Space, after this disquisition, will not permit me to say much more about the nightjars—only this, that they return each year to the same spot, and have not only their favourite tree, but even their favourite branch in it, to perch upon. I have seen one settle, after successive flights, upon a particular point of dead wood, near the top of a small and inconspicuous oak, surrounded by taller trees which had a much more inviting appearance, and on coming another night, there were just the same flights and settlings. It is not, however, my experience that the eggs are laid, each year, just where they were the year before. It may be so, as a rule, but there are certainly exceptions, and amongst them were the particular pair that I watched.
Rooks at Nest
CHAPTER III
The hooded crow is common in this part of the country, during the winter; to the extent, indeed, of being quite a feature of it. With the country people he is the carrion crow merely, and they do not appear to make any distinction between him and the ordinary bird of that name, which is not seen nearly so often. He is the one they have grown up with, and know best, but his pied colouring does not seem to have gained him any specially distinctive title. For the most part, these crows haunt the open warren-lands, and, owing to their wariness and the absence of cover, are very difficult to get near to. Like the rooks, they spend most of the day in looking for food, and eating it when found, their habit being to beat about in the air, making wider or narrower circles, whilst examining the ground beneath for any offal that may be lying there. This is not so much the habit of rooks, for they, being more general feeders, march over the country, eating whatever they can find. They would be neglecting too much, were they to look for any class of thing in particular, though equally appreciative of offal when it happens to come in their way. “The Lord be praised!” is then their attitude of mind.
The crows, however, feed a good deal in this latter way, too, and, as a consequence, mingle much with the rooks, from whom, perhaps, they have learnt a thing or two. Each bird, in fact, knows and practises something of the other’s business, so that, without specially seeking one another’s society, they are a good deal thrown together. Were there never any occasion for them to mingle, they would probably not feel the wish to do so, but the slightest inducement will bring crows amongst rooks, and rooks amongst crows, and then, in their actions towards each other, they seem to be but one species. They fight, of course; at least there are frequent disagreements and bickerings between them, but these have always appeared to me to be individual, merely—not to have any specific value, so to speak. Both of them fall out, amongst themselves, as do most other birds. Rooks, especially, are apt to resent one another’s success in the finding of food, but such quarrels soon settle themselves, usually by the bird in possession swallowing the morsel; they are seldom prolonged or envenomed. So it is with the rooks and hooded crows, and, on the whole, I think they meet as equals, though there may, perhaps, be a slightly more “coming-on disposition” on the part of the latter, and a slightly more giving-way one on that of the former bird. One apparent instance of this I have certainly seen. In this case, two rooks who were enjoying a dead rat between them, walked very tamely away from it, when a crow came up; and, later, when they again had the rat, a pair of crows hopping down upon them, side by side, in a very bold and piratical manner, again made them retreat, with hardly a make-believe of resistance. But one of these two crows may have been the bird that had come up before, and the rat may have belonged to it and its mate, by right of first discovery, which, in important finds, there is, I think, a tendency to respect, even if it needs some amount of enforcing. I have observed this when rooks and hooded crows have been gathered together about some offal which they were devouring. One or, at most, two birds seemed always to be in possession, whilst the rest stood around. For any other to insinuate itself into a place at the table was an affair demanding caution, nor could he do so without making himself liable to an attack, serious in proportion to the hunger of the privileged bird. As it began to appear, however, either from the latter’s languidness, or by his moving a little away, that this was becoming appeased, another—either rook or crow—would, at first warily, and then more boldly, fall to; and thus, without, probably, any actual idea of the thing, the working out of the situation was, more or less, to take it in turns. At least it was always the few that ate, and the many that waited, and a general sense that this should and must be so seemed to obtain. Always, at such scenes, there will be many small outbreaks, and when these have been between the two species, I have been unable to make out that one was inferior to the other. But such ebullitions have more of threatening in them than real fighting, so, taking into consideration the incident just recorded, it may be that the crow, when really in earnest, is recognised by the rook as the better bird, though, if anything, I think he is a little the smaller of the two. Jackdaws, on the other hand, seem conscious of their inferiority when with rooks, and slip about demurely amongst them, as though wishing not to be noticed.
On the part of either rook or crow, a combative inclination is indicated by the sudden bending down of the head, and raising and fanning out of the tail. The fan is then closed and lowered, as the head goes up again, and this takes place several times in succession. If a bird come within slighting distance of one that has thus expressed himself, there is, at once, an affaire, the two jumping suddenly at one another. After the first pass or two, they pause by mutual consent—just as duellists do in a novel—and then stand front to front, the beaks—or rapiers—being advanced, and pointed a little upwards, their points almost touching. Then, instantaneously, they spring again, each bird trying to get above the other, so as to strike him down. These fireworks, indeed, belong more to the rooks than the crows, for the former, being more social birds, are also more demonstrative. Not that the crows are without the gregarious instinct. Here, at least, in East Anglia, one may see in them something like the rude beginnings of the state at which rooks have arrived. They do not flock in any numbers, but bands of six or seven, and upwards, will sometimes fly about together, or sit in the same tree or group of trees. On the ground, too, though they feed in a much more scattered manner than do rooks, not seeming to think of one another, they yet get drawn together by any piece of garbage or carrion that one or other of them may find. In this we, perhaps, see the origin of the gregarious instinct in most birds, if not in all. Self-interest first makes a habit, which becomes, by degrees, a want, and so a necessity; for if “custom is the king of all men,” as Pindar has pronounced it to be, so is it the king of all birds, and, equally, of all other animals.
THE RULES OF PRECEDENCE
Hooded Crows and Rooks Feeding
I think, myself, that their association with the rooks tends to make these crows more social. They get to feed more as they do, and this brings them more together. In the evening I have, sometimes, seen a few fly down into a plantation where rooks roosted, and which they already filled, and one I once saw flying, with a small band of them, on their bedward journey. Whether this bird, or the others, actually roosted with the rooks, for the night, I cannot say, but it certainly looked like it. On the other hand, if one watches rooks, one will, sometimes, see what looks like a reversion, on the part of an individual or two, to a less advanced social state than that in which the majority now are. Whether there are solitary rooks, as there are rogue elephants, I do not know, but the gregarious instinct may certainly be for a time in abeyance with some, if not with all of them. I have watched one feeding, sometimes, for a length of time, quite by itself. Not only, on such occasions, have there been no others with it, but often none were in sight, nor did any join it, when it flew up. Nothing, in fact, can look more solitary than these black specks upon the wide, empty warrens, or the still more desolate marshes—fens, as they are called, though, as I say, Icklingham is separated from the real fenlands by some seven miles. These fens are undrained, and unless the weather has been dry for some time, it is difficult to get about in them. At first sight, indeed, it looks as though one could do so easily enough, for the long, coarse grass grows in tufts, or cushions—one might almost call them—each one of which is raised, to some height, upon a sort of footstalk. But if one steps on these they often turn over, causing one to plunge into the water between them, which their heads make almost invisible. These curious, matted tufts were used here in old days for church hassocks—called pesses—and several of them, veritable curiosities, are now in the old thatched church at Icklingham, which has been abandoned—why I know not—and is fast going to ruin.