Bird Life Glimpses

by Edmund Selous

Of all the birds that we have here, the peewits, for a great part of the year, give most life to the barren lands. In the winter, as I say, they disappear entirely, going off to the fens, though, here and there, their voice remains, mimicked, to the life, by a starling. In February, however, they return, and are soon sporting, and throwing their fantastic somersaults, over their old, loved breeding-grounds. Pleasant it is to have this breezy joy of spring-time, once again, to have the accustomed tilts and turns and falls and rushing sweeps, before one’s eyes, and the old calls and cries in one’s ears—the sound of the wings, too, free as the wild air they beat, and sunlight glints on green and white, and silver-flying snowflakes. “What a piece of work is a peewit!” The glossy green of the upper surface—smooth and shining as the shards of a beetle—glows, in places, with purple burnishings, and, especially, on each shoulder there is an intensified patch, the last bright twin-touch of adornment. The pure, shining white of the neck and ventral surface—shining almost into silver as it catches the sun—is boldly and beautifully contrasted with the black of the throat, chin, and forehead. The neat little, corally stilt-legs are an elegant support for so much beauty, and the crest that crowns it is as the fringe to the scarf, or the tassel to the fez. There is, besides, the walk, pose, poise, and easy swing of the whole body.

On the sopped meadow-land, near the river, in “February fill-dyke” weather, it is pleasant to see peewits bathing, which they do with mannerisms of their own. Standing upright in a little pool, one of them bobs down, into it, several times, each time scooping up the water with his head, and letting it run down over his neck and back. This is common; but he keeps his wings all the time pressed to his sides, so that they do not assist in scattering the water all over him, after the manner in which birds, when they wash, usually do. Nor does he sink upon his breast—which is also usual—but merely stoops, and rises bolt upright, again, every time. Having tubbed in this clean, precise, military fashion, he steps an inch or so to one side, and then jumps into the air, giving his wings, as he goes up, a vigorous flapping, or waving rather, for they move like two broad banners. He descends—the motion of the wings having hardly carried him beyond the original impulse of the spring—jumps up in the same way, again, and does this some three or four times, after which he moves a little farther off, and preens himself with great satisfaction. Either this is a very original method of washing, on the part of peewits in general, or this particular peewit is a very original bird. Apparently the latter is the explanation, for now two other ones bathe, couched on their breasts in the ordinary manner. Still the wings are not extended to any great degree, and play a less part in the washing process than is usual. Both these birds, too, having washed, which takes a very little while, make the little spring into the air, whilst, at the same time, shaking or waving their wings above their backs, in the way that the other did, though not quite so briskly, so that it has a still more graceful appearance. It is common for birds to give their wings a good shake after a bathe, but, as a rule, they stand firm on the ground, and this pretty aerial way of doing things is something of a novelty, and most pleasing. It is like the graceful waving of the hands in the air, by which the Normans—as Scott tells us—having had recourse to the finger-bowl, at table, suffered the moisture to exhale, instead of drying them, clumsily, on a towel, as did the inelegant Saxons. The peewit, it is easy to see, is of gentle Norman blood.

A STATUESQUE FIGURE
Snipe, with Starlings Bathing, and Peewits

Towards evening, a flock of starlings come down amongst the peewits, and some of them bathe, too, in one of the little dykes that run across the marshlands. There is a constant spraying of water into the air, which, sparkling in the sun’s slanting rays, makes quite a pretty sight. On the edge of the dyke, with the jets d’eaux all about him, a snipe stands sunning himself, on a huge molehill of black alluvial earth. He stands perfectly still for a very long time, then scratches his chin very deftly with one foot, and stands again. Were I an artist I would sketch this scene—this solitary statuesque snipe, on his great black molehill, against the silver fountains rising from the dark dyke; beyond, through the water-drops, peewits and starlings, busy or resting, all in the setting sun—“im Abendsonnenschein.” The starlings are constantly moving, and often fly from one part of the land to another. With the peewits it is different. They do not move about, to nearly the same extent. To watch and wait seems to be their principle, and when they do move, it is but a few steps forward, and then stationary again. It appears as if they waited for worms to approach the surface of the ground, for, sometimes, they will suddenly dart forward from where they have long stood, pitching right upon their breasts, securing a worm, and pulling it out as does a thrush—herons, by the way, will often go down like this, in the act of spearing a fish—or they will advance a few steps and do the same, as though their eye commanded a certain space, in which they were content to wait.

Starlings, as I have often noticed, seem to enjoy the company of peewits. They feed with them merely for their company, as I believe, and, when they fly off, will often go, too. They think them “good form,” I fancy; but the peewits do not patronise. They are indifferent, or seem to be so. They may, however, have a complacent feeling in being thus followed, and, as it were, fussed about, which does not show itself in any action. I have seen, a little after sunrise, a flock of some forty or fifty peewits go up from the marshlands, and, with them, a single starling, which flew from one part of the flock to another, making, or appearing to make, little dives at particular birds. After a minute or so, it flew back to the place it had left, and where other starlings were feeding. One of these flew to meet it, and joining it, almost midway, made delighted swoops about it, sheering off and again approaching, and so, as it were, brought it back. Now, here, the general body of the starlings remained feeding when the peewits went up. One, only, went with them, and this one must have felt something which we may assume the others to have felt also, though they resisted. What was this feeling of the starling towards the peewits? Was it sympathy—a part joyous, part fussy participation in their affairs—or something less definable; or, again, was the attraction physical merely, having to do, perhaps, with the scent of the latter birds. Something there must have been, and in such obscure causes we, perhaps, see the origin of some of those cases of commensalism in the animal world, where a mutual benefit is, now, given and received. The subject seems to me to be an interesting one, and I think it might gradually add to our knowledge and enlarge the range of our ideas, were naturalists always to note down any instance of one species seeming to like the society of another, where a reason for the preference was not discernible. How interesting, too, to see this glad welcoming back of one speck in the air, by another!—for that was the construction I placed upon it. Was there individual recognition here? Were the two birds mated? If this were so, then—as it was September at the time—starlings must mate for life, as most birds do, I believe. In this case, the vast flocks, in which they fly, to roost, through the winter, are only a mantle that masks more intimate relations, and so it may be with other birds.

This I know, that starlings have hearts even in winter. Sitting, in January, amidst the branches of a gnarled old walnut tree that tops a sandy knoll overlooking the marshes, I have often seen them wave their wings in an emotional manner, whilst uttering, at the same time, their half-singing, all-feeling notes. They do this, especially, on the long, whistling “whew”—the most lover-like part—and as the wings are waved, they are, also, drooped, which gives to the bird’s whole bearing a sort of languish. The same emotional state which inspires the note, must inspire, also, its accompaniment, and one can judge of the one by the other. Though of a different build—not nearly so “massive”—these starlings might say, with Lady Jane, “I despair droopingly.” But no, there is no despair, and no reason for it. One of them, now, enters a hole in the hollow branch where he has been sitting, thus showing, still more plainly, the class of feelings by which he is dominated. But how spring-in-winteryfied is all this!—

“And on old Hiem’s thin and icy crown
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set.”

And then, all at once, from the midst of the walnut tree, comes the cry of a peewit, rendered to the life by one of these birds. There are no peewits near, nor, though the wide waste around is their very own, have they been seen there for months. The fenlands have long claimed them, and the fenlands are seven miles distant. Most strange—and pleasing strange—it is, to hear their absolute note, when they are all departed. I have sat and heard a particular starling, on which my eyes were fixed, thus mimic the unmistakable cry of the peewit, eight or nine times in succession. It was the spring note, so that, this being in January, also, it would have been still more remarkable had the peewit itself uttered it.

Over the more barren parts of the Sahara, here, and even where some thin and scanty-growing wheat crops struggle with the sandy soil, the great plovers, or stone-curlews, may often be seen feeding, cheek by jowl, with the peewits. Scattered amongst them both, are, generally, some pheasants, partridges, fieldfares, thrushes, and mistle-thrushes, and all these birds are apt, upon occasions, to come into collision with one another—or, rather, the stone-curlews and mistle-thrushes, being the most bellicose amongst them, are apt to fall out between themselves, or with the rest. For the stone-curlew, he is, certainly, a fighter. A cock pheasant that approaches too near to one is attacked, and put to flight by it. The rush of this bird along the ground, with neck outstretched, legs bent, and crouching gait—a sort of stealthy speed—is a formidable affair, and seems half to frighten and half to perplex the pheasant. But what a difference to when rival male stone-curlews advance against each other to the attack! Then the carriage is upright—grotesquely so, almost—and the tail fanned out like a scallop-shell, which, now, it is not. This is interesting, I think, for in attacking birds of another species there would not be so much, if any, idea of rivalry, calling up, by association, other sexual feelings, with their appropriate actions. The combats of rival male birds seem, often, encumbered, rather than anything else, by posturings and attitudinisings, which do not add to the kind of efficiency now wanted, but, on the other hand, show the bird off to the best advantage—e.g. the beautiful spread of the tail, and the bow, as with the stock-dove, where both are combined and make a marked feature of the fiercest fights. All these, in my view, are, properly, displays to the female, which have been imported, by association of ideas, into the combats of the birds practising them. But in this attack on the pheasant there is nothing of all this, and the action seems, at once, less showy and more pertinent. After routing the pheasant, this same stone-curlew runs à plusieurs reprises at some mistle-thrushes, who, each time, fly away, and come down a little farther on. En revanche a mistle-thrush attacks a peewit, actually putting it to flight. It then advances three or four times—but evidently nervous, and making a half retreat, each time—upon a stone-curlew, who, in its turn, is half frightened and half surprised. Another one comes up, as though to support his friend, so that the last dash of the mistle-thrush is at the two, after which he retreats with much honour. As he does so, both the stone-curlews posturise, drawing themselves up, gauntly, to their full height—an attitude of haughty reserve—then curving their necks downwards, to a certain point, at which they stand still and slowly relax. There is no proper sequence or proportion in all this. A stone-curlew chases a mistle-thrush, a mistle-thrush a peewit, and then the stone-curlew himself is half intimidated by the mistle-thrush that he chased. Yet, just before, he routed a pheasant, whilst the other day he ran away from a partridge. “Will you ha’ the truth on’t?” It depends on which is most the angry bird, has most some right infringed, some wrong done, or imagined done to him. He, for that moment, is the prevailing party, and the others give him way.