Birds of the wave and woodland

by Phil Robinson

While I robbed her—a moorhen by judicious robbery can be made to go on laying twenty eggs and upwards—the mother would get into the water under the shadow of the reeds, and with only her head out, watch the spoliation in progress. And sometimes, coming upon her asleep, perhaps, on her nest after her young ones had hatched, it was a sight to see how suddenly she vanished, and how the chicks scrambling out after her in a twinkling, stood on their heads, thinking they too had dived out of sight. I have often taken up the little fluff-balls in my hand, and wished to take them home, but kinder thoughts have supervened, and I have laid them back on the water and watched them paddle off to the shelter where the poor mother, only her red-spot beak showing above water, crouched, clucking nervously in stage whispers, “This way, this way.”

Sitting at ease one day watching a family party, I became aware of a rat that was watching them as well—a common brown farmyard rat—that, with so many others of his kind, haunt osier-beds and streams, and, by their depredations, bring discredit upon the water-vole. The miscreant was on the bank; the “moor-chickens” were paddling in a dutiful, unsuspicious fashion behind their mother, when one of them, coming to some weeds, must needs scramble on to the top, to show what a clever bird it was. Something it found there interested it for an instant, and meanwhile all the rest went on. Then I saw the rat slip into the water, and swim towards the little platform of weeds; and the chick saw it too, and wondered, no doubt, what it was. But it decided that the thing did not look quite right somehow, and got into the water to follow its brothers and sisters. If it had known what was behind it, and had paddled at its best pace, it would have beaten the rat easily; but it was in no hurry, and went slowly across towards the bank. Close behind it swam the rat. The little bird was doomed. In my cap I had some dabchick’s eggs, and I took one out, and trusting to luck to miss the bird, threw it at the beast. There was a smart splash in the water, just where I had hoped to see it, close to the rat’s nose, and the next instant the chick was swimming for dear life after its mother and the rat was scrambling up the bank. I wonder what each of them thought of that dabchick’s egg? Nothing so “wonderful” as that ever happens to us in our lives. With birds and beasts it happens every day. But they do not go crazy at the constant repetition of miracles, for, fortunately, they do not understand them.

“Fen sparrows chirp and fly to fetch
The withered reed-down rustling nigh;
And by the sunny side the ditch
Prepare their dwelling warm and dry.”

Next to moorhens, the most constant companion of the visitor to the sedgy margins of a pond or osier-bed is the reed-warbler. To many eyes the reed-and the sedge-warblers look alike, and to most ears their songs sound alike. Nor in their comings and goings and general behaviour is there much to distinguish them as they creep about in their shady coverts

or momentarily flit across some narrow space, or with a flight like a flying-fish’s in the water, suddenly appear on the surface of the reeds, skim their level tops, and as suddenly drop down out of sight again. They come to England together, and together seek the same haunts. The only way to make them betray themselves is by throwing something among the reeds, when each of them will at once protest, sometimes scolding like a whitethroat, sometimes breaking out into a bold, beautiful song. Each bird, too, occasionally forgets its shyness, and coming out from its retreat perches well in sight and fearlessly sings its loudest. But their nests are unmistakable; for while the sedge-warbler always builds upon some support, the reed-sparrow hangs its nest between supports, but never upon them. Yet as you loiter near their pretty nesting-places, it does not matter much which of the birds you disturb, for either will sing for you as long as you remain, and it is a charming sight to see the little olive-green bird clinging to a reed or a willow-withe, and with stretched throat singing with all its might. A very little wind makes it sway, and this, with the bird’s strange ventriloquist powers, makes the song seem to sway, too, and as you watch it, the small creature grows quite mystical, with its notes, now near now far, and its beautiful little body swinging to and fro in the chequered shadow of the tall plumed reeds. And sometimes, while he is singing, the hen-bird, as if excited by his song, begins too, in a harsher voice but not unmusical, and once started you will hear the duet going on behind you long after you have left. In the warm evenings, when out with my net moth-hunting along the river side, I have often heard them singing among the sedge and willows, and later, coming home in the dark, have found them still in full song.