"Still coming and coming out of the sunset, specks growing into birds. The stern, snow-covered landscape, the red glow of the sunset, and the black, labouring pinions against it make a fine winter scene.
"4.37.—Back at the larches, and only just in time to stand concealed within them, before the rooks are there. All seem coming, a black, flying multitude. They have reached the larches and fly about over them in wide, sedate circles, coming in relays, as last night. Joyous voices—innumerable multitudes—a torrent of wings! All in a broad, rapid, streaming flight to the larches. They sweep, dash, circle and eddy over them, black flashes in the deepening gloom. They sweep into them, and the snow, swept by their wings, falls in a drizzle from the branches. Joyous, excited cries, 'chu, chu, chac, chac.' The whole dark grove is a cry, a music. Still other bands, they burden the air. Band after band—now with a pause between each. They fly swiftly and steadily up, at a not much greater height than the trees, not descending into them out of the sky.
"A longer pause, followed by another hurrying band. And now the moon is shining through the larches, and the black, ceaseless pinions go hurrying across its face. Groans, moans, shrieks almost, yells amongst the larches, all mingled and blending—but sinking now. A marvellous medley, a wonderful hoarse harmony! Here are shoutings of triumph, chatterings of joy, deep trills of contentment, hoarse yells of derision, deep guttural indignations, moanings, groanings, tauntings, remonstrances, clicks, squeaks, sobs, cachinnations, and the whole a most musical murmur. Loud, but a murmur, a wild, noisy, clamorous murmur; but sinking now, softening—a lullaby.
'I never heard
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.'"
When the rooks sweep down, thus, into their roosting-trees they frequently do so with a peculiar whirring or whizzing noise of the wings, but although this sound is in perfect consonance with the motion which it accompanies—insomuch that one has to use the same words to describe each—yet it does not seem to be produced by it. At least, it bears no relation to the height from which the birds swoop, nor—as would seem to follow from this—with the impetus of the descent. It may be a matter of impetus, but to me it has often seemed more as though the sound gave the idea of impetus, or added to it, and that the sweeps were, sometimes, just as impetuous, or even more so, when made without it. As I observed, the birds flew to their trees at a very moderate height—not very much, indeed, above the trees themselves—and, whilst many made the whizzing sound, the great majority swooped down without it. It seems, therefore, to be a special sound produced by the rooks at pleasure, and always accompanying an excited frame of mind. First one bird and then another gets excited, and dashes suddenly down with the whirring or whizzing noise, so that, as the sound is not vocal, and is only heard upon such occasions, it has all the appearance of being caused by the quick, sudden motions of the wings. But it is possible that some particular way of holding the quill-feathers of the wing or even tail is required to produce it, in combination with the general movements, and this would account for its being sometimes heard and sometimes not heard, when these latter are identical.[21] The curious burring note is likewise, but far less frequently, an accompaniment of these wild excited sweepings, and this is most often the case when they are from a considerable height. Here, again, the note bears a clear relation to the bird's mental state, so that it would appear that the degrees of pleasurable excitement cannot be estimated by the motions alone. The "burr," in my opinion, when well and loudly uttered—for here, again, there is much variety—marks the maximum of a rook's content, at any rate in a certain direction.
[21] With regard to the above, however, I am now no longer so sure. Je m'en doute. When the rooks descend from a height, the sound made is often most remarkable, being that of a mighty rushing wind filling the air.
"December 15th.—At 7 A.M. I am at the point of the road nearest to the rookery, and I hear the sweet jangle, 'the musical confusion,' already beginning. Not much, however—subdued and occasional—influenced, perhaps, by the heavy morning mist that hangs over trees and earth. After a time I walk to an oak just outside the plantation, and sit listening to the rising hubbub—now rising, now falling. A sad, mist-hung morning, the earth lightly snow-decked; raw and chill, but not so frostily, bitingly cold as yesterday and before. The general intonation of the rook voice is pleasing and musical—how much more so than the roar of an at-home as the door is flung open, even though one has not to go through that door! There is very great modulation and flexibility—more expression, more of a real voice than other birds. One feels that beings producing such sounds must be intelligent and have amiable qualities. One of the prettiest babbles in nature!
"One catches 'qnook, qnook,' 'chuggerrer,' 'choo-oo-oo.' At intervals the single, sudden squawk, or continued trumpeting, of a pheasant, breaks abruptly into the sea of sound, then mingles with it. Every now and again, too, there is a sudden increase of sound, which again sinks.
"At 7.50 the rooks are still in bed, but a pheasant—a fine cavalier—comes running towards me over the snow. He makes a long and very fast run for some fifty yards or so, then stops and draws himself bolt upright, seeming to stand on tip-toe. More than upright he is—bent back, trying to look like a soldier, but obliged to be graceful and elegant. Standing thus, he seems on the very point of trumpeting, yet does not, and then runs on again. He repeats this, several times, each time thinking of trumpeting, but desisting and going on.