Wild Life in a Southern County

by Richard Jefferies

Then there is the corncrake, of whose curious tricks in the mowing grass I have already written. The crake’s rules of migration are not easily reconciled with any theory I have ever heard of. In the particular locality which has been described the crakes come early, they enter the mowing grass and remain there till after it is cut; immediately afterwards they are heard in the corn. Presently they are silent and supposed to be gone; but I have heard of their being shot in the opening of the shooting season on the uplands. The cry of the crake in that locality is so common and so continuous as to form one of the most striking features of the spring: the farmers listen for them, and note their first arrival just as for the cuckoo—which it may be observed, in passing, even in England keeps time with the young figs.

But when I had occasion to pass a spring in Surrey the first thing I noticed was the rarity of the crakes; I heard one or two at most, and that only for a short time. Long before the grass was mown they were gone—doubtless northwards, having only called in passing. I am told they call again in coming back, and are occasionally shot in September. But the next spring, chancing again to be in Surrey at that season, though constantly about out of doors, I never heard a crake but once—one single call—and even then was not quite sure of it. I am told, again, that there are parts of the county where they are more numerous: they were certainly scarce those two seasons in that locality. Now here we have an instance in direct contradiction to the suggestion that the early state of vegetation is attractive to our spring visitors. The crakes appeared to come earlier, in larger numbers, and to be more contented and make a longer stay in the colder county than in the warm one.

The packing of birds is very interesting, and no thoroughly satisfactory explanation of it, that I am aware of, has ever been discovered. It is one of the most prominent facts in their history. It is not for warmth, because they pack long before it is cold. This summer I saw large flocks of starlings flying to their favourite firs to roost on the evening of the 19th of June. The cuckoo was singing on the 17th, two days before.

It would be interesting to know, too, whether birds are really as free in the choice of their mates in spring as at first sight appears. They return to the same places, the same favourite hedge, and even the same tree. Now, when the flocks split up into sections as the spring draws near, each section or party seems to revisit the hedge from which they departed last autumn. Do they, then, intermarry year after year? and is that the reason why they return to the same locality? The fact of a pair building by chance in a certain hedge is hardly enough to account for the yearly return of birds to the spot. It seems more like the return of a tribe or gens to its own special locality. The members of such a gens must in that case be closely related. As it is not possible to identify individual birds, the difficulty of arriving at a clear understanding is great.

Why, again, do not robins pack? Why do not blackbirds, and thrushes, go in flocks? They never merge their individuality all the year round. Even herons, though they fish separately, are gregarious in building, and also often in a sense pack during the day, standing together on a spit or sandbank. Rooks, starlings, wood-pigeons, fieldfares, and redwings, may be seen in winter all feeding in the same field, and all in large flocks.

Some evidence of a supposed tendency to intermarry among birds may perhaps be deduced from the practice of the long-tailed titmouse. This species builds a nest exactly like a hut, roof included, and in it several birds lay their eggs: as many as twenty eggs are sometimes found; fourteen is a common number. Here there is not only the closest relationship, but a system of community. This tit has a way sometimes of puffing up its feathers—they are fluffy, and in that state look like fur—and uttering a curious sound much resembling the squeak of a mouse; hence, perhaps, the affix ‘mouse’ to its name.

The tomtit also packs, and flies in small parties almost all the year round. They remain in such parties until the very time of nesting. On March 24th last, while watching the approach of a snowstorm, I noticed that a tall birch tree—whose long, slender, weeping branches showed distinctly against the dark cloud—seemed to have fruit hanging at the end of several of the boughs. On going near I counted six tomtits, as busy as they could be, pendent from as many tiny drooping boughs, as if at the end of a string, and swinging to and fro as the rude blast struck the tree. The six in a few minutes increased to eight, then to nine, then to twelve, and at last there were fourteen together, all dependent from the very tiniest drooping boughs, all swinging to and fro as the snow-flakes came silently floating by, and all chuckling and calling to each other. The ruder the blast and the more they swung—heads downwards—the merrier they seemed, busily picking away at the young buds. Some of them remained in the tree more than an hour.

Peewits or lapwings not only pack in the winter, but may almost be said to pass the nesting time together. There are two favourite localities in the district, which has been more particularly described, much-frequented by these birds. One is among some water-meadows, where the grass is long earlier in the spring than elsewhere: there the first bennet pushes up its green staff—country people always note the appearance of the first bennet—and the first cuckoo-flower opens. Several nests are made here on the ground, in comparatively close contiguity.

Upon approaching, the old bird flies up, circles round, and comes so near as almost to be within reach, whistling ‘pee-wit, pee-wit,’ over your head. He seems to tumble in the air as if wounded and scarcely able to fly; and those who are not aware of his intention may be tempted to pursue, thinking to catch him. But so soon as you are leaving the nest behind he mounts higher, and wheels off to a distant corner of the field, uttering an ironical ‘pee-wit’ as he goes. If you neglect his invitation to catch him if you can, and search for the nest or stand still, he gets greatly excited and comes much closer, and in a few minutes is joined by his mate, who also circles round; while several of their friends fly at a safer distance, whistling in sympathy.

Then you have a good opportunity of observing the peculiar motion of their wings, which seem to strike simply downwards and not also backwards, as with other birds; it is a quick jerking movement, the wing giving the impression of pausing the tenth of a second at the finish of the stroke before it is lifted again. If you pass on a short distance and make no effort to find the nest, they recover confidence and descend. When the peewit alights he runs along a few yards rapidly, as if carried by the impetus. He is a handsome bird, with a well-marked crest.