THE NUTHATCH.
This bird is almost an entire stranger to most people. It belongs to the rather large family of creepers; birds which, like the woodpecker and the little golden-crested wren, run up the holes and branches of trees in search of food. The nuthatch, however, has an advantage over all its other creeping relatives, by being gifted with the power of coming down the tree head foremost, which none of them have. It can also sleep with its head downwards; neither in its rapid ascent has it occasion to press its tail against the tree for help; so that it is the most accomplished little acrobat of the whole race of creepers.
NUTHATCH AND NEST. [[Page 120.]
The nuthatch cannot be called a rare bird, and yet it is not often seen, being of a shy and retiring disposition, though naturally lively and active. The plumage is very pleasing in colour; the upper parts of the body are bluish-grey; a black line passes from the corners of the mouth to the back of the neck; the breast and under parts light reddish-yellow, and the sides reddish-brown.
It delights in woods and trees; nor need it be looked for elsewhere, as it derives its food entirely amongst them, either of insects and larvæ, hidden in the bark, or of fruits and nuts, as kernels of fir-cones, beech, and other nuts, the shells of which it breaks in a very ingenious manner, as I shall presently describe. Now and then it alights on the ground, and then advances by short leaps. It has no song; but in winter, when living in small companies, perhaps the whole summer-family associating together, it has a little piping note, which, however, is supposed to be simply the call to each other. It is said to be sensitive to the cold, and always feeds on the side of the wood or of the tree which is defended from the wind. In spring, however, when all nature is renovated with a quicker pulse of life—for, as Tennyson says:—
In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin’s breast;
In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest;
In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove—
then, also, the silent nuthatch sends forth through the awakening solitude of the woods his two little notes, one short and twittering, the other a low, mellow, flute-like whistle, which is so clear that it may be heard to a considerable distance.