In a paper which appeared in this Journal, in June 1883, on the Salmon, a few words were said in defence of the water-ousel against a fama which had found vent in newspaper correspondence, accusing that most interesting bird of destroying salmon spawn. An English gentleman, after reading those remarks, has written to us, giving a sad illustration of misdirected zeal, which had arisen from the reading of such newspaper letters.
During the previous winter, he was one of a party that spent a few days on the banks of a favourite salmon river in Wales. The party were all enthusiastic anglers; and, fired by the recent outcry against the ousel, they made a raid upon these birds, killing thirty in one day. Like the ‘Jeddart justices’ of old, the party then proceeded to convict the slain; when, lo! on examination by one of their number—a well-known English analyst—not a grain of salmon roe could be found in all the thirty crops examined, though it was then the height of the salmon spawning season. Like Llewelyn, after slaying Gelert, they had time to repent, ‘For now the truth was clear.’ They had slain the innocent, which feed upon insects that prey on salmon ova. They had therefore killed one of the salmon’s best protectors.
No better instance could be adduced of the caution with which popular theories in natural history should be received. But besides branding the innocent little ousel as a salmon-destroyer, some writers went so far as to assert that the bird had no song, and was not worth listening to. The best observers fortunately have defended the bird against the charge of being songless; and in respect to its alleged crime of eating salmon-roe, the evidence above given is surely conclusive in favour of its innocence.
The water-ousel is one of our most unique birds. It is a wader and a diver, and though not web-footed, by using its wings it can propel itself under water. Its habits are always a delightful study to the observer. The domed nest, with its snow-white eggs, is a wonderful structure; and there is a fascination in watching the bird tripping in and out of the water in pursuit of its food, popping overhead ever and again, and reappearing for a moment, only to dive and reappear elsewhere. When rivers are largely frozen over, it is interesting to see how boldly the little bird dives from the edge of an ice-sheet into a stream two feet or more in depth, how long it can remain under water, and how often it rises to breathe and dive again without leaving the stream. The singing of the water-ousel is low, but remarkably sweet, and long-continued in the winter-time of the year, when no other bird but the redbreast is heard; and when trilled out, as the notes frequently are in the clear frosty air, as the bird sits perched on a rocky projection, or takes its rapid flight up or down the stream, they sound clear and melodious.
THE WATER-OUSEL’S SONG.
Whitter! whitter! where the water
Leaps among the rocks,
And the din of the linn
Swelling thunder mocks,
Cheerily and merrily