Part 17

=THE WHINCHAT.=

The Whinchat arrives in this country during April, and takes its departure again in September and October. It is about five inches and a quarter in length, and has the crown of the head and upper parts generally of a dusky-brown colour, the feathers being edged with sandy buff. The wings are marked with a large white spot. Upper half of tail white, lower half dark brown edged with sandy buff. A broad white stripe runs from the base of the bill over the eye. Chin is white, throat and breast are light chestnut, under parts pale buff. In the female the white line over the eye and the spot upon the wing are less conspicuous, and the colour of her under parts is less distinctive.

This species, although somewhat local, is met with nearly all over the British Isles. It is partial to heaths and commons, pastures, and meadows, where it makes its nest on or near the ground in thick tangled grass, heather, and at the bottom of small gorse bushes. The structure is formed of dead grass and moss with an inner lining of fine, dry grass and sometimes horsehair. The eggs number from four to six, of a greenish-blue ground colour, sometimes spotted on the larger end with reddish-brown.

The song is low, but sweet, and is delivered somewhat hurriedly, both whilst the melodist is perched and upon the wing. The call note sounds like u-tack.

=THE SONG THRUSH.=

“The thrush, a spendthrift of his powers, Enrapturing heaven and earth.” MONTGOMERY.

There is, luckily, no need for me to enter into a minute description of the appearance of this well-known and greatly beloved carol singer, which is called a Song Thrush in the South, a Throstle in the North of England, and a Mavis in Scotland. It breeds commonly throughout the British Islands wherever there is any kind of cover in the shape of trees, shrubs, or bushes to give it shelter. Some people think that the Song Thrush resides with us all the year round, but this is only partially true. I know many high, bleak parts of the country where it is never seen during the depth of winter, and, as a matter of fact, those that stay with us in the lower and more sheltered regions are only a fraction of the total number bred in our country.

The nest of the Song Thrush is built in evergreens, hedgerows, bushes, ivy growing against walls and trees, holes in stone walls, on ledges of rock, on beams in sheds, and occasionally, though not as often as that of the Blackbird, absolutely on the ground. It is quite unlike that of any other British bird in its construction, being made of twigs, coarse dead grass, moss, and clay or mud outside, with an inner lining of clay, mud, or cow-dung studded with bits of rotten wood. In some districts where decayed wood is difficult to procure, it is dispensed with altogether, and during very droughty summers I have found several nests occupied by eggs without a vestige of a hard lining. They were similar to those of the Blackbird, only not so neatly lined with fine dead grass. The mud lining is generally allowed to dry hard before the bird commences to lay.

The eggs, numbering from four to six, are of a beautiful deep greenish-blue colour spotted with black. I have on several occasions met with unmarked specimens.

As a melodist the Throstle ranks very high. Many people consider that it comes next to the Nightingale, for which it is often mistaken, when singing very late in the evening, by people who can claim no great acquaintance with the superb notes of Sweet Philomel.

Mr. Swaysland, of Brighton, who has had a great deal of experience amongst feathered musicians, says that the song of the Mavis is “clear, yet full of mellowness--now pealing out a phrase of wild bluff heartiness, and anon with long-drawn notes tinged with exquisite pathos--striking a responsive chord in the heart of every hearer.”

I have heard its song during every month of the year excepting August, when the bird experiences the depression of its annual moult.

During a fine April morning every wood and spinny in the part of Surrey where I reside rings with the melodious notes of the Throstle, and two or three seasons ago we had a specimen that habitually sang from the top of a cabbage in a field almost surrounded by tall trees. I have heard it sing on the ground between bouts of fighting, on the wing, and from a housetop, where a Starling might have been expected to hold forth. It has been timed, and in one instance at least has been found to sing sixteen hours in a single day, and under favourable circumstances some of its notes may be heard half a mile away.

If not the most imitative of all British birds, it comes very close to the holding of that distinction, and can not only mimic some notes as well as their owners can deliver them, but actually improve upon their volume and sweetness. The Ringed Plover and the French Partridge are two examples. I have heard the Throstle reproduce the notes of the following species: Common Curlew, Whimbrel, Dunlin, Peewit, Golden Plover, Common Tern, Redshank, Ringed Plover, French Partridge, and Common Sparrow, besides those of several others.

Thrushes vary not only individually as musicians, but in different parts of the country, I am persuaded. Some of the finest singers I have heard have been in Surrey, Cheshire, and Aberdeenshire.

The poets have given this species a good deal of deserved attention on account of the excellence of its song, and everyone who has had any experience whatever of the country and its wild life in springtime will at once recognise the truth and beauty of the following lines:

“Through the hazels thick espy The hatching throstle’s shining eye.”

The call and alarm notes of the Song Thrush are very difficult to convey by the characters of the alphabet. The former sounds something like sik, sik sik, sik, siki, tsak, tsak, and the latter quep and wich-it-tit. The song has been rendered by the words, “Go-it, go-it, stick-to-it, stick-to-it, you’ll-do-it, you’ll-do-it,” but by far the best representation is that of the great Scottish naturalist, Macgillivray, which I have quoted at length in “Our Bird Friends.”

Throstles live principally upon worms, grubs, and snails, and they have a habit of taking the last-named to some favourite stone, where they hammer the shell until it is sufficiently fractured to enable them to extract the luscious morsel inside. These stones are known as “Thrushes’ Anvils.” Occasionally when they find a snail with a house upon its back too hard and strong to be broken in this way, they carry it to some height in the air and drop it on a flag or other hard substance. The shell is thus fractured, and the sensible captor descends and devours its prey. The bird also takes its share of fruit, and without any consideration for the good it does during the greater part of the year, is ruthlessly slain by gardeners, who might, in the great majority of instances, use netting instead of shot to the advantage of both fruit trees and birds.

When I hear a garden-loving neighbour’s gun going off, I frequently think of the poet’s compassionate appeal:

“Scare, if ye will, his timid wing away, But oh, let not the leaden viewless shower, Vollied from flashing tube, arrest his flight, And fill his tuneful, gasping bill with blood.”

The members of this species that stay with us throughout the winter months, when not regaling our ears with their versatile songs, amuse even the most casual observers by their quaint ways of listening for and catching worms on lawn and meadow during open weather. They also well repay feeding with soaked dog-biscuits and other edible trifles during severe weather, when it is almost impossible for them to secure even the shortest supply of natural food. They are able to foretell coming changes in the weather far earlier than human beings, and frequently sing in anticipation of a thaw.

=THE YELLOW HAMMER.=

Who does not know this almost universally distributed bird in our country, with its dress of almost canary-like yellow, streaked with brown, and short though oft-repeated song? On furze-clad commons, along cultivated hedgerows, and on railway embankments close to busy London town, and in far-away parts of the country alike, it may be heard morning, noon, and night persistently going over its familiar notes, which always seem to me to accord best with the drowsiness of a hot summer’s day. Indeed, I must confess that at such times its reiteration has sent me to sleep.

It has been variously represented by the characters of the alphabet, as the following examples will show: tic-tic-tic-e-ereze, te, te, te, te, te, te, twyee; chick, chick, churr; chit-chit-chierre-r-r. By far the most popular rendering of it in England, however, is the somewhat hackneyed phrase, “A little bit of bread and no cheese.” In Scotland it becomes, “Deil, deil, deil tak ye,” a supposed imprecation upon boys who steal its eggs.

There is also a curious legend in the North to the effect that Satan supplies the bird with half a drop of his blood every morning wherewith to mark its eggs with the greatly varied scribbling lines that appear upon them.

The song, although more musical than that of the Corn Bunting, is considered by many people to be a monotonous performance. The poet Grahame was evidently aware of this when he wrote the lines:

“Even in a bird the simplest notes have charms For me: I even love the yellow hammer’s song.”