CHIEFLY HURTFUL.
THE GOSHAWK.
I know a place in Southern Germany, a sandy, raised piece of ground, in the middle of a wood, near the point of a peninsula, where only high fir-trees are; and there the bold Goshawk has his bulky nest which he uses year after year. On a clearing close to the Goshawk’s nest there lie innumerable remains of Starlings and young hares. The Starlings fear him greatly; when he comes gliding low in pursuit of his quarry over the marshy ground beyond his wood, they keep close to the Crows, which are numerous on this peninsula. They feed with these birds whenever the Goshawk is in their neighbourhood, knowing that the Crows will attack him sturdily. During the skirmish with the Crows, the knowing Starlings make away from the scene.
The Goshawk punishes that bad but beautiful bird, the Jay, who does more harm here than the Sparrow-Hawk and all the three species of Butcher-birds put together. The Sparrow-Hawk attacks the Jay also; but he only gets the better of him after a long struggle, whereas the Goshawk punishes quickly.
As I stood under the high fir-tree from which a pair of Goshawks took flight on my approach, one of the sudden thunderstorms common to the neighbourhood at this time of year broke overhead, and I had to shelter long, so that I had time to marvel at the great quantity of creatures these birds had taken to their family larder—hares, starlings, pigeons, ducks, and poultry of all sizes. The farmer here dreads it more than he does any other bird of prey, and we have no cause to regret its ceasing to build in our midst. A male and a female bird were caught in a trap in the forest of Bowland, Lancashire, about the year 1835; now only an occasional bird is to be seen.
A French writer says that the Goshawk is still used in Persia in hunting the gazelle, and that it is trained to feed on that creature’s beautiful eyes by placing its food in the empty eye-sockets of a stuffed gazelle, so that when used in the hunt the Goshawk stops its victim by attacking and tearing out its eyes—a horribly cruel form of sport.
Keats writes:
“O Sorrow! why dost burrow
The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?”