Part 7

Boys and girls have an idea that if they thrust an inquiring finger ever so deftly into a Wren’s nest the bird is sure to discover the fact and desert. Without wishing for one moment to do poor “Jenny” an ill turn by destroying this wholesome fear and encouraging investigation, the truth must be told. There is really nothing in the theory. If the structure be deserted, in all probability it is a “cock’s” nest, and was never intended to be anything else by its builder.

Wrens build in all kinds of situations--amongst ivy growing upon walls and round the trunks of trees, in the thatches and sides of ricks, in holes in walls, in banks amongst rocks, in hedges, amongst the rafters of barns, and even in coils of old rope and disused garments hanging up in sheds.

When the nest is built in a mossy bank the outside is generally made of moss; when in the front of a hayrick it is made of straws; and when amongst a few slender twigs sprouting from the place where some large bough has been sawn from the trunk of a tree, of dead leaves. These studied attempts, for such they would seem, at concealment do not, however, always hold good, for I have occasionally found one made of moss in the side of a hayrick.

“Jenny” Wren is a very industrious builder. One day I was resting inside an old tumble-down summer-house built into a steep hillside in a Surrey park, when, to my consternation, I saw a big black feather coming straight as a partridge towards me. There was not a breath of wind blowing at the time, and the whole thing struck me as being most uncanny. Presently it stopped in a little bush, and I saw a wee brown wren behind it. The mystery was at once explained. I sat perfectly still, and in a few moments she brought the erstwhile awesome feather into the summer-house, and after considerable difficulty managed to get the awkward piece of furniture through her tiny front door. She brought along another and another with surprising speed, and before many days passed she had laid six white eggs which were spotted with brownish-red.

=THE GRASSHOPPER WARBLER=.

The Grasshopper Warbler is a little brown bird of about the same size and general appearance as the familiar Hedge Sparrow, but with the strangest voice and manners. It arrives in this country about the middle of April, and takes its departure again in September.

It does not appear to matter much whether the country where this species breeds be wet or dry, so long as there is plenty of dense cover in which it can hide and skulk about mouse-like and unseen. It is a great lover of old haunts, and in the absence of accidents will return season after season with the utmost regularity to some favourite clump of gorse growing on a sandy common or to an ancient reed-bed in the middle of a water-logged marsh. It is very vigilant, shy, and timid, and the slightest disturbance sends it instantly into hiding amongst the thickest vegetation it can find.

Upon his arrival in the spring the male bird commences his queer, shrill song, which sounds something like that of a grasshopper, hence the popular name given to the species.

Whilst living in a house-boat on the Norfolk Broads, studying Nature, I have had many excellent opportunities of observing the habits of this interesting bird, and have often heard it singing at night when the stars were reflected on the dark, still water around me and not a breath of wind stirred the balmy air. The best time of all, however, to hear a Grasshopper Warbler in full song is at sunrise. When the first gleam of rosy light tints the dead brown reeds with coppery red and dewdrops twinkle on every blade of grass, the bird mounts to the topmost twig of some stunted alder bush or blade of sedge, and standing quite still, with widely opened mouth and quivering body, pours forth his strange song in one incessant stream. Whilst the music lasts the head is turned from side to side, and it is this action which appears to give it a ventriloquial effect.

If the bird be disturbed it instantly ceases to sing, and dropping stealthily into the undergrowth waits in silence until the danger has passed; then it recommences.

When the singer is not seen, the exact locality from which the sounds are proceeding is very difficult to discover. This arises from two facts--the shrillness of the tones, as in the case of a mouse squeaking when running about amongst grass, and the movements of the head already mentioned.

The sound, although somewhat similar to that made by a grasshopper, is much more sustained, and always appears to me far more machine-like. In fact, it is known in some parts of the country as the “Reeler,” in recognition of the fact that its notes resemble the sounds made by a reel used during the last century by hand-spinners of wool. Once the bird has been heard, its song can never be forgotten or mistaken for that of any other British Bird. Its call note is a sharp tic, tic.

The Grasshopper Warbler builds upon the ground, or very near to it. Its nest is well hidden, and is composed of dead grass and bits of moss, with an inner lining of fine, fibrous grass.

The eggs, numbering from four to seven, are of a pale rosy-white ground colour, very thickly spotted and speckled, especially at the larger end, with reddish-brown.

The bird approaches and leaves its nest in the most mouse-like manner. I have frequently taken it for one running through the rough matted grass, even when I knew the exact whereabouts of its home which I was approaching.

=THE SKYLARK.=

It seems almost superfluous to give a word of description concerning this well-known and almost universally distributed song bird. The upper parts of the Lavrock, as it is sometimes called, are of varying shades of brown, the darkest being in the centres of the feathers, and the lightest on their edges. The under parts are pale straw colour, tinged in parts with brown and spotted on the breast with a dark hue of that colour. It is about seven inches in length, and, as most of my readers will have noticed, has a greatly elongated hind claw. This interesting provision of Nature acts the useful part of a snow-shoe during severe weather in the winter.

Although it leaves its higher breeding grounds in the autumn this species stays with us all the year round, and has its numbers greatly increased by migrants arriving from the Continent.

The Skylark breeds in cultivated and uncultivated districts alike throughout the country. I have found its nest within a few yards of the open Atlantic and at an elevation of nearly two thousand feet above sea-level.

The nest is placed on the ground in a slight hollow scratched out by the bird under tufts of grass, ling, heath, in corn, and amongst the sun-baked clods of fallow fields. It is made of grass rootlets and horsehair--frequently nothing but the first-named, used sparingly with the slenderest blades forming the inner lining. I have found larks’ eggs from April until the end of July. They number four or five, of a dirty white ground colour, occasionally tinged with olive-green, thickly speckled and spotted with olive-brown and underlying markings of brownish-grey.

The sprightly song of the Skylark is probably better known and remembered by most people than even the appearance of the familiar little brown bird itself. Poets of all ages have praised it in their verse, but nobody has ever excelled Shakespeare’s golden line:

“Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings.”

In a moderate breeze the Lavrock rises almost perpendicularly, but during a calm in circles, and with rapidly beating wings pours out his loud, joyous song until he sometimes reaches an altitude of a thousand feet or more. Some people say that the bird soars until it becomes invisible, but I have never in all my life heard a Skylark when I could not see it. However, it is only right to confess that I am gifted with abnormally strong eyesight. He continues to sing upon his descent, but in a somewhat altered tone, until approaching the ground, when his carol suddenly ceases, and with closed wings he drops like a stone to the earth.

Early in the season Larks rise but a small height in the air, and sing only for a brief period; but in the full tide of their joy they pour out their music for six, seven, and even ten or fifteen minutes without ceasing. During the latter part of the season the males of this species appear to grow idle and sing a good deal upon the ground. I have also heard them sing from the tops of gates, small bushes, and even stunted trees.

I fondly imagined that everybody loved the varied, sprightly, and unstinted song of the Skylark until the other day, when I happened to dip into an old book on the subject of our song birds, and discovered that the author described its notes as “harsh and monotonous in the extreme ... and when divested of all associations they are a wretched concern ... wholly devoid of melody.” I thought that the writer was preparing to justify himself for eating larks, but this practice he appeared to decry almost as much as the bird’s music.

Skylarks frequently borrow notes from other birds. In the Outer Hebrides great numbers of them introduce the sweet call notes of the Ringed Plover into their carols. Unless some enemy in the shape of a Merlin appears in the sky they always, or nearly always, end their songs with a note sounding like hear-it, hear-it, hear-it. The call sounds like tu-wit, twe-wit, or two wut.

=THE REDSTART.=

The Redstart has been very aptly named, for the second syllable of the word means tail. It is also known in many parts of the country as Firetail, and the bright rusty-red colour of that appendage, which is quite unlike that of any other British bird, and is constantly being shaken and quivered, renders it easy to identify whenever and wherever it may be seen.