The true Cuckoos, of which the English bird is the type, differ from the Bush Cuckoos in being more Accipitrine, or Hawk-like, in their appearance, and having long thigh-feathers, like the majority of the birds of prey. The nostril is swollen and rounded. It would be easy to write a complete book on this mysterious bird, whose habits and cry have rendered it an object of interest in all countries and from very early times. The popular superstition concerning the nestling—that the young Cuckoo, when sufficiently grown, and having no further use for the little foster-parent to whose care it owed its life and well-being, used to devour the latter—has often been held up as an “awful example” to ungrateful children who become a burden and a shame to their parents when they are unable to provide for them any longer. The idea of the young Cuckoo devouring its protector is no doubt erroneous, and, as Brehm puts it, has arisen from the oft-recurring spectacle of a little Wren or a diminutive Gold-crest placing food in the wide-gaping mouth of the young Cuckoo, which, indeed, without much stretch of the imagination, might swallow it. In Mr. Gould’s “Birds of Great Britain” there is a picture showing the dénouement of the young Cuckoo’s story, when, still callow and blind, it is represented as disposing of some unfortunate little Tree Pipits which were hatched along with it in the same nest. This incident was sketched by Mrs. Hugh Blackburn, who thus describes the occurrence:—“The nest (which we watched last June, after finding the Cuckoo’s egg in it) was that of the common Meadow Pipit (Titlark, Mosscheeper), and had two Pipit’s eggs besides that of the Cuckoo. It was below a heather bush on the declivity of a low abrupt bank or highland hill-side, in Moidart. At one visit the Pipits were found to be hatched, but not the Cuckoo. At the next visit, which was after an interval of forty-eight hours, we found the young Cuckoo alone in the nest, and both the young Pipits lying down the bank, about ten inches from the margin of the nest, but quite lively after being warmed in the hand. They were replaced in the nest beside the Cuckoo, which struggled about till it got its back under one of them, when it climbed backwards directly up the open side of the nest, and hitched the Pipit from its back on to the edge. It then stood quite upright on its legs, which were straddled wide apart, with the claws firmly fixed half-way down the inside of the nest among the interlacing fibres of which the nest was woven, and stretching its wings apart and backwards, it elbowed the Pipit fairly over the margin so far that its struggles took it down the bank instead of back into the nest. After this the Cuckoo stood a minute or two, feeling back with its wings, as if to make sure that the Pipit was fairly overboard, and then subsided into the bottom of the nest. As it was getting late, and the Cuckoo did not immediately set to work on the other nestling, I replaced the ejected one and went home. On returning next day, both nestlings were found dead and cold out of the nest. I replaced one of them, but the Cuckoo made no effort to get under it and eject it, but seated itself contentedly on the top of it. All this I find accords accurately with Jenner’s description of what he saw. But what struck me most was this: the Cuckoo was perfectly naked, without the vestige of a feather, or even a hint of future feathers; its eyes were not yet opened, and its neck seemed too weak to support the weight of its head. The Pipits had well-developed quills on the wings and back, and had bright eyes, partially open; yet they seemed quite helpless under the manipulations of the Cuckoo, which looked a much less developed creature. The Cuckoo’s legs, however, seemed very muscular, and it appeared to feel about with its wings, which were absolutely featherless, as with hands; the spurious wing (unusually large in proportion) looked like a spread-out thumb. The most singular thing of all was the direct purpose with which the blind little monster made for the open side of the nest, the only part where it could throw its burden down the bank. I think all the spectators felt the sort of horror and awe at the apparent inadequacy of the creature’s intelligence to its acts that one might have felt at seeing a toothless hag raise a ghost by an incantation. It was horribly ‘uncanny’ and ‘gruesome!’”
COMMON CUCKOO.
The above account of Mrs. Blackburn’s graphically describes the ejection of its foster-brothers and sisters by the nestling Cuckoo; and this brings us to the next part of the subject, viz., the breeding habits of this curious bird. As is well known of the hen bird, it never makes its own nest, but it is believed that during its stay in Europe it lays altogether about eight eggs, all of which are deposited in the nest of some other bird. The variation in the colour of the Cuckoo’s eggs is very great, from a white speckled egg, like that of the Water Wagtail, or the dark brown mottled egg of a Lark or Pipit, to the blue egg of the Hedge Sparrow; while Mr. Dresser states that he has seen even green eggs, and is of opinion that the same female will lay similarly coloured eggs. The researches of ornithologists during recent years sufficiently prove that the female Cuckoo lays her egg upon the ground, and then deposits it in the nest of a bird whose egg resembles the one she has just laid; hence it is probable that a hen Cuckoo killed with a broken egg in its mouth is the rightful owner of the latter, and has not been sucking the eggs of some other bird, as the species is often supposed to do. The writer has on many occasions found Cuckoos’ eggs in the nest of the Water Wagtail in Berkshire, the latter bird being frequently selected by the Cuckoo as her victim; and he can affirm that the eggs were in all cases similar to those of the Wagtail, but were a little larger in size. In due time the young Cuckoo is hatched, the rightful owners of the nest ejected, and for weeks the powers of the unhappy foster-parents are exercised to the utmost in feeding the gaping and constantly-complaining occupant of their domain. Even when the young Cuckoo has outgrown the nest, and is strong enough to fly about, he is still attended by his foster-parents. So great is the instinct of the young Cuckoo to receive food from other birds, that a specimen in the Zoological Gardens which managed to live through the winter and put on his full plumage in the following spring, on the appearance of a Hedge Sparrow in the same aviary, fluttered down, and with drooping wings and open bill solicited food from his small companion.
The reason for the parasitic habits of the Cuckoo is hard to discover, but it appears probable that the number of males greatly exceeds that of the females, and one observer has calculated that the preponderance of the former sex over the latter is as much as twenty-five to one. This would seem to be too large an estimate, but the proportion is probably about five males to one female. The latter may not only be distinguished by its somewhat darker plumage, and a certain red colour on the chest (which is more apparent when the bird is alive), but has a somewhat different note from that of her mate, and calls cuckoo in a much sharper and less emphasised way than the male bird. Thus, if the call of the female be represented by the syllables cŭck-oo, the responsive utterance of the male would be coo-coo. The female has also another call-note, which may be described as “whittling,” and is well expressed by Brehm as kwikwikwik, the sound of which is quite sufficient to set all the male Cuckoos within hearing cuckoo-ing with might and main. Thus it happened to the writer, on a still, quiet evening in spring a few years ago, to be fishing beneath a large elm-tree on the river Thames, when a female Cuckoo flew into the topmost boughs and uttered her peculiar note. From four different points of the compass she was answered by male birds, who one and all directed their flight toward the tree where she was perched. A tremendous scrimmage ensued, and apparently a fight took place, but, being suddenly alarmed, they all took flight in different directions. It is certain that during the breeding season the Cuckoo is a very passionate bird, and loves to call until, from sheer hoarseness, he is obliged to stop; sometimes his cry comes from the middle of a thickly-wooded tree, at other times he will sit on a bare dead branch, or swing in the breeze from the top of a fir-tree. The female bird is more retiring and keeps nearer the ground, so that it is possible to shoot her by hiding behind a tree as she hunts after insects near one of their favourite haunts. The same plurality of males has been observed by the author during the spring at Avington Park, in Hampshire; and on one occasion, when the female was shot, the note of the males was scarcely heard again, as if they had disappeared from the vicinity.
Brehm remarks:[250] “The note itself, and the manner in which it is emitted, are typical of the bird’s habits and character. The same abruptness, insatiability, eagerness, the same rage, are noticeable in its whole conduct. The Cuckoo is a greedy feeder, and a discontented, ill-conditioned, passionate fellow: in short, a decidedly unamiable bird. Its food consists entirely of insects and their larvæ; young Cuckoos, alone, will sometimes eat berries; Cockchafers, Fern-beetles, Moths, and Dragon-flies are favourite morsels, and Caterpillars (especially the hairy species, which no other birds ever devour) being preferred. The hairs of these creatures cling so close to the inner membranes of the stomach that the use of the magnifying glass is necessary to convince one that they do not form part and parcel of that organ. Its keen sight enables the Cuckoo to see Caterpillars from a great distance, when it flies quickly to the spot, seizes them, and returns to its perch, without spending much time over the operation or climbing about after them. The bird is so constantly on the move that it always manages to obtain sufficient food—which is saying a great deal, for its stomach is large and its powers of digestion almost unlimited. Thus it would be a most useful bird, did it not cause so much damage while breeding.”
The Cuckoo resembles a Hawk so much in flight that even a practised eye sometimes fails to distinguish it from a Kestrel at first sight. There is, however, a certain pointed look about the body of the bird which distinguishes it from a Hawk; if near enough, the flat, obtuse head of the latter making the bird appear as if it had no head at all.
GREAT SPOTTED CUCKOO.
Lastly, one word as to the winter home of the Cuckoo. It is always known in England as the “harbinger of spring,” and with the exception of the Swift, who very rarely makes a mistake in the period of his advent, there is no bird whose arrival may be considered so certain a sign of that genial season of the year. Just as the Swifts, however, sometimes come in for some cold weather, which proves fatal to many of them, so the Cuckoos have been known to have been detained by cold winds in the south of England, where they have remained in flocks until the weather was more seasonable and they could distribute themselves over the country. They are seldom heard of in the height of summer; and, as the old rhyme says, “in June he changes his tune, in August go he must.” And it seems certain that this bird leaves England early in that month, but not entirely, as young birds—perhaps the later offspring—are seen as late as September. The old ones arrive in Egypt on their way south before the young birds, which are somewhat later; and in Berkshire the writer shot three young Cuckoos during the first week in August, a few years ago, out of a flock of birds on migration, which, like himself, had apparently taken shelter under a wood from an approaching thunderstorm. These specimens are now in the British Museum, and are of slightly different ages. The Cuckoo is a well-known bird at the Cape of Good Hope during the English winter, and specimens are in the national collection. It is much rarer on the west coast of Africa, but was shot by Governor Ussher near Cape Coast Castle, evidently on migration. The main route of the birds visiting the Cape in winter is, however, evidently down the Nile Valley and along the east coast to the Cape Colony and South Africa generally. A second line of migration extends to India, and it probably goes further, and has been found in the island of Celebes. In Asia, however, and Australia, there are several species of Cuckoo, very like the English bird, but smaller and differing in voice, which have not been sufficiently studied to enable one to say whether they are actually distinct or not.