One of Skewbald’s most interesting glimpses of his bird neighbours concerned another family party. He was standing one evening in June by a great brake of gorse on a bank, near a little stream, when he heard a flutter of wings, and a great bird alighted, a shelduck, glorious in her black, white, and chestnut plumage, crimson neb, and coral legs—a bird which one associates with the sandy shores of North Wales or the dunes of Norfolk. Yet here she was, and after looking round, she walked towards a rabbit-hole at the foot of a gorsebush, put her head in, and vanished.
A little later the foal and his mother were drinking at the stream very early in the morning, when a subdued but anxious croaking was heard, accompanied by a “cheeping” from tiny throats, and the shelduck came into view marshalling a long line of the prettiest, fluffy, pied little ducklings, negotiating all sorts of obstacles. And not one parent only, for the father, larger and still more resplendent than his mate, and quite as concerned and anxious, brought up the rear of the procession. Once or twice he whistled shrilly, as he intercepted an errant ball of down, and sent it into the right path. When they tumbled into the tiny stream, at once the youngsters were at home and self-confident. The drake saw them all afloat, and again the procession re-formed to paddle down-stream to the sea. What adventures were they to meet with, and how many would the parents bring safely to the seashore, to run along the margin of the tide, in their pied down indistinguishable from the foamy froth washing over the seaweed? It was perhaps ten miles to their destination, with many enemies in wait—hawks, foxes, badgers, pike, and man.
Later in the season a naturalist, not a sportsman or collector, armed only with his monocular prismatic, passed the shelduck’s burrow, and a feather caught his eye. He stooped, and picking it up, scrutinized it closely. By its white, black and chestnut, he knew at once from what bird it had fallen and that doubtless this was her nesting site.
But perhaps one of the most thrilling sights to be seen in the forest by a lover of birds was what Skewbald first beheld one cold April morning. A rough untidy yearling after his winter outdoors, he wandered down to the brook, where on a muddy patch broad three-toed footprints had been freshly impressed. Loose feathers, white, black, and brown, caught his eye, and as he sniffed at them he heard a strange musical phrase, with a humming vibratory timbre—
—which seemed to fill the air, and was repeated again and again.
Skewbald looked around, and on a little rise crowned by a grove of birches were several birds about the size of pheasants. Two were a deep blue-black, and there were several smaller, mottled grey and brown. The black grouse still lives in the New Forest, though sadly depleted in numbers, and what the yearling saw was the spring assembly, or “lekking.” The two cock-birds were going through some strange manœuvres. One which had been sitting in the fork of a tree, with his beautiful lyre-shaped tail showing to advantage, flew to the ground. He drooped his wings, lowered his outstretched neck, which, with every feather on end, looked twice its usual size, then brought up his middle tail vertically with the curved extremities hanging down, so that from the front it looked somewhat like an admiral’s cocked hat. His silvery-white undertail coverts were raised, and expanded like a fan. It was this view he displayed to the presumably admiring hens, though as far as one could see, they took not the least notice of their admirers. Meanwhile he hummed the song already indicated. Then the other bird came forward, got up like the first, and the real business commenced. With outstretched necks and distended crimson eyebrows, they fenced with each other, until one, taking courage, flew at his rival, and there was a rough-and-tumble struggle, only ended when one had had enough. Then the victor strutted about, and renewed his song.
