When I speak of the rookery I do not mean the trees where the birds build—unfortunately there are none very near me—but those where they come to roost during the autumn and winter—true rookeries indeed if numbers count for anything. Here, their chosen resting-place is a silent, lonely plantation of tall funereal firs, standing shaggily tangled together, mournful and sombre, making, when the snow has fallen but lightly—before they are covered—a blotch of very ink upon the surrounding white. Who could think, seeing them during the daytime, so sad and abandoned, so utterly still, tenanted only by a few silent-creeping tits, or some squirrel, whose pertness amidst their gloomy aisles and avenues seems almost an affectation—who could think that each night they were so clothed and mantled with life, that their sadness was all covered up in joy, their silence made a babel of sound? In every one of those dark, swaying, sighing trees, there will be a very crowd of black, noisy, joyous birds, and strange it is that there should be more poetry in all this noise and clamour and bustle than in their sad sombreness, deeply as that speaks to one. The poetry of life is beyond that of death, and when the rooks have gone the dark plantation seems to want its soul. It is Cupid and Psyche, but under dreary, northern skies. Every evening the black, rushing wings come in love and seem to kiss the dark branches, every morning they kiss and part, and, between whiles, the poor longing grove stands lifeless, dreams and waits. But how different would it seem if the rooks were a crowd of men—nice, cheery, jovial, picturesque, civilised men! Thank heaven, they are a crowd of rooks!
I will now quote from my journal:
"Walking over some arable land that rises gently into a slight hill, my attention is attracted by a number of rooks hanging in the air, just above a small clump of elm-trees on its crest. They keep alternately rising and falling as they circle over the trees, often perching amongst them, but soon gliding upwards from them again. A very common action is for two to hover, one above another, getting gradually quite close together, when both sinking, one may almost say falling, rapidly, the upper pursues the under one, striking at it—either in jest or earnest, but probably the former—both with beak and claws. The downward plunge would end in a long swoop, first to right or left, and then again upwards, during which the two would become separated and mingled with the general troop. This action, more or less defined and perfect, was continued again and again, and there were generally one or more pairs of birds engaged in it. The rest rose and fell, many together, and obviously enjoying each other's society, but without any special conjunction of two or more in a joint manœuvre. Their descents were often of a rushing nature, and accompanied with such sudden twists and turns as, sometimes, seemed to amount to a complete somersault in the air—though as to this I will not be too certain. The whole seemed the outcome of pure enjoyment, and seen in the clear blue sky of this fine bright October morning—the last one of the month—had a charming effect.
"A fortnight later I happened to be near some woods to which rooks were flying from all directions, to roost, as I thought then, but afterwards I found it was only one of their halting places. They were in countless numbers, one great troop after another flying up from far away over the country. The air was full of their voices, which were of a great variety and modulation, the ordinary harsh (though pleasant) 'caw' being perhaps the least noticeable of all. Each troop flew high, and, on coming within a certain distance of the wood—a fair-sized field away—they suddenly began to swoop down upon it in long sweeping curves or slants, at the same time uttering a very peculiar burring note, which, though much deeper and essentially rook-like in tone, at once reminded me of the well-known sound made by the nightjar. Imagine a rook trying to 'burr' or 'churr' like a nightjar, and doing it like a rook, and you have it. Whilst making these long downward-slanting swoops the birds would often twist and turn in the air in an astonishing manner, sometimes even, as it seemed to me, turning right over as a peewit does, in fact, exhibiting powers of flight far beyond what anyone would imagine rooks to possess, who had only seen or noticed them on ordinary occasions.
"Whilst these birds sweep down into the trees others of them settle on the adjoining meadow-land, but they do not descend upon it in the same way, but more steadily, though still with many a twist and turn and whirring, whizzing evolution. Neither do they utter the strange burring note to which I have called attention, and which is a very striking sound. Starlings are mingled with these latter birds, flying amongst them, yet in their own bands, and alighting with them on the meadow, where they continue to form an imperium in imperio. Both they and the rooks descend at one point, in a black or brown patch, but soon spread out over the whole meadow, from which they often rise up in a cloud, and, after flying about over it for a little, come down upon it again. At last a vast flock of starlings—numbering, I should think, many thousands—flies up, and, being joined by all those that were on the field, the whole descend upon the woods, through which they disseminate themselves. Almost immediately afterwards, the rooks, as though taking the starlings for their guide, rise too, and fly all together to the woods. Now comes a troop of some eighty rooks, and, shortly afterwards, another much larger one—two or three hundred at the least—all flying high, and going steadily onwards in one uniform direction. They are all uttering a note which is difficult to describe, and does not at all resemble the ordinary 'caw.' It has more the character of a chirrup, loud in proportion to the size of the bird, but still a chirrup—or chirruppy. There is great flexibility in the sound, which has a curious rise at the end. It seems to express satisfaction and enjoyable social feeling, and, if so, is very expressive. One feels, indeed, that every note uttered by rooks is expressive, and if one does not always quite know what it expresses that is one's own fault, or, at any rate, not theirs.
"Twenty more now pass, then twenty-seven, and, finally, another large body of some two to three hundred—all flying in the same direction. It is the last flight, and, shortly afterwards, the loud harsh trumpeting of pheasants is heard in all the woods and coverts around, as they prepare to fly up into their own roosting trees. This dove-tailing of two accustomed things in the daily life of rooks and pheasants I have often noticed, but it must be mere coincidence, for pheasants vary in their hours of retirement, whilst the leisurely homeward journeying of rooks, with pauses longer or shorter at one place or another, occupies, in winter, most of the afternoon.
"November 27th.—By the river, this afternoon, I noticed two great assemblages of rooks down on the meadow-land, whilst others, in large numbers, were flying en route homewards. Of these, two would often act in the way I have before described—that is to say, whilst flying the one just over the other with very little space between them, both would sink suddenly and swiftly down, the upper following the under one, and both keeping for some time the same relative position. But besides this, two birds would often pursue each other downwards in a different way, descending with wide sideway sweeps through the air, from one side to another, after the manner of a parachute, the wings being all the while outstretched and motionless. In either case the pursuit was never persisted in for long, and obviously it was no more than a sport or an evolution requiring the concurrence of two birds.
"Again, two will sweep along near together, at slightly different altitudes, with the wings outspread in the same way—that is to say, not flapping. Then first one and afterwards the other gives a sharp wriggling twist, seeming to lose its balance for a moment, rights itself again, and continues to sweep on as before. Then another wriggle, a further sweep, and so on."
Since seeing the curious manner in which ravens roll over in the air—as described by me—I have watched the aerial gambols, as one may almost call them, of rooks more closely. There is a certain place, not far from where I live, where these birds make an aerial pause in their homeward flight; for, whilst many are to be seen settled in some lofty trees of a fine open park, others sail round and round in wide circles and high in the air, over a wide expanse of water in the midst of it. After wheeling thus for some time, first one and then another will descend on spread wings, very swiftly, and with all sorts of whizzes, half-turns or tumbles, and parachute-like motions. When watched closely through the glasses, however, it may be seen that, very often, these rushing descents have their origin in an action, or, rather, an attempted action, very much like that of the raven. The idea of the latter bird is to roll over, so as to be on its back in the air, and, by closing its wings, it is able to achieve this without, or with hardly, any drop from the elevation at which it has been flying. The rooks seem to try to do this too, but instead of closing the wings, they keep them spread, as open, or almost so, as before. Consequently, instead of just rolling over, their turn or roll to either side sends them skimming sideways, down through the air, like a kite—a paper one, I mean. Peewits close the wings and roll over in much the same way as does the raven, but this is generally either preceded, or followed, by a tremendous drop through the air, with wings more or less extended, so that the whole has quite a different effect.