Part 10

The most frequently heard call-note of this species sounds like pit-it-chou or pitch-oo, hence its very appropriate French name of “Pitchou.” It also has another harsh note, sounding like cha, cha.

=THE MISSEL THRUSH.=

The Missel Thrush measures something like eleven and a half inches in length, and is the largest member of its family inhabiting our islands. It is, perhaps, more numerous now than it has ever been before, owing to the long succession of mild, open winters we have enjoyed and the fact that during the last century it has greatly increased its breeding range both to the North and West. In 1800 it was unknown in Ireland, but is now abundant in that country.

On its upper parts the Missel Thrush is ash-brown in colour, and buffish-white below, marked with blackish-brown spots. It may always be distinguished from the Song Thrush by its larger size, greyer colour, and by the fact that when on the wing it shows a conspicuous white stripe down either side of its tail.

This bird loves small woods, well-timbered parks, orchards, and tree-fringed streams common in the dales of the North of England. Its nest is built in the fork of a tree or on a strong horizontal branch at varying heights of from three to forty feet from the ground, but I have never seen it in such a bush as the Song Thrush would be likely to patronise. Sometimes it is small and well concealed, but at others it is large and quite conspicuous. Occasionally I have found it adorned on the outside with lichen matching that growing on the tree wherein it was built, and even with green ivy leaves harmonising with the moss clinging to the trunk of the tree in which it was situated; but, on the other hand, I have found nests ornamented with large pieces of wool waving in the wind, and even the large wing feathers of a white barn-door Fowl. The nest is constructed of a few slender twigs (sometimes these are quite absent), grass stems, moss, mud, and wool, with an inner lining of fine, dead grass.

The eggs, numbering four or five, vary from greyish-green to reddish-grey in ground colour, marked with brownish-red spots.

The Missel Thrush, or Storm Cock as it is called in many parts of the country, from its habit of singing on the topmost branches of tall trees during wet, windy weather, is one of our very earliest feathered vocalists. I have heard it piping its bold, defiant notes as early as in December in the South of England and as late as the end of June in the Highlands of Scotland, and have found its nest and eggs from the end of February until the middle of June.

Although by no means a first-class melodist, the Storm Cock has some very sweet notes, and the unpleasant climatic conditions under which he frequently delivers them seem to enhance their value. I have often listened to him, brave bird! whilst he was swaying to and fro on the topmost branch of some wind-swept tree, and I could only catch a note here and there, the rest being carried away on a chord of the storm.

Few of our poets have given the Missel Thrush any attention whatever in their verse, but one has done it justice in the following lines:

“Whilst thou! the leader of the band, Fearless salut’st the opening year, Nor stay’st till blow the breezes bland That bid the tender leaves appear; But on some towering elm or pine Waving aloft thy dauntless wing Thou joy’st thy love notes wild to sing.”

This species sometimes imitates the notes of other birds, but not nearly to the same extent as its commoner relative, the Song Thrush, and renders them in such an undernote that they are difficult to hear on account of the singer not allowing the listener to approach very closely.

The call note is a harsh, rattling kind of cry, which, lengthened a little, and uttered with greater vehemence, becomes the alarm.

Although shy during the greater part of the year, this bird grows much bolder during the breeding season. I have known it build in a fruit tree within a few yards of the front door of a farmhouse, and have seen it attack a stuffed owl which had been placed near its nest, containing young ones, and knock it clean out of the tree.

=THE DIPPER.=

The earliest recollections of my old moorland home in Yorkshire are of rushing mountain torrents, swirling and gurgling round limestone boulders, beneath which I used to tickle the lively little brown trout, and of white-breasted Dippers flitting up and down.

The Water Ouzel, as it is sometimes called, is not at all a sociable bird. It takes possession of some portion of a stream, often limited to a few hundred yards in length, and keeping more or less strictly to it will not allow any intruder of its own species to encroach upon its domain.

In appearance it is by no means unlike a large black Wren with a snowy-white breast and chestnut under parts.

It secures its food in the most wonderful manner when the fact is taken into consideration that the bird appears to be no more adapted to the methods it employs than a Song Thrush. Alighting on some stone in the middle of a rapid stream, it deliberately walks down into the water and swims along the bottom by a series of wing-beats, picking up and swallowing as it goes caddis worms, larvæ of flies, and small molluscs. On several occasions I have disturbed young Dippers in the nest when they were ready to fly, and have seen them one by one plunge into a deep, clear pool and progress just as if they were flying slowly and heavily along under water until they came to shore or were compelled to rise to the surface from exhaustion.

The Dipper is a sweet singer, but the listener requires to be very close to the little vocalist before he is in a position thoroughly to appreciate the bird’s low, soft, warbling song, which, although of no great length, is practised even in the middle of winter.

A year or two ago I had occasion to catch an early train in Westmorland, and whilst walking through some rock-strewn pastures to the station came to an old wooden bridge crossing the river Eden. It was close upon Christmas, the air was biting cold, and everything clad in the crystal purity of a heavy hoar frost. Just as I approached the river, day was breaking, and my attention was arrested by a sweet, silvery snatch of song, which I at once recognised as that of the Dipper. I waited on the footbridge until it was light enough to see the bird standing on a moss-clad boulder in the middle of a dark, glassy pool, and shall never forget the beauty of the morning light breaking on the water, the stillness of the scene amidst the lonely hills, nor the sweetness of that exquisite little carol sent out like a flood of joy on the crisp, winter air.

The call note of the species is zit or chit, chit, uttered both when the bird is on the wing and whilst curtseying and dipping in its own quaint way on some stone half submerged in a brawling stream.

The bird builds its nest in all kinds of positions, but never away from flowing water. It may be found in crevices of rock, in holes beneath stone bridges, on large moss-grown boulders in or on the bank of a stream, behind the falling waters of a cascade, and in trees overhanging rivers. It is quite a large structure for the size of the builder, and is made of moss securely woven and felted together on the outside and lined with rootlets, soft dead grass, and leaves placed layer upon layer inside. It is dome-shaped, with the entrance hole placed so low down that the overhanging roof forms a kind of portico which cunningly prevents any stray splash of water from finding its way inside.

The eggs, numbering from four to six, are pure white, and quite unspotted.

Young Dippers, instead of having white, conspicuous breasts like their parents, have the feathers edged with dusky black, which greatly aids concealment when they are sitting at rest.

This species breeds in the North and West of England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland wherever there are tumbling, foaming brooks suitable to its habits.

A spring or two ago I spent several days inside a hollow, artificial rock, photographing the bird represented in our illustration, and was delighted with its interesting ways. The cock fed the hen, sitting inside the nest keeping their tiny chicks warm during some particularly cold weather for the season, and performed his task with great diligence and dispatch.

One day he heard the shutter of my camera click, and grew inquisitive. As soon as he had delivered his catch of larvæ, he hopped from stone to stone, until he finally stood upon one which allowed him to take a peep inside my hiding contrivance, one corner of which projected over the bank of the beck in such a way as to allow me to look down and see the water rushing past. Cocking his knowing little head first on one side and then the other, he looked up at me and made a most critical examination of everything he saw. He apparently came to the conclusion that I was quite harmless, for when he had satisfied his curiosity he sang a little song, and then flew away in search of more food for his mate and their chicks.

=THE CHIFFCHAFF.=