Bird Life Glimpses

by Edmund Selous

From the length of time which herons spend out on the marshes, or adjoining warrens, they must, I suppose, feed a good deal on frogs, or even less aquatic prey—moles, mice, shrews, as I believe, for I have found the remains of these under their trees, in pellets which seemed to me far too large, as well as too numerous, to be those of owls, the only other possible bird: yet I have not observed them in the pursuit of “such small deer,” and herons look for their food far more, and wait for it far less than is generally supposed. See one, now, at the river. For a minute or two, after coming down, he stands with his neck drawn in between his shoulders, and then, with a stealthy step, begins to walk along under the bank, advancing slowly, and evidently on the look-out. Getting a little more into the stream, he stands a few moments, again advances, then with body projecting, horizontally, on either side of the legs—like the head of a mallet—and neck a little outstretched, he stops once more. At once he makes a dart forward, so far forward that he almost—nay, sometimes quite—overbalances, the neck shoots out as from a spring, and instantly he has a fair-sized fish in his bill, which, after a little tussling and quiet insistence—gone through like a grave formal etiquette—he swallows. Directly afterwards he washes his beak in the stream, and then drinks, a little, as though for a sauce to his fish. There is, now, a brisk satisfied ruffle of the plumage, after which he hunches himself up, again, and remains thus, resting, for a longer or shorter time. In swallowing the fish, the long neck is stretched forwards and upwards, and, when it has swallowed it, the bird gives a sort of start, and looks most comically satisfied. There is that about him—something almost of surprise, if it could be, at his own deediness—which, in a man, might be expressed by, “Come, what do you think of that, now? Not so very bad, is it?” A curious sort of half-resemblance to humanics one gets in animals, sometimes—like, but in an odd, bizarre way, more generalised, the thing in its elements, less consciousness of what is felt. They wear their rue with a difference, but rue it is. It is interesting, too, to see the way in which the fish is manipulated. It is not tossed into the air, and caught, again, head downwards, nor does it ever seem to be quite free of the beak, at all points; but keeping always the point, or anterior part of the mandibles, upon it, the heron contrives, by jerking its head about, to get it turned and lying lengthways between them, en train for swallowing. The whole thing has a very tactile appearance; it is wonderful with what delicacy and nicety, in nature, very hard, and, as one would think, insensitive material may be used. How, in this special kind of handling, does the human hand, about which so much has been said, excel the bird’s beak? The superiority of the former appears to me to lie, rather, in the number of things it can do, than in the greater efficiency with which it can do any one of them. It is curious, indeed, that the advantage gained here is due to the principle of generalisation, as against that of specialisation, which last we see more in the foot.

In its manipulation of the fish the serratures in the upper mandible of its bill must be a great help to the heron, and this may throw some light on the use of the somewhat similar, though more pronounced, ones in the claw of its middle toe. Concerning this structure, Frank Buckland—whose half-part edition of White’s “Selborne” I have at hand—says: “The use of it is certainly not for prehension, as was formerly supposed, but rather, as its structure indicates, for a comb. Among the feathers of the heron and bittern can always be found a considerable quantity of powder. The bird, probably, uses this comb to keep the powder and feathers in proper order.” Why “certainly”? And how much of observation does “probably” contain? This is what Dickens has described as making a brown-paper parcel of a subject, and putting it on a shelf, labelled, “Not to be opened.” But, “By your leave, wax,” and I shall open as many such parcels as I choose. It is possible, indeed, that the heron’s serrated claw may not be, now, of any special use. It may be a survival, merely, of something that once was. If, however, it is used in a special manner, what this manner is can only be settled by good affirmative evidence, and of this, as Frank Buckland does not give any, we may assume he had none to give. Instead we have “certainly” and “probably.” But I, now, have “certainly” seen the heron use his foot to secure an eel, which had proved too large and vigorous for him to retain in the bill, and which he had dropped, after just managing to fly away with it to the mud of the shore. Here, therefore, “probably” the serrated claw was of some assistance, and the fact that this heron flew to the shore, whenever he caught an unwieldy eel, and dropped it there, goes to show that this was his regular plan, viz. to put it down and help hold it with his foot, or two feet. There was always a little water where the eel was dropped—it was not the shore, to be quite accurate, but only the shallow, muddy water near it—and therefore it was only on one occasion that I saw the foot used in this way, with absolute certainty. But as I did see it this once, I cannot doubt that it was so used each time, as indeed it always appeared to me to be. It is the inner side of each of the two claws that is serrated, and one can imagine how nicely an eel, or fish, thus dropped into the mud, could be pinched between them. This, then, is affirmative evidence. Negatively, I have seen the heron preen itself very elaborately, without once raising a foot so as to touch the feathers. On these occasions the bird often, apparently, does something to its feet, with the beak, what, exactly, it is difficult to say, inasmuch as a heron’s feet are hardly ever visible, except while it walks. But the head is brought right down, and then moves slightly, yet nicely, as a hand might that held some long, fine instrument, with which a delicate operation was being performed. Were the extreme tip of the bill to be passed between the serratures of the claw, the motion would be just like this, at least I should think it would.

People about here talk of a filament which they say grows out of one of the heron’s toes, and by looking like a worm in the water, attracts fish within his reach, in the same way as does the lure of the angler-fish. In Bury, once, seeing a heron—a sad sight—hanging up in a fishmonger’s shop, I looked at its feet, but did not notice any filament. This, indeed, was before I had heard the legend, but my idea is that it has sprung up in accordance with the popular view that the heron always waits, “like patience on a monument,” for his prey to come to him; whereas my own experience is that he prefers to stalk it for himself. I suspect, myself, that when the bird stands motionless, for any very great length of time, he is not on the look-out for a fish or eel, as commonly supposed, but resting and digesting merely. Certainly, should one approach, he might find himself under the necessity of securing it—his professional pride would be touched—but why, if he were hungry, should he wait so long? Why should he not rather do what, as we have seen, he is very well able to do, set out and find his own dinner? It need not take him five minutes to do so. One use, probably, of the long neck is that, from the height of it, the bird can peer out into the stream, as from a watch-tower, which is the simile that Darwin[13] has made use of in regard to the giraffe, an animal whose whole structure has been adapted for browsing in trees, but which has thereby gained this incidental advantage, with the result that no animal is more difficult to approach.

I have given a picture—or, rather, a photograph—of how a pair of sitting herons relieve each other on the nest. It is interesting, also, to see one of them come to it, and commence sitting, when the other is away. Alighting on one of the supporting boughs that project from the mass of sticks, he walks down it with stealthy step and wary mien, the long neck craned forward, yet bent into a stiff, ungraceful S. Upon reaching the nest, he stands for some seconds on its brim, in a curious perpendicular attitude, the legs, body, and neck being almost in one straight line, from the top of which the snake-like head and spiked bill shoot sharply and angularly out. Standing thus, he raises himself a-tip-toe once or twice, as though it were St. Crispin’s Day, or to get the widest possible view of the landscape, before shutting himself out from it, then stepping into the nest, and sinking slowly down in it, becomes entirely concealed in its deep, capacious cavity. Both here, and, still more, in alighting, one cannot but notice the strange rigid aspect that the bird presents. “Cannot but,” I say, because one would like it to be otherwise—graceful, harmonious—but it is not. There are no subtle bends or curves—no seeming symmetry—but all is hard, stiff, and angular. Even the colours look crude and harsh, as they might in a bad oil painting. Nature is sometimes “a rum ’un,” as Squeers said she was. Here she looks almost unnatural, very different from what an artist who aimed at being pleasing, merely, or plausible, would represent her as. This shows how cautious one ought to be in judging of the merits, or otherwise, of an animal artist. There are many more human than animal experts, and the latter, as a rule, are not artistic, so that, between critical ignorance and uncultured knowledge, good work may go for long before it gets a just recognition. Those who talk about Landseer having stooped to put human expressions into his animals, seem to me to be out of touch at any rate with dogs. Probably the thought of how profoundly the dog’s psychology has been affected by long intercourse with man has not occurred to them, it being outside their department. Sure I am that the expression of the dog in that picture, “The Shepherd’s Chief Mourner,” and of the two little King Charles spaniels lying on the cavalier’s hat, are quite perfect things. Even in that great painting of Diogenes and Alexander—removed, Heaven knows why, and to my lasting grief, from the National Gallery—though here there is an intentional humanising, yet it is wonderful how close Landseer has kept to civilised canine expression—though one would vainly seek for even the shadows of such looks in the dogs of savages. As for Diogenes, the blending of reality with symbolical suggestion is simply marvellous. Never, I believe, will any human Diogenes, on canvas, approach to this animal one. Yet this masterpiece has been basely spirited away from its right and only worthy place—its true home—in our national collection, to make room, possibly, for some mushroom monstrosity of the time, some green-sick Euphrosyne or melancholy, snub-nosed Venus (the modern-ancient Greek type has often a snub nose). However, no one seems to mind.

I think some law ought to be enacted to protect great works against the changes of fashion. Has not the view that succeeding ages judge better than that in which a poet or artist lived, been pressed a great deal too far, or, rather, has it not for too long gone unchallenged? If something must be gained by time in the power of forming a correct estimate, much also may be lost through its agency. It is true that the slighter merit—that dependent on changing things—dies in our regard, whilst the greater, which is independent of these, lives on in it and may be better understood as time goes by. But this better understanding belongs to the élite of many ages, not to each succeeding age as a whole. And what, too, is understanding, without feeling? Must not the one be in proportion to the other—in all things, at least, into which feeling enters? But if an age sinks, it sinks altogether, both heart and head. We know how Shakespeare fared in the age of Charles the Second, when time had run some fifty years. It would be very interesting, I think, if we could compare an Elizabethan audience with one of our own—full of languid press critics—at a Shakespearean play—King Lear, for instance. Should we not have to confess that the age which produced the thing responded to it—that is, understood it—best? And this, indeed, we might expect—it was in Molière’s own day, and he himself was on the stage, when that cry from the pit arose: “Bravo Molière! Voilà la bonne comédie!” But all Shakespeare’s excellences—Molière’s as well—were of the permanent order, the high undying kind, so that it was of this that his age had to judge, and judged, there can be little doubt—for King Lear, as he wrote it, was a popular play—much better than our later one. If we will not confess this with Shakespeare, take Spenser, the delight of his age, whose glorious merits none will deny, though few, now, know anything about them. Why, then, must we think that time is the best judge of men’s work, or dwell only on the truth contained in this proposition? There is a heavy per contra against it. At the time when a man’s reputation is most established, his work may be quite neglected, showing that there is knowledge, merely, accumulated and brought down through the ages, but no real appreciation—a husk with nothing inside it. That best judgment which we think we get through time, even where it exists, is too often of the head only, whilst more often still it is nothing at all, a mere assurance received without question—as we take any opinion from anybody, when we neither know nor care anything about the subject of it. How easy to agree that Milton’s greatness is more recognised, now, than it was, when we have never yet been able, and never again intend to try, to read the “Paradise Lost”! It is the same with our detractions. If all the inappreciative, silly things said about Pope are really meant by the people who say them—as they seem to wish us to believe, and, as for my part, I do not doubt—if they really cannot enjoy “The Rape of the Lock,” “The Dunciad,” or the various “Essays,” then, in the matter of Pope, what a dull age this must be, compared to that of Queen Anne! And are we really to believe that Goethe, Scott, Shelley, with the rest of their generation, were mistaken about Byron, whilst we of to-day are not? What was it that Scott’s, that Shelley’s organism thrilled to, when they read him, with high delight, if some microscopic creature who reads him now is right when he finds him third-rate? It is very odd, surely, if the most gifted spirits of an age do really “see Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt” in this way. To me it seems less puzzling to suppose that successive generations have, as it were, varying sense organs, which are acted upon by different numbers of vibrations of the ether, so that for one to belittle the idol of another, is as it would be for the ear to fall foul of millions in a second, it being sensitive, itself, only to thousands. We do, indeed, admit the “Zeitgeist,” but if ever we allow for it when we play the critic, it is always in favour of our own perspicuity—and this against any number of past spiritual giants. This is an age in which most things are questioned. Is it not time for that dogma of what we call “the test of time”—by which everybody understands his own time—to be questioned, too?

“In April,” says the rhyme, “the cuckoo shows his bill.” Somewhat late April, in my experience, at least about this bleak, open part of Suffolk, which, however, contrary to what might be expected, seems loved by the bird. Almost opposite to my house, but at some little distance from it, across the river, there is a wide expanse of open, sandy land, more or less thinly clothed with a long, coarse, wiry grass, and dotted, irregularly, at very wide intervals, with elder and hawthorn trees and bushes—a desolate prospect, which I prefer, myself, to one of cornfields, unless the corn is all full of poppies and corn-flowers, which, indeed, it is here, and I am told it is bad agriculture. If that be so, then, à bas the good! Part of this space, where the sand encroaches on the grass, till it is shared, at last, only by short, dry lichen, which the rabbits browse, I call the amphitheatre, it being roughly circular in shape. One solitary crab-apple tree—from the seed, no doubt, of the cultivated kind—growing on its outer edge, is a perfect glory of blossom in the spring, and becomes, then, quite a landmark. This barren space is a favourite gathering-ground of the stone-curlews; whilst cuckoos seem to prefer the more grassy expanse, flying about it from one lonely bush or tree to another, and down a wild-grown hedge that tops a raised bank on one side, running from a tangled plantation standing sad and sombre on the distant verge. Beyond, and all around, is the moorland; whilst nearer, through a reedy line, the slow river creeps to the fenlands. I have seen sights, here, to equal many in spots better known for their beauty, not meaning to undervalue these; but as long as there is sun, air, and sky, one may see almost anything anywhere. Take an early May morning—fine, but as cold as can be. Though the sun is brilliant in a clear, blue sky, the earth is yet white with frost, and over it hang illuminated mists that rise curling up, like the smoke from innumerable camp-fires. A rabbit, sitting upright with them all around him, looks as though he were warming his paws at one, and cuckoos, flitting through the misty sea, appearing and fading like the shades of birds in Hades, make the effect quite magical. Nature’s white magic this—oh short, rare glimpses of a real fairyland, soon to be swallowed up in this world’s great tedium and commonplace! It is in the afternoon, however, from 5 o’clock or thereabouts, and on into the evening, that the cuckoo playground is best worth visiting. Quite a number of cuckoos—a dozen sometimes, or even more—now fly continually from bush to bush, or sit perched in them, sometimes two or more in the same one. They fly irregularly over the whole space, and, by turns, all are with one another, and on every bush and tree that there is. Two will be here, three or four there, half-a-dozen or more somewhere else, whilst the groups are constantly intermingling, the members of one becoming those of another, two growing into four or five, these, again, thinning into two or one, and so on. But during the height of the play or sport, or whatever we may term it, there is hardly a moment when birds may not be seen in pursuit, or, rather, in graceful following flight, of one another, over some or other part of the space. This space—an irregular area of about 1100 paces in circumference—they seldom go beyond or leave, except for good, and as they repair to it daily, at about the same times, this makes it, in some real sense, their playground, as I have called it.

But, now, what is the nature of the play, and in what does the pleasure consist? If it be sexual, as I suppose, then it would seem as if the passions of the cuckoo were of a somewhat languid nature. The birds, even when there is most the appearance of pursuit, do not, in a majority of cases, seem to wish to approach each other closely. The rule is that when the pursued or leading cuckoo settles in a tree or bush, the pursuing or following one flies beyond it, into another. Should the latter, however, settle in the same bush, the other, just as he alights—often on the very same twig—flies on to the next. This certainly looks like desire on the part of the one bird; but where two or more sit in the same tree, or in two whose branches interpenetrate, they show no wish for a very near proximity. The delight seems to be in flying or sitting in company, but the company need not be close. That the sexual incentive is the foundation-stone of all, can hardly be doubted, but this does not appear to be of an ardent character, and perhaps social enjoyment, independent of sex, may enter almost as largely. After all, however, the same may be said of the sportings of peewits and other birds, when the breeding-time is only beginning, so that, perhaps, there is not really any very distinctive feature. Be it as it may, this sporting of cuckoos is a very pretty and graceful thing to see. Beginning, as I have said, in the latter part of the afternoon, it is at its height between 6 and 7 o’clock, then gradually wanes, but lasts, as far as odd pairs of birds are concerned, for another hour or more. As may be imagined, it does not proceed in silence; but what is curious—yet very noticeable—is that the familiar cuckoo is not so often heard. Far more frequent is a noisy “cack-a-cack, cack-a-cack,” a still louder “cack, cack, cack”—a very loud note indeed—the loud, single “cook” disjoined from its softening syllable, and the curious “whush, whush” or “whush, whush, whush-a-whoo-whoo.” The last is very common, seems to express everything, but is uttered, I think, oftenest when the bird is excited. Again, instead of “cuckoo,” one sometimes hears “cuc-kew-oop,” the last syllable being divided, with a sort of gulp in the throat, making it a three-syllabled cry. This difference is very marked, and, moreover, the intonation is different, being much more musical. All these notes, and others less easy to transcribe, are uttered by the bird, either flying or sitting. Another one, different from all, and very peculiar, is generally heard under the latter condition, but by no means invariably so. It is a sharp, thin “quick, quick, quick-a-quick,” or “kick, kick, kick-a-kick,” pronounced very quickly, and in a high tone. Whether this is the note of the female cuckoo only, I cannot say. I have often heard it in answer to a “cuckoo,” but I am not yet satisfied that even this last is uttered by the male bird alone. To this point, however, I will recur.

Now, all the above variants of the familiar “cuckoo”—the “cook,” “cack,” “cack-a-cack,” “cuc-kew-oop,” &c.—I have heard both in May and April, as any one else may do who will only listen. But in what other way does the cuckoo “change his tune,” which, according to the old rhyme, he does “in June”? “In June he changes his tune.” This, at least, is what I take it to mean, and it is so understood, about here. It can, I think, only mean this, and if it means anything else it is equally false in my experience. I think, before putting faith in old country jingles of this sort, one ought to remember two things. First, that ordinary country people are not particularly observant, except, perhaps, of one another; and then, that, as a general principle—this at least is my firm belief—a rhyme will always carry it over the truth, if the latter is not too preposterously outraged. Something, in this case, was wanted to rhyme with June, as with all the other months, in which it happened to come pretty pat. Oh, then, let the cuckoo change his tune, for you may hear him do it then as well as at another time. And many poets, too—most, perhaps, now and again—led by this same bad necessity of rhyming, run counter to truth in just the same way. Rhyme, indeed, is in many respects a pernicious influence. It is constraining, cramps the powers of expression, checks effective detail, and coarsens or starves the more delicate shades and touches. Yet, with all the limitations and shacklings which its use must necessarily impose, we have amongst us a set of purists who are always crying out against any rhyme which is not absolutely exact, though that it is sufficiently so to please the ear—and what more is required?—is proved by this, that many of our best-loved couplets rhyme no better—and by this, that the ear is pleased with rhythm alone, as in blank verse. And so the fetters, instead of being widened, as they ought to be, are to be pulled closer and closer, and, to get an absolute jingle, all higher considerations—and there can hardly be one that is not higher—are to be sacrificed. I doubt if there has ever been a poet whose own ear would have led him to be so nice in this way; but so-called critics—for the most part the most artificial and inappreciative of men—weave their net of nothing around them. Happy for our literature, and for peoples still to be moved by it, to whom what was thought by the old British pedants to constitute a cockney rhyme will be a matter but of learned-trifling interest—if of any—when “these waterflies” are disregarded! By great poets I would be understood to mean. As for the other ones, “de minimis”—yes, and “de minoribus,” too, here—“non curat lex.” Mais laissons tout cela.

There can hardly be a better place for observing the ways of cuckoos than this open amphitheatre which I have spoken of. It is not only their playing-ground, but their feeding-ground, too, and the way in which they feed is very interesting—at least, I think it so. The few hawthorns and elders that are scattered about, serve them as so many watch-towers. Sitting, usually, on some top bough of one, they seem to be resting, but really keep a watch upon the ground. The moment their quick eye catches anything “of the right breed” there, they fly down to it, swallow it on the spot, and then fly back to their station again. When they have exhausted one little territory they fly to a bush commanding another, and so from bush to bush. They always fly down to a particular spot, and in a direct line, without wavering. This proves that they have seen the object from where they were sitting, though often it is at a distance which might make one think this impossible. Their eyesight must be wonderfully good, but that, of course, one would expect. I have seen a cuckoo fly from one bush like this, and return to it, again, eight or nine times in succession, at short, though irregular, intervals. Both on this and on other occasions, whenever I could make out what the bird got, it was always a fair-sized, reddish-coloured worm, very much like those one looks for in a dung-heap, to go perch or gudgeon fishing. When the bush was near I could see this quite easily through the glasses, if only the bird showed the worm in its bill, as it raised its head. As a rule, however, it bolted it too quickly, whilst it was still indistinguishable amidst the grass. Now, from time to time, we have accounts of cuckoos arriving in this country somewhat earlier than usual—in March, say, instead of April—and these have been discredited on the ground that the proper insects would not then be ready for the bird, so that it would starve; though as birds, like the poor in a land of blessings, sometimes do starve, I can hardly see the force of this argument. However, here is the cuckoo feeding—largely, as it seems to me—upon worms, which are not insects, and this might make it possible for it to arrive, sometimes, at an earlier season, and yet find enough to eat. It is easy to watch cuckoos feeding in this way in open country, such as we have here, and a fascinating sight it is. Were I to see it every day of my life, I think I should be equally interested, each time. But is it an adaptation to special surroundings, or the bird’s ordinary way of getting its dinner? I think the latter, for I have seen it going on in one of the plantations, here, from shortly after daybreak. Here the birds flew from the lower boughs of oaks and beeches, and their light forms, crossing and recrossing one another in the soft, pure air of the early morning, had a very charming effect. Indeed, I do not know anything more delightful to see. Though, usually, the cuckoo eats what it finds where it finds it, yet, once in a while, it may carry it to the bush, and dispose of it there. I have, also, seen it fly up from the bush, and secure an insect in the air, returning to it, then, like a gigantic fly-catcher. Such ways in such a bird are very entertaining.

My idea is that the cuckoo is in process of becoming nocturnal—crepuscular it already is—owing to the persecution which it suffers at the hands of small birds. This is at its worst during the blaze of day. It hardly begins before the sun is fairly high, and slackens considerably as the evening draws on. Accordingly, as it seems to me, the cuckoo likes, in the between-while, to sit still, and thus avoid observation, though it by no means always succeeds in doing so. It is frequently annoyed by one small bird only, which pursues it, from tree to tree, in a most persevering manner, perching when it perches, sometimes just over its head, but very soon flying at it, again, and forcing it to take flight. This is not like the shark and the pilot-fish, but yet it always reminds me of it. I am not quite sure, however, whether the relation may not sometimes be a friendly one, not, indeed, on the part of the cuckoo, but on that of its persevering attendant. All over the country cuckoos are, each year, being reared by small birds of various species. When the spring comes round again, have these entirely forgotten their experience of the season before? If not, would not the sight, and, perhaps, still more, the smell of a cuckoo, rouse a train of associations which might induce them to fly towards it, in a state of excitement, and would it not be difficult to distinguish this from anger? Moreover, the probability, perhaps, is that the young cuckoos, as well as the old ones, return to the localities that they were established in before migration, and, in this case, they would be likely to meet their old foster parents again. It is true that the real parent and offspring, amongst birds, meet and mingle, in after life, without any emotion upon either side, as far, at least, as we can judge; but we must remember what a strange and striking event the rearing of a young cuckoo must be in the life of a small bird, at least the first time it occurs. The smell, also, would not be that of its own species, so that there would be more than appearance to distinguish it. In fact, the thing having been peculiar, the feelings aroused by it may have been stronger, in which case the memory might be stronger too, and revive these feelings, or, at least, it might arouse some sort of emotion, possibly of a vague and indistinct kind. Smell is powerful in calling up associations, and I speculate upon the possibility of its doing so, here, because the plumage of the young cuckoo, when it left its foster-parents, would have been different to that in which it must return to them. However, these are dreams. There is certainly much hostility on the part of small birds to the cuckoo, but perhaps it is just possible that l’un n’empêche pas l’autre.