The winners in life's race

by Arabella B. Buckley

Sweeps o’er the cornfield, studious.”

The soft, round, broad wings, which would serve badly for striking a quarry from on high, are exactly fitted for gliding in the silence of the night, as, guided by wide open eye and ear, he skims over the fields or round the stacks in the yard to pounce noiselessly upon the unwary mouse or to seize the flying beetles and bats. Then the sharp claws appear quickly from under the downy feathered feet, and clutch the smallest prey with needle-like precision; and away the owl flies to his nest, so quietly that even the other animals close by are not alarmed, but in ignorant security remain till he comes to strike again.

And as the day and the night by land have their relentless freebooters, so the sea too has its eagle king; for the Osprey, with its nest on a high rock, hovers over the open sea, and, dashing into the deep, returns with a large fish in its claws; and, as it tears the flesh from under the glittering scales, reminds us that there is no spot on the earth in which some bird does not seek its prey.

We have now in very brief outline followed the feathery tribe from the flightless penguin to the boldly-soaring eagle, the king of the air. Those feathers which in the swimming bird are scarcely more than finely-divided scales, and in the ostrich mere loose nodding plumes, have become in the albatross, the vulture, and the soaring falcon, flying instruments of such power and strength that the earth and the water are as nothing to them compared with the free ocean of air; while even the tiny graceful swallow flies for hundreds of miles to its winter home.

Indeed, we have here one of the great secrets of bird success; for while most animals must roam within limited districts, and get their food there as best they can, thousands and tens of thousands of birds set off, when the colder weather makes food scarce in any one region, and travel hundreds of miles to more genial climates, where insects are still to be found, and the trees are still covered with fruit and leaves. How strange it is to think that while we are making the best of our winter, the swallow has taken her unerring flight to Africa, the swans and cranes have long since made their southward journey, and myriads of small birds have gone in search of food and warmth, to return next spring as certainly to their old haunts, where they can breed in cool and comfortable quarters!

If we could only get the birds to tell us how they have learned the routes they take, and by what rules they are guided! One thing we know, that each kind of bird makes its nest in the coldest region which it visits, and where, at the time its young brood are ready, insect and other life is abundant; so that while the wild duck and goose, the woodcock, snipe, and field-fare, go to the far north to lay their eggs, and come to us in the sharper weather to feed when there is nothing but ice and snow in the home they have left, the swallow, the cuckoo, the swift, and the wheatear, on the other hand, visit us in the spring to build, and when autumn comes on take their flight to Africa and the East; and even many of the song-thrushes and robin-redbreasts which remain with us in England start off from Germany to warmer climates. Others, again, such as some of the Reed-warblers, the Stint, and the Ortolan Bunting, only make our island a house of call between the arctic regions where they breed in the summer when mosquitoes are swarming there, and the south where they winter after flying thousands of miles.

It would take too long to discuss here why and how they go, even if we knew it with certainty; but it is most probable that their ancestors first learned the routes now taken when Europe and Africa had not so wide a sea between them, and we can see that it must be a great advantage to be able to travel from climate to climate, so as to find a plentiful table spread at all times of the year; while they may return to the north to breed, not merely because there is food there, but also because in still earlier times, when the northern countries were much warmer than they are now, they doubtless lived there altogether, and, though now obliged to go south, have never lost the tradition of their old home.

Thus the birds, with their feathery covering and powerful wings, have left their early friends, the reptiles, far far behind. Taught by their many dangers, many experiences, and many joys, they have become warmhearted, quickwitted, timid or bold, ferocious or cunning, deliberate as the rook, or passionate as the falcon, according to the life they have to lead; or, in the sweet tender emotions of the little song-birds, have learned to fill the world with love and brightness and song. If mere enjoyment were all that could be desired in life, where could we expect to find it better than in the light-hearted skylark as she rises in the early summer morning to trill forth her song of joy, or in the happy chuckle of the hen as her little ones gather around her.

Yet we cannot but feel that, happy as a bird’s life may be, it still leaves something to be desired; and that, with their small brain and their front limbs entirely employed in flying, they cannot make the highest use of the world. The air they have conquered; and among the woods and forests, over the wide sea, and above the lofty mountains, they lead a busy and happy existence, bringing flying creatures to their highest development, and showing how Life has left no space unfilled with her children. Yet, after all, it is upon the ground, where difficulties are many, conditions varied, and where there is so much to call for contrivance, adaptation, and intelligence, that we must look for the highest types of life; and while we leave the joyous birds with regret, we must go back to the lower forms among the four-footed animals, in order to travel along the line of those that have conquered the earth and prepared the way for man himself.