Only one brood is raised in a season, but if the first nest is meddled with, another one is made.
In “Within an Hour of London Town” the writer interviews a gardener on the subject of Hawfinches. We give it here as it stands.
“What do I want with the gun? Hawfinches; they hawfinches in my peas!” he grunts.
As he leaves the tool-house I quietly follow, and place myself with him behind a low faggot-stack which stands in a line with the peas.
“Jest hear ’em! ain’t it cruel!” he whispers. “I hope the whole roost of ’em may git in a lump so that I ken blow ’em to rags an’ tatters. If you didn’t know what it was you’d think some old cow was grindin’ up them peas. Ain’t they scrunchin’ of ’em! All right now, I ken see you, you grindin’ varmints! Now for it!” Bang!
Three birds fall—young ones in their first plumage, which has a strong likeness to that of a greenfinch.
After picking the birds up, we examine the pea-rows. There is no doubt as to the mischief the birds have done. The old fellow’s own expression, “grinding up,” is the best to convey any idea of the destruction that has taken place. Where the birds have been, nothing remains but the stringy portion of the pods of his precious “Marrer fats.”
There is enormous power in the bill of the Hawfinch, when the size of the bird is considered. The pea-pod is simply run through the bill, and the contents are squeezed out in a state of green pulp and swallowed.
“Varmints I call ’em, an’ nothin’ else,” is the remark my old friend makes, as he goes towards the tool-house and takes from a shelf a hen Hawfinch and two young ones, the former probably the mother of some of the birds that are about, if not, indeed, of the whole brood, her plumage showing that she has been sitting.
“People wants me to git ’em full-feathered old birds for stuffin’, but bless ye, ye might as well try to ketch weasels asleep. A cock Hawfinch is about one o’ the most artful customers as I knows on. The only time to get a clip at ’em is in winter, under the plum and damson trees. They gits there after the stones, any amount o’ stones lays jest under the ground, an’ they picks ’em out an’ cracks them easy. I gits plenty o’ young ones when peas are about—the old ones lets ’em come, but they take precious good care they don’t come off the tops o’ the trees themselves afore they knows there ain’t nobody about. Some says they’re scarce birds. I knows they ain’t—leastways not when my peas are ready to gather.”