The gannets, I am informed by the keepers on the Bass Rock, commenced laying there on the 11th. The solitary egg these birds deposit is heavily coated with lime, which, when scrubbed off, exposes a pale blue surface. This coating is probably the origin of the fallacy that these birds ensure the safety of their eggs by cementing them to the bare rock. On the contrary, each nest is composed of quite a barrow-load of material of the most miscellaneous description. One of these nests noted on the Bass this season was seen to have the end of a soft-soap barrel for a foundation, armfuls of withered grass, dried tangles, bits of rope, string, cotton waste, and other flotsam and jetsam picked up about the Rock. Amongst the lining of the nest, pheasant and partridge feathers were seen, which were certainly not garnered on the Bass. The harvesting of the withered grass was accomplished between dark and daylight, and, therefore, unnoticed by the keepers, but the area of their operations, as seen next day, suggested the presence of a lawn mower. Thousands of these birds are slaughtered annually by the St Kildians as an article of diet, and the wonder is, considering the solitary egg deposited and that three years elapse before the adult stage is reached, that they continue so numerous.
Dr Wallace, in his “Natural Selection,” speaking of birds in general, tells us that, if permitted to live, in the ordinary course of production “in fifteen years each pair of birds would have increased to more than two thousand millions. Whereas we have no reason to believe that the number of the birds of any country increases at all in fifteen or in one hundred and fifty years. On the average, all above one become food for hawks and kites, wild cats or weasels, or perish of cold and hunger as winter comes on.”
Myriads of white whelks are now scattered over the Rock surface, and already patches of mussels and acorn barnacles have been cleared by their voracity. Their ova, which is to be met with in almost every nook and cranny, is left to take care of itself. A patch of this ova is situated in a position which a paidle-hen subsequently fancied for a nursery, and, scorning all rights of possession, plastered her ova indiscriminately over that of the whelks, with the result that they are now under the special care of the guardian “cock.”
A stranded cuttlefish was an object of much interest one evening this month. What a queer-looking object it appeared, with its eight long tentacles squirming in all directions, its body a slobbery mass of animated mucilage. Although only a foot in diameter it required some force to detach it from the rock, as each of the tentacles is furnished with rows of suckers on its under side. By extending the tentacles in front, the animal was able to move along the Rock surface, not in a jerky fashion, as might be expected, but with a continuous gliding motion, clearly showing that each sucker acted independently of its neighbour. If taken hold of, one or other of the tentacles is immediately twisted round the hand with a tenacity that seems surprising considering the size of the animal, and one can then realise to some extent the stories occasionally heard of its giant relatives of the tropics. Irritated, it appears to have the properties of the chameleon, flushing through all the gradations of colour in quick succession, and latterly discharging a jet of fluid of inky blackness. This resource, however, was utterly useless in the present circumstances, but, on placing the animal in a shallow pool of water, its use was at once apparent, for on being touched it immediately rendered itself invisible by the inky fluid discharged. Frequent irritation, however, exhausted its stock of ink, and latterly only clear water was expelled. This expulsion, when effected on the Rock, was accompanied by an audible murmur. The narrow slits of eyes closely resemble those of a dog-fish, and the head, with the anterior tentacle elevated in the air, grotesquely reminds one of an elephant in the act of trumpeting.
May 1903
MAY 1903.
During the first few hours of this month our lantern was the centre of a twittering throng of feathered migrants. Wheatears, rockpipits, starlings, wrens, and robins fluttered erratically through the rays or clamoured in their innocence against the glass, apparently desiring a closer acquaintance with the source of light. Puffs of feathers floated away on the easterly breeze as some unfortunate, less discreet than his fellows, crashed against the invisible barrier. The coming dawn, however, reveals to the survivors the absurdity of their position, and ere the light is extinguished they have resumed their journey shorewards. Frequent fogs occurred in the earlier part of the month, and during the prevalence of a long spell a long-eared owl was captured on the balcony and held prisoner for a week, during which time various samples of our commissariat were offered for his acceptance without avail. A luckless sparrow, the only one by the way I have seen here, was then captured and placed at his disposal. This proved more in his line of business, for on the morning after the rump and tail feathers alone were left. Next day the indigestible portions, feathers, etc., were cast up in the form of a compact ball. Later a thrush was similarly offered, but after a couple of days in each other’s company remained untouched. It was amusing to see the spirited attitude assumed by the thrush when in the presence of his natural foe. Screaming aggressively at the slightest movement of the owl, he would lunge furiously in his direction, his bill all the while snapping audibly. The fog having cleared somewhat, both were then set at liberty.
Another very rare visitor seen here this month was a sheldrake, which passed close overhead flying south. This is the first I have seen here, but in Orkney these birds are very numerous and are there known as the burrow duck, or sly-goose. Sly they certainly are, as evidenced by a pair which nested regularly within a couple of hundred yards of the lighthouse at which I was then stationed. A covered drain was the site annually chosen, the nest being placed several yards from the mouth, which opened out on a spacious grassy hollow. The bright brown and white plumage, with vermilion bill and feet, render these birds most conspicuous objects in an ordinary landscape; but squatting on a shingly beach, where their colours harmonise better with their surroundings, their presence is less easily detected. Frequently I have watched their movements with a telescope from the lantern, and though no one was stirring within seeing distance of them, the greatest caution was always exercised in approaching the nest. Lighting a hundred yards from the nest, a pretence of feeding diligently was made, though their heads could be seen frequently lifting in the direction from which intrusion was to be expected. Gradually circling nearer the nest, passing and repassing it with apparent indifference, till within a few feet of it they would then suddenly vanish. The exact moment of their entrance I was never able to note, as they appeared to assume an invisibility during the remaining few feet of their journey that was really astonishing, but which is less a matter of surprise when one has witnessed the squatting in concealment of a hen pheasant on sparse grassy ground. Burrow duck is a name applied to these birds from their habit of nesting in disused rabbit burrows. I have counted as many as forty young ones following a single pair, while others may have only three or four juveniles in their train. It is said they do not scruple to steal the young ones from each other. If alarmed while feeding among the decaying seaware on the beach, some of the parents will fly to meet the intruder and endeavour to divert his attention in another direction, while the others fly seawards, followed by their callow broods flapping their little wings, while their feet tip-tip the surface—a veritable walking on the waters.
Just as the rocks were being overflowed the other day, we had a visit of another bird which is but rarely seen here, namely, the oyster-catcher. The plumage beautiful black and white, the feet and bill a brilliant red; the latter, which is flattened vertically, suggestive of a stick of sealing wax. Though fairly well acquainted with this species, I never had the good fortune till now to see them in the rôle of limpet pickers, by which name they are known in some localities. From the balcony, with the aid of the telescope, his movements were brought within a few feet of us. Wading an inch or so deep, where the limpets were probably opening to the influence of the incoming tide, he appeared to make a judicious selection; then, with a single sidelong blow of his chisel-like bill, he turned the no doubt astonished mollusc upside down. Seizing it in his bill, he carried it to a still dry portion of the Rock, and in a twinkling he had the limpet out of its shell, and journeying up his long bill to its doom. The tip of the upper mandible appeared to do the scooping out, while the lower merely acted as a resistance outside the shell, the operation being performed more quickly than even the adroit oyster-man turns out his wares on the half-shell. Though not web-footed nor in the habit of diving, I remember seeing one of these birds, which had been winged with a gun-shot, dive repeatedly in order to escape further injury.
On the afternoon of the 16th, two days earlier than last year, a loud chorus of discordant voices floating to our bedroom windows announced the presence of a large flock of terns—their first arrival here since wintering in the sunny south. Screaming and diving, they appear tireless in the pursuit of their prey, which, with the aid of the telescope, is seen to consist of inch-long “fry.” How trim and neat they appear as they cluster on the rocks as the tide recedes, pruning their feathers and chattering vociferously; the head enshrouded in a black, glossy skull-cap, the back and wings a bluish grey, the under parts of unsullied white; the long sharp-pointed scarlet bill tipped with black in harmony with the legs, and small webbed feet. This active little bird is also called the Sea Swallow, an alias assumed from its long narrow wings and forked tail.