The cuckoo, when thus mobbed and annoyed, is supposed to be mistaken for a hawk. But do his persecutors fear him, as a hawk? My opinion is that they do not, and that even though they may begin to annoy him, under the idea that he is one, they very soon become aware, either that he is not, or, at least, that they need not mind him if he is. It is even possible that small birds may, long ago, have found out the difference between a hawk and a cuckoo, but that the habit, once begun, continues, so that it is, now, as much the thing to mob the one as the other. Be this as it may, I do not think that hawks suffer from this sort of annoyance, to anything like the same extent that cuckoos do. They have always seemed to me to be pretty indifferent, and the canaille to keep at a wary distance, whereas I have seen a chaffinch plunge right down on the back of a cuckoo, who ducked his head, and moved about on the branch where he was sitting, in a manner, and with a look, to excite pity, before flying off it, pursued by his petty antagonist. But hawks—even kestrels—may sit in trees for hours unmolested, though the whole grove know of their presence there.
Whilst watching the cuckoos sporting in their playground, and on other occasions, I have tried to come to a conclusion as to whether the male only, or both the sexes cuckoo. I have not, however, been able to make up my mind, and to me the point seems difficult to settle. (It has been settled, I know, but I don’t think that settles it.) The sexes being indistinguishable in field observation, we have to apply some test whereby we may know the one from the other, before we can say which of the two it is that cuckoos on any one occasion. But what test can we apply, other than the bird’s actions, and until we know how these differ in the sexes, how can we apply it? For how long, too, as a rule, can we watch any one bird, and when two or more are together how can we keep them distinct? Some crucial acts, however, there are, which one sex alone can perform, and if a man could spend a week or two in watching, for a reasonable length of time each day, cuckoos that in this way had declared themselves to be females, he would then be able to speak, on this point, with authority. One way, indeed, he might prove the thing in a moment, but not the other way. For instance, if he were to see a cuckoo lay an egg, and if that cuckoo cuckooed, the assumption that the male bird alone can do so would be, at once, disproved; but if it merely did not cuckoo, the question would lie open, as before. The chance, however, of making such an observation as this is an exceedingly small one. We must think of some other that would be equally a test. Certain activities may bring the sexes together, by themselves, but nidification, incubation, and the rearing of the young, are all non-existent in the case of the cuckoo. The problem cannot be solved in the way that I have solved it, with the nightjar. There is, however, the nuptial rite, and if we could see this performed, and were able to keep the sexes distinct, for some time afterwards, something, perhaps, might be got at. Let us suppose, then, that two cuckoos are observed under these circumstances, and that the male, only, cuckoos. Here, again, this would be mere negative evidence, in regard to the point in dispute. Either both the birds, or the female only, must cuckoo, or else the observation, so difficult to make, must be repeated indefinitely, and, moreover, each time that neither bird cuckooed—which might very often be the case—nothing whatever would have been gained.
This is the view I take of the difficulties which lie in the way of really knowing whether the male and female cuckoo utter distinct notes. Short of the test I have suggested, one can only, I believe, come to a conclusion by begging the question—which has accordingly been done. Personally, as I say, I have not made up my mind; but I incline to think that both the sexes cuckoo. On one occasion, when the behaviour of a pair that I was watching seemed emphatically of a sexual character, the bird which I should have said was the female did so, several times, in full view; and the other, I think, cuckooed also. But here, again, I could not say for certain that the two were not males, and that conduct, which seemed to me eager and amorous, especially on the part of one bird—it was the other that certainly cuckooed—was not, really, of a bellicose character. Another pair I watched for many days in succession, from soon after their first arrival, as I imagine, and when not another cuckoo was to be seen or heard far or near. They took up their abode in a small fir plantation, and were constantly chasing and sporting with one another. That, at least, is what it looked like. If what seemed sport was really skirmishing, then it seems odd that two males should have acted thus, without a female to excite them. Would it not be odd, too, for two males to repair, thus, to the same spot, and to continue to dwell there, being always more or less together and following one another about? Though it was early in April, therefore, and though we are told that the male cuckoo arrives, each year, before the female, I yet came to the conclusion that these birds were husband and wife. At first it seemed to me that only one of them cuckooed, but afterwards I changed my opinion, though the two never did so at the same time, or answered each other, whilst I had them both in view. This, however, had they both been males, they probably would have done. Space does not allow of my giving these two instances in extenso, so I will here conclude my remarks about the cuckoo; for I have nothing to say—at least nothing new and of my own observation—in regard to its most salient peculiarity—though for saying nothing, upon that account, I think I deserve some credit.
Male Wheat-ear
CHAPTER V
Another bird, very characteristic, whilst it stays, of the steppes of Icklingham, is the wheat-ear. A blithe day it is when the first pair arrive, in splendid plumage always—the male quite magnificent, the female, with her softer shades, like a tender afterglow to his fine sunset. Both are equally pleasing to look at, but the cock bird is by much the more amusing to watch.
Who shall describe him and all his nice little ways—his delicate little hops; his still more delicate little pauses, when he stands upright like a sentinel; his little just-one-flirt of the wings, without going up; his little, sudden fly over the ground, with his coming down, soon, and standing as though surprised at what he had done; or, lastly and chiefly, his strange, mad rompings—one may almost call them—wherein he tosses himself a few yards into the air, and comes pitching, tumultuously, down, as though he would tumble all of a heap, yet never fails to alight, cleanly, on his dainty little black legs? This last is “Ercles’ vein, a tyrant’s vein”: and yet he has higher flights, bolder efforts. In display, for instance, before the female, he will fly round in circles, at a moderate height, with his tail fanned out, making, all the while, a sharp little snappy sort of twittering, and clapping his wings from time to time. He does this at irregular, but somewhat long intervals, but sometimes, instead of a roundabout, he will mount right up, and then, at once, descend, in that same tumultuous, disorderly sort of way, as though he were thrown, several times, by some unseen hand, in the same general direction—it looks much more like that than flying. But there is variation here, too, and the bird’s ruffling, tousled descent, may be exchanged for a drop, plumb down, till, when almost touching the ground, it slants off, and flits over it, for a little, before finally settling. The ascent is by little spasms of flight, divided from one another by a momentary cessation of effort, during which the wings are pressed to the sides.
Larks will mount something in this way, too, and, after descending for some time, parachute-wise, and singing, one will often fold his wings to his sides, and shoot down, head first—a little “jubilee plunger”—for his song is a jubilee. Another way to come down is at a tangent, and sideways, the tip of one wing pointing the way, like the bowsprit of a little ship. Yet another is by terraces, as I call it; that is to say, after the first dive down from where it has hung singing, the bird sweeps along, for a little, at one level—which is a terrace—then dives, again, to another one, a little below it, sweeps along on that, descends to a third, and so on, down to the ground. There is, indeed, a good deal of individual variety in the way in which larks fly—at least between any two or more that one may see doing the same thing at the same time—soaring, descending, and so on. The flight itself is of many kinds—as the ordinary, the mount up to the watch-tower (“from his watch-tower in the skies”), the hanging, motionless, on extended wings, the descent, the serene on-sailing, without a stroke, as of the eagle; and, again, the suspension, with wings lightly quivering, as the kestrel hovers. But how different is the character impressed upon these last! What the eagle does in majesty, and the hawk in rapine, that the lark does in beauty only, in music of motion and song.
All this, of course, is in the spring and summer only. In the winter, when they flock, larks fly low over the land, and this they all do in much the same way. Though most of their poetry is now gone, or lies slumbering, yet they are still interesting little birds to watch. They walk or run briskly along the ground, and continually peck down upon it, with a quick little motion of the head. They appear to direct each peck with precision, and to get something each time, but what I cannot say. It may be anything, as long as it is minute; that seems to be the principle—so that, as one sees nothing, it is like watching a barmecide feast. Larks never hop, I believe, when thus feeding, though sometimes the inequalities of the ground give them the appearance of doing so. They look and move like little quails, crowd not, but keep together in a scattered togetherness, and fly, all together, over the hard earth, often seeming to be on the point of alighting, but changing their minds and going on, so that no man—“no, nor woman either”—can say whether, or when, they will settle. Creeping thus—for, however fast they go, they seem to creep—over the brown fields in winter, the very shape of these little birds seems different to what one has known it. They look flatter, less elongated; their body is like a small globe, flattened at the poles, and the short little tail projects from it, clearly and sharply. A staid tail it is in winter. I have never seen it either wagged or flirted; for between the wagging and flirting of a bird’s tail, there is, as Chaucer says about two quite different things, “a long and largé difference.” Much charm in these little birdies, even when winter reigns and