Part 18

The call note of this species, when disturbed, is a trit, trit, trit, and on the wing tisit.

It may always be distinguished with certainty from its much rarer relative, the Cirl Bunting, by the fact that it has no black upon its chin.

The female Yellow Hammer is a trifle smaller than her mate, is much less yellow, and the markings on her head are darker. Both sexes take a share in the work of incubation.

The nest is built in hedge banks, at the foot of light open bushes, under brambles, and sometimes even in gorse bushes and thick evergreen hedges at a considerable height from the ground. It is composed of dry grass, rootlets, and moss on the outside, with an inner lining of fine, dead grass and horsehair.

The eggs, numbering from four to six, are of a dingy white ground colour, tinged with purple, streaked, spotted, and blotched with dark purplish-brown. The streaks or scribblings generally end in a spot, and, on account of their similarity to the marks made by a pen, the bird is known in many parts of the country as the “Writing Lark.”

This species, although commencing to breed in April, sometimes has eggs as late even as September.

=THE STARLING.=

It is quite unnecessary for me to describe the appearance of the Starling, for the species is so common, sociable, and unlike every other feathered friend in this country that confusion is almost impossible.

I love the brave, bustling bird, for when it has any work to do it does not go dawdling along like a lazy boy crawling halfheartedly to school, but rushes about as if the welfare of the whole universe depended upon its individual exertions.

It is a lively singer, with almost unrivalled powers of imitation, and has, I must confess, completely deceived me on several occasions. One fine spring morning, whilst on my way to a railway station in the north of London, I heard, to my surprise, the familiar notes of a Golden Plover, and immediately began to examine the heavens for a member of that species flying overhead. To my surprise, I discovered that the sounds were coming from a Starling delightedly flapping its wings on a chimney-pot not far away. On another occasion, whilst hunting for a much-desired Sandpiper’s nest on the shores of a small loch in the Outer Hebrides, I said to my brother, “Hark! I hear one calling!” But that Sandpiper proved to be a Starling standing on a rock not far off imitating to perfection the soft call notes of the little wader. I have heard different members of this species mimicking the cries and call notes of the Curlew, Whimbrel, Lapwing, Common Partridge, Redshank, Ringed Plover, House Sparrow, and other small birds.

Tame Starlings have been taught to imitate the human voice so well that one has been said to repeat the Lord’s Prayer from beginning to end, and Pliny, the historian, mentions one that was able to speak in both Greek and Latin.

The harsh alarm cry of the species sounds something like the word spate, spate.

Although sometimes guilty, especially during very dry seasons, of taking cherries and other fruit, the damage wrought in this way is as nothing compared with the vast amount of good done by this species in the destruction of insects injurious to growing crops. It is an amusing sight to watch a flock hurrying and scurrying across a field, the hindmost members continually flying over the foremost and then running in breathless haste looking eagerly this way and that, probing every likely and unlikely place for some lurking grub, as if life did not contain one moment to be wasted.

They alight on the backs of sheep and cattle in order to destroy troublesome parasites, and at certain seasons of the year may be seen dexterously hawking winged insects over houses and tree-tops.

Starlings have greatly increased in numbers during the last forty years in our islands, and there is no season of the year when flocks, great or small, cannot be seen. Late breeders keep together until far on in May, and the broods of those that commenced housekeeping operations early in April flock together directly they meet each other in the fields. Thus I have known the same nesting hole occupied twice in one season, a fact which has given rise to the belief entertained by some people that the species is double-brooded.

When flocked, these birds have favourite roosting places, to which they resort in tens of thousands every night with the utmost regularity. Sometimes they select a reed bed to sleep in, and do great damage by too many birds alighting on the same stems and breaking them down. Before finally settling for the night, they perform a great number of wonderful aërial evolutions, especially during fine weather. Whilst sitting in one black mass on every available branch and bough, producing an indescribable din by all chissicking and chattering to each other at the same time, they will suddenly become quite silent, and leaping into the air with a noise just like that of a truck-load of small coals being shot into the hold of a steamer, mount to a considerable height, and commence to wheel and turn as if by some magically communicated command.

At one moment they look like a thick black cloud, and at another like a long trail of grey smoke. Every turn and twist, opening and closing of the whole flock, is performed with a grace and precision of movement which is wonderful to behold.

Starlings nest in holes in trees, rocks, and old ruins; under the roofs of houses, in the thatch of ricks and outbuildings, and sometimes under large stones on steep hillsides. I have also known them breed amongst sticks forming the base of an Osprey’s eyrie which was occupied by young ones. A year or two ago I found an open-topped nest containing chicks in an evergreen, where a Blackbird or Thrush might have been expected to breed. Green Woodpeckers are constantly turned out of their laboriously dug holes by members of this species in search of suitable nesting quarters.

The nest is a loosely-put-together structure composed of straws, rootlets, and bits of moss, with a lining of hair, feathers, and occasionally a lock of wool. I have often found nests, however, with no kind of lining at all except straws.

The eggs number from four to six, of a uniform pale blue colour. This species has a curious habit of dropping its eggs about on lawns and in fields during the early part of the breeding season.

Young Starlings, in their first coats of feathers, are greyish-brown, and lack entirely the beautiful purple and steel-blue sheen which gives their parents such a handsome appearance when the sun is shining upon them.

=THE CHAFFINCH.=

Youthful students of ornithology are frequently at a loss to understand why Linnæus, the great Swedish naturalist, gave this bird the somewhat odd scientific name of cœlebs, signifying bachelor. He did so because he noticed that in his own country the females left the males behind in winter and migrated south in search of more hospitable climes.

In Scotland and the North of England I have frequently observed the same kind of thing happen, and especially during severe winters, not a female to be seen for weeks together, and the males all congregated in little flocks. In the South and West of England, however, both sexes remain together, as a rule, and, associating with their relatives, the Common Sparrows, hunt farmyards and gardens for corn, seeds, and any other unconsidered trifles they may chance to pick up.

However gloomy the conditions of existence may be, the brave Chaffinch is always sprightly, vigorous, and cheerful, a characteristic which may be plainly seen in our illustration of birds feeding on the snow.

The call note of the species is a loud, ringing spink, spink, which is also used as an alarm cry. In the spring the male utters in addition a very sweet one sounding something like tu-wheet, tu-wheet. During flight the bird makes use of another note, which is difficult to render by the characters of the alphabet, but may, perhaps, be best represented by the letters tuke.

The song is repeated thousands of times per day in the early part of the breeding season. It is a very sprightly performance, like a merry old English catch, tol-de-rol, lol, chickweedo, which has been very aptly likened to the words, “Will you, will you kiss me, dear?” Some people consider it a monotonous affair, but in spite of the fact that I have heard it repeated twenty-one times in four minutes it is always to me, “A full, clear, sprightly ringing ditty.” It varies greatly in individuals, and although London bird-catchers consider an Essex Chaffinch superior to all others as a singer, I prefer to listen to some members of the species I have heard cheering the dark solitude of great Highland pine forests.

German workmen are great Chaffinch fanciers. One has been known to exchange a cow for a clever vocalist of this species, and another to live upon bread-and-water until he had saved the high price of a prime favourite.