THE FERN OWL, NIGHT SWALLOW, OR NIGHTJAR.
The Nightjar.
(Caprimulgus Europæus.)
The Nightjar is the bird of twilight and late evening. When the sun has set and twilight is spreading over the land the bird leaves its day hiding place, on the bough of an old tree, where it has clung the whole time, undistinguishable from the bough on account of the colour of its plumage. It rises on the wing, and with its peculiar, irresolute flight, makes for the plain, or the bare places, and clearings in the woods.
Like the Swallow it catches its prey on the wing—the flying insects of the dusk, among them the largest night moths. Its cry is a pleasant faint “Häit, häit.”
There is a wide-spread, foolish superstition that the Nightjar sucks the milk of cows and goats; it is, indeed, known to many people under the name of “Goat Sucker.” This has arisen from the fact that it is often seen flying about, here and there, in the pasture fields. It darts down, then flies up again and seems to glance stealthily around. This behaviour, and its great mouth, have given it a bad name. Every herdsman, and indeed every one else who uses his eyes, knows that the droppings of cows simply swarm with insects towards evening. The Nightjar knows this also, and it is for that reason that the innocent bird frequents such places.
It is very useful and deserves help and protection, and the more so because it is somewhat rare in Hungary.
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In the middle of May the Fern Owl or Nightjar arrives in Great Britain, and utters his jarring or churring spinning-wheel song over the sloping ground of many a common, where the golden gorse blossoms give out their delicious, apricot-like scent, hanging over rifts in the sandstone; and the ground below is studded with patches of ling, below which again luxuriant green ferns, having their roots in the cool moist bottoms, raise their tall fronds. It is warm on the bare patches of stony, sandy soil, on which the sun has been shining all the afternoon, and moths with other winged insects are here in numbers. The Fern Owls know that, and they are churring and squeaking over the slopes and tumbling and darting about after their winged prey, flying quite near to you as you rest on a bit of their hunting ground.
On a bare spot on the sunny slope, where a few gorse needles and bits of dead bracken lie, two oblong creamy white eggs will be laid later, marbled and veined in such tones as match their surroundings of stones, dead leaves and bits of brown fern-stalk, so closely that it is by a rare chance that the eye distinguishes them. And when the little creatures are hatched out, they will look, at first, just like a bit of lichen covered stone and a dead leaf. The mother will, it is said, pick her eggs up and place them elsewhere if an intruder has approached them too closely. When the young birds begin to flutter with their wings, the parent bird shifts them up by easy stages, through the low growth of heather and ferns, hustling them on, and bearing them up, until they reach the lowest branches of some dipping oak bough, where they sit in a line with the branch they rest on, invisible to the ordinary observer; and there they are fed with scarcely a pause in the flight of the industrious parent. In Devonshire they feed much on “fern-web”—namely, small chafers.