The gannets begin to assemble at the breeding-rock in March. Their nesting habits are similar to those of the cormorant, but only one egg is laid, which is, like the cormorant’s egg, pale blue in colour and thickly coated with a white, chalky material. Mr. Charles Dixon, in ‘Our Rarer Birds,’ thus describes a visit to the great gannet settlement on the east coast: ‘By far the best locality for studying the nesting economy of the gannet is the Bass, that wide-famed mass of basaltic rocks standing like a sentinel in the Firth of Forth.... Upon reaching the Bass a few gannets may be seen sailing dreamily about, but you have no idea of the immense numbers until you have climbed the rugged hill.... But when the summit of the cliff is reached the scene that bursts upon our gaze is one that well-nigh baffles all description. Thousands upon thousands of gannets fill the air, just like heavy snowflakes, and on every side their loud, harsh cries of “carra-carra-carra” echo and re-echo among the rocks. The gannets take very little notice of our approach, many birds allowing themselves to be actually pushed from their nests. Others utter harsh notes, and with flapping wings offer some show of resistance, only taking wing when absolutely compelled to do so, and disgorging one or two half-digested fish as they fall lightly over the cliffs into the air. On all sides facing the sea gannets may be seen. Some are standing on the short grass on the edge of the cliffs, fast asleep, with their heads buried under their dorsal plumage; others are preening their feathers; whilst many are quarrelling and fighting over standing-room on the rocks.’
Describing another great breeding-place of the gannet on the island of Borreay, about four miles from St. Kilda, he says: ‘The flat, sloping top of one of these stupendous ocean rocks, called by the natives “Stack-a-lie,” looks white as the driven snow, so thickly do the gannets cluster there, and the sides are just as densely populated wherever the cliff is rugged and broken. So vast is this colony of birds that it may be seen distinctly forty miles away, looking like some huge vessel under full sail heading to windward.’
Heron
Ardea cinerea.
Crest bluish black; upper parts slate-grey; forehead, cheeks, and neck white, the latter streaked with bluish grey and terminating in long white feathers; under parts greyish white; bill yellow. Length, thirty-six inches.
The heron is sometimes spoken of as our largest wild bird. It is not meant that he is really larger than the golden eagle, or wild swan, or grey lag goose, but only that he is the biggest of the comparatively common birds. The heron has two very different aspects—when in repose, or standing, and when on the wing. On the ground, or, as we more often see him, standing knee-deep in the water, watching the surface, he presents a sorry appearance—a bird lean and ungraceful in figure, white and ghostly grey in colour, awkward in his motions when he moves. No sooner does he open his wings than this mean aspect vanishes, and he is transfigured. At first the flight appears heavy on account of the slow, measured beats of the broad, rounded vans; but as he rises higher, and soars away to a distance, it strikes the beholder as wonderfully free and powerful. The appearance of the bird is then majestic, and its flight more beautiful than that of any other large wading bird with which I am acquainted—ibis, wood-ibis, stork, flamingo, or spoonbill. When pursued by a falcon the heron is capable of rising vertically to a vast height, while the hawk rushes after in a zigzag course, striving to rise above his quarry so as to strike. This aërial contest of hawk and heron forms a very fascinating spectacle, and formerly, when falcons were trained for this sport, the heron was as much esteemed as the pheasant—which has been called the ‘sacred bird’—is at the present day. With the decline of falconry the heron ceased to be protected by law, and diminished greatly in numbers; but he is an historical bird, and there is a feeling, or sentiment, that has served to prevent his extermination. It is still considered a fine thing to have a heronry on a large estate; and so long as this feeling endures the bird will receive sufficient protection, although the existing heronries, when we come to count them, are not many.
The heron breeds in communities, and when the heronry is well-placed and safeguarded the birds return to it year after year. As a rule the nests are built on the tops of large trees in a sheltered part of the wood. The nest is a bulky, rudely built platform structure of sticks and weeds, lined with rushes, wool, and other soft materials. Three or four eggs are laid, very pale dull green in colour. The young are fed in the nest five or six weeks before they fly. Two broods are reared in the season.
The heronry is a most interesting place to visit when the young birds are nearly old enough to fly, and are most hungry and vociferous, and stand erect on the nests or neighbouring branches, looking very strange and tall and conspicuous on the tree-tops. The nests are of various sizes, and have a very disordered appearance, some of them looking like huge bundles of sticks and weed-stalks flung anyhow into the trees. At this period the parent birds are extremely active, and if the colony be a large one, they are seen arriving singly, or in twos and threes, at intervals of a few minutes throughout the day. Each time a great blue bird with well-filled gullet is seen sweeping downwards the young birds in all the nests are thrown into a great state of excitement, and greet the food-bearer with a storm of extraordinary sounds. The cries are powerful and harsh, but vary greatly, and resemble grunts and squeals and prolonged screams, mingled with chatterings and strange quacking or barking notes. When the parent bird has settled on its own nest, and fed its young, the sounds die away; but when several birds arrive in quick succession the vocal tempest rages continuously among the trees, for every young bird appears to regard any old bird on arrival as its own parent bringing food to satisfy its raging hunger.
The cry of the adult is powerful and harsh, and not unlike the harsh alarm-cry of the peacock.