“At 12.10 the male woodpecker flies to the hole, and, almost immediately, enters. In a few minutes he looks out, cautiously, turning his head from side to side. I can make out nothing in the bill, but I notice that he works the mandibles, just a very little. Then he draws in his head, but projecting it, again, almost immediately, something is now evident, protruding from the mandibles, on both sides. It is white, brilliantly white, and looks like a mash of something. It reminds me of what I have seen oozing or flowing from the bills of rooks, as they left the nest after feeding their young—but even whiter, it seemed, as the sun shone on it. Insects it does not in the least resemble, except, by possibility, a pulp of their white interiors. If so, however, it must represent multitudes of them. But where are the wings, legs, and crushed bodies? It is formless, and seems to well out of the bill.” On a subsequent occasion, I saw the same outflow—“a thick, milky fluid,” I this time describe it as—from the bill of the female; so that, principally through this, but, also, because of many other little indications, such as that working by the bird of its mandibles—as before noticed—in leaving the nest, and an occasional little gulp or less pronounced motion of the throatal muscles, as though it were swallowing something down, the head being at the same time raised, I came to the conclusion that these woodpeckers feed their young by some process of regurgitation. This confirms an opinion which has long been gaining ground with me, viz. that the green woodpecker is now almost wholly an ant-eater. Here, at least, where the country is open and sandy, and where, till lately, there has been a great and happy dearth of posts and palings, I believe that this is the case. I have often watched the bird, in trees, and have seen it give, now and again, a spear with the bill against the trunk; but this has never been continued for long, and that eager and absorbed manner which a bird has when actively feeding, has never, in my experience, gone along with it. I doubt, myself, whether insects are really secured on these occasions, for there is something so nonchalant and lazy in the way the stabs are delivered, that they have more the appearance of a mere habit than of a means to an end. Sometimes there is a little more animation, but it soon flags, and the bird desists and sits idle. Very different are its actions, and its whole look and appearance, when feeding on the ground. Now its interest—its keenness—is manifest, whilst a certain careful, systematic, and methodical way of proceeding, shows it to be occupied in the main daily business of life. There are four clearly marked stages in the process by which a green woodpecker extracts ants from the nest. First there is a preliminary probing of the ground, the beak being inserted—always, I think, in the same place—gently, and with great delicacy—tenderly as it were, and as Walton would recommend; next comes a sharp, quick hammering, or pickaxing, with the beak, into the soil, after which the bird throws the loosened earth from side to side, with so quick a motion that the head seems almost to move in a circle. Finally, there is the quiet and satisfied insertion of the bill, many times in succession, into the excavation that has been made, followed, each time, by its leisurely withdrawal. At each of these withdrawals the head is thrown up, and the bird seems to swallow down, and enjoy, what it has just been filling its beak with—as no doubt is the case.
The greater part of both the morning and afternoon seems to be spent by these woodpeckers in thus depopulating ants’ nests, so that the negligent and desultory nature of any further foraging operations, which they may carry on amongst the trees, is amply accounted for. The bird is full of ants, which it has been swallowing wholesale, without any effort of searching. It cannot still be hungry, and, when it is, it will repair to those Elysian fields again. The tree, in fact, is now used more as a resting-place than for any other purpose, except that of breeding; and thus this species, with its marvellous tongue, specially adapted for extracting insects from chinks in the bark of trees, is on the road to becoming as salient an instance of changed habits, as is Darwin’s ground-feeding woodpecker, in the open plains of La Plata. Sure I am that here, at any rate, the green woodpecker feeds, almost wholly, upon ants, but if there be a doubt on the matter, ought not the contents of the excrements to decide it? I have examined numbers of these, which were picked up by me both in the open and at the foot of trees, and, in every case, the long narrow sac, of which the outer part consists, was filled, entirely, with the remains of ants. These I have turned out upon a sheet of white paper, and examined under a magnifying glass, but I have never been able to find the smallest part or particle of any other insect. This has surprised me, indeed, nor is it quite in accordance with the contents of other excrements which I have looked at in other parts of the country—for instance in Dorsetshire. There, the shards of a small beetle were sometimes mixed, in a small proportion, with the remains of the ants, and, once or twice, these formed the bulk of the excrement. These shards, however, seemed to me to be those of a ground-going species of beetle. What I have called the remains of the ants, contained in these excrements, were, or seemed to be, almost the whole of them—head, thorax, abdomen, legs, &c.—everything, in fact, except the soft parts, and juices of the body. Whether these, in the bird’s crop or stomach, would help to make a white milky fluid I do not know, but I think that they must do.
If the great staple of the green woodpecker’s food has come, now, to consist of ants, as I am sure is the case, the reason of its feeding its young, not as do other woodpeckers—the lesser spotted one, for instance—but by regurgitation, is at once apparent. Ants are too minute to be carried in the beak, and must, therefore, be brought up en masse, if the young are not to starve. We might, therefore, have surmised that, if ants were the sole or chief diet, the young must be fed in this way, and the fact that they are fed in this way is evidence of the thing which would account for it. In the green woodpecker we have an interesting example of a species that has broken from the traditions of its family, and is changing under our eyes; but it does not seem to attract much attention—only the inevitable number of the eggs, their colour, the time at which they are laid, &c. &c.
These woodpeckers must mate, I think, for life—as most birds, in my opinion, do—for they nest in the same tree, year after year, and go in pairs during the winter. It is very interesting, then, to see a pair resting together, after they have had their fill of ant-eating. First, one will fly into the nearest plantation, or small clump of trees, on the trunk of one of which it alights, and there clings, motionless. Shortly afterwards, the other comes flying in, perhaps with the wild laugh, but, instead of settling on the same tree, it chooses one close beside it, and there, side by side, and each on its own, the two hang motionless for a quarter of an hour, perhaps, or twenty minutes. Then, suddenly, there is a green and scarlet flash, as one flies off. The other stays, still motionless, as though she cared not. “Let him e’en go”—but, all at once, there is another flash, and she is gone, too, with equal suddenness—the dark trees darker without them. I have, more than once, seen a pair resting, like this, on two small birches, or firs, near each other, each about the same height from the ground, quite still, and seeming to doze. It seems, therefore, to be their regular habit, as though they did not care to sleep on the same tree, but preferred adjoining rooms, so to speak. The birds’ tails, when thus resting, are not fanned out, and although they are, sometimes, pressed against the tree, at other times they will not be touching it at all, so that the whole weight is supported by the claws, evidently with the greatest ease. I have taken particular notice of this, and from the length of time that a bird has sometimes remained, thus hanging, and the restful state that it was, all the while, in, I cannot think that the tail is of very much value as a support, though stress is often laid upon its being so. I do not know how it is, but a little close observation in natural history will give the lie to most of what one hears or reads, and has hitherto taken for granted. It all looks very plausible in books, but one book, when you ever do get hold of it, seems to disagree with all the other books, and that one is the book of nature.
There is another point, in which the green woodpecker either differs from its family, or shows that its family has not been sufficiently observed. I have read, somewhere—I am not quite sure where, but it was a good work, and one of authority—this sentence: “Some birds, such as woodpeckers and (I forget the other) are supposed never to fight.” I can understand how this idea has got about, because thrushes, which are commoner birds than woodpeckers, and easier to watch, are, also, thought not to fight. Of the thrush, and his doughty deeds, of an early morning, I shall have no space to speak in this volume, but I here offer my evidence that the green woodpecker, at any rate, is “a good fellow, and will strike.” As, however, I shall have to quote, at some length, from my notes, I will defer doing so to the following chapter. Perhaps I shall be saying a little too much about the green woodpecker, but let it be taken in excuse that, feeling all his charm, and having made a special study of him, I yet say less than I know.
Green Woodpecker
CHAPTER IX
It was on a 13th of April, that, having spent some hours in the woods, to no purpose, I at length climbed the hill, up which they ran, and came out upon a smooth slope of turf, from which I had a good view down amongst the trees, which did not grow very thickly. As I emerged, I saw a woodpecker feeding on the grass, and shortly afterwards two, pursuing each other, flew down upon it, from the wood, but, seeing me, flew back again. It instantly struck me that here was an ideal spot to study the habits of these birds. A penetrable wood which was evidently haunted by them, to look down into, an open down right against it, and good cover, from which I had an equally good view of both. I, therefore, ensconced myself, and soon had the pleasure of making some observations new to myself, and, as far as I know, to ornithology. These two same birds that I had startled pursued each other about amidst the trees, for some time, uttering not only their usual cry—unusually loud as I thought—but another, of one note, quickly repeated, like “too, too, too, too, too,” changing, at the end, or becoming modulated, into “too-i, too-i, too-i, too-i, too-i.” All at once two other ones flew out from the enclosure, and, alighting together upon the greensward, a curious play, which I took to be of a nuptial character, commenced between them. They both half extended the wings, at the same time drooping them on to the ground, and standing thus, fronting each other, they swung not only their heads, but the upper part of their bodies, strenuously from side to side, in a very excited manner. If there was any upshot to this, I did not see it, as the birds shifted a little so as to become hidden by a ridge, and the next I saw of them was when they flew away. A little while after this, I saw either the same or another pair of green woodpeckers, pursuing each other from tree to tree, and, all at once, they closed together, in the air, as though in combat; almost immediately, however, separating again and flying to different trees. Soon they came down on to the turf, and were probing it for ants, when one of them, desisting from this occupation, went close up to the other—they had been near before—and, again, went through the action which I have just described. Now, I saw that it was a hostile demonstration, but the bird against whom it was directed seemed in no hurry to respond to it, and merely went on feeding. At length, however, he turned, and went through with it also, and the two then fought, jumping and pecking at one another. It was not, however, a very bloody combat. It seemed, I thought, rather half-hearted, and I particularly noted that the bird which had been challenged soon left off, and began to feed again, on which his opponent desisted also, making no attempt to take him at a disadvantage, which, it seemed, he could easily have done, any more than he had in the first instance.
This chasing and coming down on to the grass, to feed and skirmish, continued during the afternoon, but there were two fights which were of a fiercer and more interesting character. I have spoken, before, of these woodpeckers’ upright attitude, when they fronted each other, swinging their heads from side to side. This, however, was not at all the case here. Instead of standing upright, they sat crouched—almost lay—on the ground, with their wings half-spread out upon it, and in this position—beak to beak—they jerked their heads in the most vivacious manner, each one seeming to meditate a deadly spear-thrust. Then there were some quick mutual darts, of a very light and graceful nature, and, at last, each seizing hold of the other’s beak, they pulled, tugged, jumped, and dragged one another about, with the greatest violence. One might suppose that each bird sought to use his own beak as a weapon of offence, in the usual manner, and seized his adversary’s, as it were, to disarm him, and that, then, each tried to disengage, but was held by the other. In the second and still more violent encounter, however, I noticed a very curious feature. After the first light fencing, the birds seemed to lock beaks gently, as though by a mutual intention to do so, and, indeed, so markedly was this the case that, for a moment, I thought I must have been mistaken, and that, instead of two males, they were male and female. Then, the instant they had interlocked them, they set to pulling, with a sudden violence, as though the real serious business had now commenced. They pulled, tugged, and struggled most mightily, and each bird was, several times, half pulled and half thrown over the other’s back, springing up into the air, at the same time, but neither letting go, nor being let go of. There was a good bout of this before they became separated, after which some fierce pecks were delivered.