British Birds in Their Haunts

by C. A. Johns

MARSH WARBLER
ACROCÉPHALUS PALUSTRIS

Upper parts olive-green without any reddish tinge; legs and feet pale brown.

The Marsh Warbler is local in its occurrence, in the south of England. It nests in drier places than the Reed Warbler and its song is different, being much more melodious, and uttered more boldly. Close to low bushes, or among meadow-sweet, nettles and cow-parsnip, you may find its nest, which is made of fine rounded stalks of grass and lined with horsehair. There are five to seven eggs, whiter in ground colour than those of the Reed Warbler. The Marsh Warbler comes each spring to the neighbourhood of Taunton, but it is still a somewhat rare species.

THE SEDGE WARBLER
ACROCÉPHALUS PHRAGMÍTIS

Upper plumage olive-grey, the centre of each feather tinged with brown; above the eyes a broad yellowish white stripe; under, yellowish white, more or less tinged with red; throat white; tail rounded, of moderate length, of a uniform ash-brown. Length four and a half inches; breadth seven and a half. Eggs dirty white, mottled all over with dull yellowish brown.

On the banks of reedy and bushy rivers, in marshes, withy holts, wherever, in fact, there is fresh water associated with enough vegetation to shelter and conceal, this bustling little bird is a constant summer visitor; restless in its habits, and courting notice by its twittering song, from the time of its arrival to that of its departure. It is usually first detected by its rapidly repeated note, which it utters while performing its short flights from bush to bush, and while creeping in and out among reeds and rushes. The fisherman knows it well, and is often tempted to withdraw his eye from his fly or float, to watch its movements on the opposite bank. From its unceasing babble, ploughboys call it a 'chat', a name which exactly answers to the French name of the group to which it belongs—'Jaseuses'. Its note is remarkable neither for volume nor sweetness, and, like that of unfeathered chatterers, seems to carry more noise than meaning. To a certain extent the bird is a mimic, as it imitates such notes of other birds as are within the compass of its little throat. I was walking one morning in May by the banks of a canal not far from a village, when I remarked the exact resemblance between a portion of its song and the chirrup of a House Sparrow. Intermixed with this, I detected the note of some other bird; but, familiar though it sounded, I ransacked my memory in vain to discover from whom it was purloined. Pursuing my walk towards the houses, I heard the note of some Guinea-fowls; not the 'come-back' cry, but the 'click-click' which every one knows so well. Of this the Sedge Warbler had caught exactly both the key and the time; the two notes were in fact identical, except that they were performed on instruments of different calibre. Like other chatterers, who, when they have finished their song, are easily provoked to begin again, the Sedge Warbler, if he does occasionally retire to a bed of reeds and there holds his peace, may be excited to repeat his whole story over again, with variations and additions, by flinging a stone into his breathing-place. And not content with babbling all day, he extends his loquacity far into the night; hence he has been called the Sedge Nightingale, but with doubtful propriety, for, with all the will perhaps to vie with that prince of songsters, the zinzinare of the Nightingale is far beyond his powers. Yet in spite of his obtrusiveness, he is an amusing and a pleasant companion to the wanderer by the river's side: his rivalry is devoid of malice, and his mimicry gives no one pain. While at rest—if he is ever to be detected in this state—he may be distinguished from all other birds frequenting similar haunts by his rounded tail, and a light narrow mark over each eye. His food consists of worms, insects, and fresh-water mollusks, for which he hunts among the stems of aquatic plants. As an architect, he displays great skill, constructing his nest among low bushes, never at any great distance from the water, about a foot from the ground. It is composed of stems and leaves of dead grass, moss and fine roots, and lined with hair, wool, feathers, and the down of various marsh plants. The structure is large, compact, and deep, suspended from, rather than built on, its supports. The eggs are usually five or six in number, though as many as seven have been sometimes found.

THE GRASSHOPPER WARBLER
LOCUSTELLA NÆVIA

Upper parts light brown, with a tinge of green, and presenting a spotted appearance, owing to the centres of the feathers being darkest; tail long, rounded at the extremity and tapering towards the base; under parts whitish brown, the breast marked with darker spots; feet and toes light brown. Length five and a half inches; breadth seven and a half. Eggs reddish white, closely speckled with darker red.

As long ago as the time when a stroll of five-and-twenty miles fatigued me less than a journey of ten does now—when I returned from my botanical rambles with tin boxes, hands and pockets, laden with stores of flowers, ferns, and mosses, my homeward path often led me through a certain valley and wood on the skirts of Dartmoor, known by the names of Bickleigh Vale and Fancy Wood. It often happened that twilight was fading into gloom when I reached this stage in my wanderings—the last of the evening songsters had hushed its note; for this county, beautiful as it is, offers not sufficient attraction to the Nightingale; yet I never passed this way under such circumstances without feeling myself compelled to stop once and again to listen to the monotonous whir of what I had been told, and what I believed to be the note of the large green grasshopper, or locust. Monotonous is, perhaps, not the right word to use, for an acute ear can detect in the long unmusical jar a cadence descending sometimes a semitone, and occasionally almost a whole note; and it seemed besides to increase in loudness for a few seconds and then to subside a little below the ordinary pitch; this fall is chiefly at the breeding season. Whether the difference was produced by a rising and lulling of the breeze, or whether the musician actually altered its note and intensity of noise (or must I call it music?), I could never decide. As long as I fancied the performer to be an insect, I was inclined to believe that one of the first suppositions was correct; for it seemed hardly possible that the purely mechanical action of an insect's thighs against its body could produce variety of sound—as well expect varied intonations from a mill-wheel or saw-pit. Attentive observation, and the knowledge that the noise in question proceeded not from the exterior of an insect, but from the throat of a bird, has led me to form another conclusion. I am not surprised at my having fallen into the error; for the song of this bird is but an exaggeration of the grasshopper's note, and resembles the noise produced by pulling out the line from the winch of a fishing-rod, no less continuous is it, nor more melodious. Many years afterwards, when the memory of these pleasant wanderings had faded away, I happened one evening in May to be passing across a common in Hertfordshire, skirted by a hedge of brushwood, when the old familiar sound fell on my ear like a forgotten nursery melody. The trees not being in their full foliage, I was not without hope that I might be able to get a sight of the performer, whom I now knew to be a bird, and I crept quietly towards the spot whence the noise proceeded. Had it been singing in a copse-wood instead of a hedge, I should certainly have failed, for there is the same peculiarity about its note that there is about that of the insect—you cannot make up your mind exactly whereabouts the instrument which makes the noise is at work. The note, when near, is continuous, monotonous, and of equal loudness throughout; it might be a minute spinning-wheel revolving rapidly, or a straw pipe with a pea in it blown with a single breath and then suddenly stopping. But whether the performance is going on exactly before you, a little to the right, or a little to the left, it is hard to decide. I approached to within a few yards of the hedge, and peered through the hazel rods, now decorated with drooping tufts of plaited leaves, but all in vain. I went a step or two nearer; the sound ceased, and the movement of a twig directed my attention towards a particular bush, on which I saw a little bird, about as big as a Hedge Sparrow, quietly and cautiously dropping branch by branch to the ground. In a few minutes I observed it again a few yards off, creeping with a movement resembling that of the Nuthatch up another bush. Having reached to nearly the summit it became motionless, stretched out its neck, and keeping its mandibles continuously open and slightly elevated, commenced its trill again; then it shuffled about for some seconds and repeated the strain. It now seemed to descry me, and dropping to the ground as before, reappeared a few yards off. I fancied that while actually singing its feathers were ruffled; but in the imperfect twilight I could not decide positively. That it kept its mandibles motionless while singing, I had no doubt. Half an hour afterwards, at a quarter to eight, I returned from my walk, and observed it several times go through precisely the same manœuvres. On no occasion did it make a long flight, but even when I scared it by throwing a stone into the hedge near it, it merely dropped to the ground, and in a minute or two was piping from another bush. I have not found, as some authors say, that it resorts only to the vicinity of watery places. The one which I saw on this occasion had located itself for the summer several miles from a stream; and others which I have heard night after night had settled down on the skirts of a dry common, watered only by the clouds. Its nest I have sought for in vain.

THE CHIFF-CHAFF
PHYLLOSCOPUS RUFUS