its dress may be, they are the colours of the tundra which it wears; its melancholy cry is the sound most in keeping with this dreary region. Much as we like to see it in our own country, we greet it without pleasure here, for its cry uttered day and night makes us as sad as the tundra itself.

With much greater pleasure does one listen to the voice of another summer guest of the region. I do not refer to the tender melodies of the blue-throated warbler, which is here one of the commonest of brooding birds and justly named the “hundred-tongued singer”, nor to the ringing notes of the fieldfare, which also extends to the tundra, nor to the short song of the snow bunting, nor to the shrill cries of the peregrine falcon or the rough-legged buzzard, nor to the exultant hooting of the sea-eagle or the similar cry of the snowy owl, nor to the resounding trumpet-call of the musical swan or the plaintive bugle-like note of the Arctic duck, but to the pairing and love cry of one or other of the divers—a wild, unregulated, unrestrained, yet sonorous and tuneful, resonant and ringing northern melody, comparable to the roar of the surge or to the thunder of a waterfall as it rushes to the deep. Wherever a lake rich in fish is to be found, with a secret place in the reeds thick enough to conceal a floating nest, we find these children of the tundra and the sea, these soberly-joyous fishers in the calm fresh waters and fearless divers in the northern sea. Thence they have come to the tundra to brood, and back thither they will lead their young as soon as these are able, like themselves, to master the waves. Over the whole extent of the tundra they visit its waters, but they prefer to the broad inland lakes the little ponds on the hills along the coast, whence they can daily plunge, with their wildly jubilant sea song, into the heaving, bountiful ocean, which is their home.

From the sea come other two birds very characteristic of the tundra. The eye follows every movement of the robber-gulls with real delight, of the phalarope with actual rapture. Both breed in the tundra: the one on open mossy moors, the other on the banks of the most hidden ponds and pools among the sallows. If other gulls be the “ravens of the sea” the skuas may well be called the “sea-falcons”. With full justice do they bear the names of robber and parasitic gulls, for they are excellent birds of prey when there is no opportunity for parasitism, and they become parasites when their own hunting has been unsuccessful. Falcon-like they fly in summer through the tundra, in winter along the coast regions of the North Sea; they hover over land or sea to find their prey, then swoop down skilfully and gracefully and seize without fail the victim they have sighted. But even these capable hunters do not scruple, under some circumstances, to become bold beggars. Woe to the gull or other sea-bird which seizes its prey within sight of a skua! With arrow-like swiftness he follows the fortunate possessor uttering barking cries, dances, as if playfully, round him on all sides, cunningly prevents any attempt at flight, resists all defence, and untiringly and ceaselessly teases him till he gives up his prize, even though it has to be regurgitated from his crop. The life and habits of the Arctic skua, its skill and agility, its courage and impudence, untiring watchfulness and irresistible importunity are extraordinarily fascinating; even its begging can be excused, so great are its charms. Yet the phalarope is still more attractive. It is a shore bird, which unites in itself the qualities of its own order and those of the swimming birds, living, as it does, partly on land, partly in the water, even in the sea. Buoyant and agile, surpassing all other swimming birds in grace of motion, it glides upon the waves; quickly and nimbly it runs along the shore; with the speed of a snipe it wings its zigzag flight through the air. Confidently and without fear it allows itself to be observed quite closely, and in its anxiety for the safety of its brood usually betrays its own nest, with the four pear-shaped eggs, however carefully it has been concealed among the reeds. It is perhaps the most pleasing of all the birds of the tundra.[13]

Fig. 9.—Skuas, Phalarope, and Golden Plovers.

Likewise characteristic of the tundra are the birds of prey, or, at least, their manner of life there is characteristic. For it is only on the southern boundary of the region or among the heights that there are trees or rocks on which they can build their eyries, and they are perforce obliged to brood on the ground. Among the winding branches of the dwarf-birch is the nest of the marsh-owl, on its crown that of the rough-legged buzzard; on the bare ground lie the eggs of the snowy-owl and the peregrine falcon, though the latter chooses a place as near as possible to the edge of a gully, as though he would deceive himself by vainly attempting to make up for the lack of heights. That it and all the others are fully conscious of the insecurity of their nesting-place is shown by their behaviour on the approach of man. From a distance the traveller is watched suspiciously and is greeted with loud cries; the nearer he approaches the greater grows the fear of the anxious parents. Hitherto they have been circling at a safe distance, about twice as far as a shot would carry, over the unfamiliar but dreaded enemy; now they swoop boldly down, and fly so closely past his head that he distinctly hears the sharp whirr of their wings, sometimes indeed he has reason to fear that he will be actually attacked. Meanwhile the young birds, which are visible even from a distance as white balls, bend timidly down and await the approach of this enemy,—suspected at least, if not known as such,—sitting so still in their chosen, or perhaps forced position that one can sketch them without fear of being disturbed by a single movement—a charming picture!

Many other animals might be enumerated if I thought them necessary to a picture of the tundra. At least one more is characteristic—the mosquito. To call it the most important living creature of the tundra would be scarcely an exaggeration. It enables not a few of the higher animals, especially birds and fishes, to live; it forces others, like man, to periodic wanderings; and it is in itself enough to make the tundra uninhabitable in summer by civilized beings. Its numbers are beyond all conception; its power conquers man and beast; the torture it causes beggars description.