Wild Life in a Southern County

by Richard Jefferies

In the opposite direction to the ash copse, and about half a mile north of Wick farmhouse, there rises above the oak and ash trees what looks like the topmast and yard of a ship lying at anchor or in dock, the hull hidden by the branches. It is the top of an immensely tall and gaunt fir tree, whose thin and perhaps dying boughs project almost at right angles. This landmark, visible over the level meadows for a considerable distance, stands in that little enclosed meadow which has once before been mentioned as one of the favourite resorts of birds and wild animals.

From the ash copse the travelling parties come down the highway hedge to the orchard: then, crossing the orchard and road, they enter another thick hedge, which continues in the same general direction; and finally, following it, arrive at this small green mead walled in by trees and mounds so broad as to resemble elongated copses. The mead itself may perhaps be two acres in extent, but it does not appear so much: the part visible on first glancing over the gateway can hardly exceed an acre. The rest is formed of nooks—deep indentations, so to say—not more than six or eight yards wide at the entrance, and running up to a point. Of these there are four or five—recesses in the massive walls of green.

These corners are caused by the mound following the curiously winding course of a brook which flows just without on the left side; and without on the right side, runs a second brook, whose direction is much straighter and current slower. These two meet at the top of the mead, and then, forming a junction, make a deep, swift stream, flowing beside a series of water-meadows—broad, level, and open, like a plain—which are irrigated from it. The mounds in the angle where the brooks join enclose a large space planted with osiers, and inside the hedges all round the mead there is a wide, deep ditch, always full of slowly moving water: so that the field is really surrounded by a double moat; and in one corner, in addition, there is a pond hidden by maple thickets from within, and intended for the use of cattle in the adjoining field. The nearest house is several meadows distant, and no footpath passes near, so that the spot is peculiarly quiet. These mounds, hedges, osier-bed, and brooks, occupy an area nearly or quite equal to the space where cattle can feed.

Upon the fir tree a heron perches frequently in the daytime, because from that great elevation he can command an extensive view and feels secure against attack. Whenever he visits the water-meadows, sailing thither from the shallow lake (one of whose creeks approaches the ash copse), he almost always rests here before descending to the field to take a good look round. The heron is a most suspicious bird: when he alights in the water-meadows here he stalks about in the very middle of the great field, far out of reach of the gun. If ever he ventures to the brook, it is not till after a careful survey from the fir tree, his tower of observation; and, when in the brook, his long neck is every now and then extended, that he may gaze above the banks.

By the gateway, reached by crossing a rude bridge for the waggons, wild hops festoon the thickets. Behind the maple bushes in the corner the water of the pond, overhung with willow, is dark—almost black in the depth of shadow. Out of it a narrow and swift current runs into that slow straight brook which bounds the right side of the meadow. Here in the long grass and rushes growing luxuriantly between the underwood lurk the moorhens, building their nests on bunches of rushes against the bank and almost level with the water. Though but barely hatched, and chips of shell clinging to their backs, the tiny fledglings swim at once if alarmed. When a little older they creep about on the miniature terraces formed along the banks by the constant running to and fro of water-rats, or stand on a broken branch bent down by its own weight into the water, yet still attached to the stem, puffing up their dark feathers like a black ball.

If all be quiet, the moorhens come out now and then into the meadow; and then, as they stand upright out of the water, the peculiar way in which their tails, white marked, are turned upwards is visible. The bill is of a fine colour—almost the ‘orange-tawny’ of the blackbird, set in thick red coral at its base. Under the shallow water at the mouth of the pond the marks of their feet on the mud may be traced: they run swiftly, and depend upon that speed and the skilful tricks they practise in diving—turning back and dodging under water like a hare in the fields—to escape from pursuit, rather than on their wings. Through the thick green flags they creep, and into the holes the water-rats have made, or behind and under the natural cavities in the stoles upon the bank. They beat the water with their wings when they rise, showering the spray on either side, for a short distance, and then, ascending on an inclined plane, fly heavily, but with some strength.

At night is their time of journeying, when they come down from the lake or return to it, uttering a weird cry in the darkened atmosphere. By day, as they swim to and fro in the flags and through the duckweed, shaded from the hot sun under willow and aspen, they call to each other, not unpleasantly, a note something like ‘croog,’ with a twirl of the ‘r.’ In summer they do not move far from the place they have chosen to breed in: in the frosts of winter they work their way up the brooks, or fly at night, but usually come back to the old spot. The dabchick, a slender bird, haunts the pond here too, diving even more quickly than the moorhen.

Nut-tree bushes grow along the bank of the brook on this side—the nuts are a smaller sort than usual; and beside the wet ditch within the mound and on the ‘shore,’ wherever the scythe has not reached, the meadow-sweet rears its pale flowers. At evening, if it be sultry, and on some days, especially before a thunderstorm, the whole mead is full of the fragrance of this plant, which lines the inside ditch almost everywhere. So heavy and powerful is its odour that the still motionless air between the thick hedges becomes oppressive, and it is a relief to issue forth into the open fields away from the perfume and the brooding heat. But by day it is pleasant to linger in the shadow and inhale its sweetness—if you are not nervous of snakes, for there is one here and there in the grass gliding away at the jar of the earth under your footstep. Warmth and moisture favour their increase, as on a larger scale in tropic lands; and parts of the mead are often under water when a freshet comes down the brooks so choked with flags that they cannot carry it away quickly.

The osier-bed in the angle where the brooks join is on slightly higher ground, for although the withy likes water at its roots it should not stand in it. Springing across the ditch, and entering among the tall slender wands, which, though they look so thick part aside easily, you may find on the mound behind the butt of an oak sawn just above the ground; and there, in the shade of the reeds, and with a cool breeze now and again coming along the course of the stream, it is delicious in the heat of summer to repose and listen to the murmur of the water.

The moorhens come down the current slowly, searching about among the flags; the reed warblers are busy in the hedge; at the mouth of his hole sits a water-rat rubbing his face between his paws; across the stream comes his mate, swimming slowly with one end of a long green sedge in her mouth, and the rest towed behind on the surface. They are the beavers of our streams—amusing, intelligent little creatures, utterly different in habits from the rat of the drain. Move but a hand, and instantly they fall rather than dive into the water, making a sound like ‘thock’ as they strike it; and then they run along the bottom, or seem to do so, as swiftly as on dry land. But in a few minutes out they come again, being at the same time extremely timid and as quickly reassured; so that if you remain perfectly still they will approach within a yard.