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There are various other Passerine birds to be found in these localities, due attention being given to the predominant vegetation. The silvery-throated Whitethroat is a regular visitor each spring-time to the thickets of briar and bramble; the Grasshopper Warbler may be heard where the vegetation is most tangled, reeling off his seemingly interminable chirping song, if in reality it is worthy of such a name in the company of so many more sweet-voiced choristers. The Stonechat, gay in his black-and-white and chestnut livery, perches on the topmost sprays of the cruel-thorned gorse and eyes us suspiciously, with a flicking tail and a harsh tac of welcome or resentment. The equally beautiful Linnet, with swollen carmine breast, bears him company amongst the gorse; whilst the Yellow Bunting may not unfrequently be noticed crying his few monotonous notes time after time, and as often answered by some rival near at hand, both of them perched as high as possible on the stunted thorns or the silver-barked birches. All through the early summer the cheery notes of the Cuckoo (not a Passere, by the way) are a familiar sound on or near these heaths, and now and then the blue-gray bird himself, looking all wings and tail, may be seen skimming across to the distant belt of trees, or his mate may be watched poking about the thickets in a suspicious sort of way seeking some unprotected nest in which to drop her alien egg. One bird, however, we miss from these northern heaths in particular, and that is the Dartford Warbler. He seldom penetrates as far north as Yorkshire, although we have taken his nest in a gorse covert within a few miles of Sheffield. But that was long ago, and, truth to tell, we failed to recognize the importance of our discovery for years afterwards, and when nest and eggs had been lost. This Warbler is said to breed in Derbyshire, but we have had no experience of it in that county. It is interesting to remark that the species appears first to have been made known to science from a pair that were shot on a Kentish heath near Dartford, a century and a quarter ago. Few other British birds have, therefore, a more unassailable right to their trivial name.

That curious bird the Stone Curlew, perhaps equally as well known as the “Thick-knee”, is to be found on certain heaths as far northwards as Yorkshire. It becomes more numerous possibly in Lincolnshire, and thence it is generally dispersed over Norfolk and Suffolk and most of the "home counties". Owing to drainage, the haunts of this bird have become much more restricted than formerly, and in not a few localities it has been exterminated completely. It loves the more open and bare heath-lands, especially such as are interspersed with stony and chalky ground and free from trees and brushwood, for cover is in no way essential to its requirements. It derives safety in another way. Its plumage of mottled brown is eminently protective on these chalky heaths, and when alarmed, if it does not take wing, it quietly crouches flat to the ground, extending its neck and head, which are also pressed close to the soil, and there, perfectly motionless, it awaits until danger is past, or until it is almost trodden under foot, when it is reluctantly compelled to disclose itself. The Stone Curlew is known by various local names, all more or less expressive of some of its characteristics or relating to the haunts it affects. That of Stone Curlew probably refers to the stony haunt and the very Curlew-like appearance of the bird itself; whilst those of Norfolk Plover and Stone Plover are indicative of a favourite resort of the species in England and a more correct determination of its affinities, for there can be no doubt that the bird is more closely allied to the Charadriinæ than to the Scolopacinæ. Less happily the bird has been called the “Thick-knee” because of the peculiar enlargement of the tibio-tarsal joint, but this is not the “knee” in an anatomical sense, but analogous to the ankle-joint in man. With more propriety, therefore, if with less euphony the bird should be termed a “Think-ankle”, or a "Thick-heel". Lastly, it is known to some as the “Thick-kneed Plover” or "Thick-kneed Bustard". In this latter case popular judgment is to some extent supported by anatomical facts, for the Stone Curlew is by no means distantly related to the Bustards, certainly more nearly than to the Curlews. It is rather a remarkable fact that the Stone Curlew is a migratory bird, when we bear in mind that on both shores of the Mediterranean it is a sedentary species, and that its food – worms, snails, beetles, frogs, and mice – might be obtained in sufficient abundance in England throughout the winter. In fact, there are many instances on record of this bird passing the winter in England, although we should scarcely feel disposed to class these individuals as indigenous to our country, but rather as lost and wandering birds from continental localities. Be all this as it may, the Stone Curlew visits us in spring to breed, arriving in April, and returns south in autumn, leaving in October. Its large eyes (bright yellow in colour) betoken it to be a nocturnal bird, and during the night it obtains most of its food. It then often wanders far from its dry parched native heath, and visits more marshy spots, especially arable lands and wet meadows; sometimes lingering, both in going and returning, to fly about the air uttering its loud and plaintive cry. The Stone Curlew seems to be fully alive to the fact that the safest hiding-place is often the most conspicuous and open one. In this matter it resembles the Missel-thrush, which often builds in safety its bulky nest in such an exposed spot that we marvel afterwards (when the young are fledged and gone) how it could have escaped notice. Acting on this principle the Stone Curlew, in May or June, lays its two eggs side by side upon the barest of ground, and where their tints and markings so closely resemble the yellow stones and pebbles scattered around them that discovery is extremely difficult. The sitting bird renders the deception more complete by running from the eggs at the least alarm and leaving them to that almost perfect safety that their protective colours ensure. These eggs are buff in ground colour, blotched, spotted, or streaked with brown and gray of various shades. We ought also to mention, by the way, that the artful bird selects, as a rule, some little eminence for its breeding-place, where it can command a good view of approaching danger and slip quietly away. We have heard countrymen insist that the Stone Curlew will remove its eggs if it becomes aware that they have been discovered, but we cannot vouch for the accuracy of the statement.

We occasionally meet with three of our most familiar Game Birds upon the heaths; perhaps we might add a fourth, as we include Lincolnshire in our area of the northern shires, for there is some evidence to suggest that the alien Red-legged Partridge is invading the latter county. On many heaths the English Partridge lives at the present time, and the harsh crow of the Pheasant is by no means an unfamiliar sound in these localities, especially when they adjoin covers. This latter bird is a confirmed wanderer, given to straying far from its usual haunts. We have repeatedly noticed fine old cock birds on the moors, miles from coverts. Whether these wanderers ever interbreed with the Grouse we cannot say, and we are not aware that hybrids between these species have ever been obtained or recorded. Lastly, the Black Grouse has a weakness for the heaths, especially in localities where a belt of timber adjoins them. Strange as it may seem, we must include the Mallard as a heath bird. To mention one locality only where this bird breeds regularly upon heaths we may name the Sherwood Forest area. We have taken nests here far from water or wet ground of any description, made amongst dead bracken; and what is also worthy of remark, these nests were by far the handsomest we have ever seen of this Duck. They were composed principally of down from the female’s body, intermixed with fronds of bracken, and were raised from eight to ten inches above the surrounding ground. Here again we had another instance of nests being most difficult to see in the barest localities. Some were made where the bracken had been cut, amongst scattered green stems of the new growth and upon green turf; and yet we can remember how we had to look long and closely before we saw them, as they were actually pointed out to us by a keeper acquaintance. In one instance – and that where the nest was the most exposed of all – we could not see the nest, and did not, until the big brown duck went lumbering off. Of course when the nests were discovered they seemed conspicuous in the highest degree, and we could do nothing but wonder how ever it was possible to overlook them.

One more bird deserves notice ere we bring our survey of avine life upon the heaths to a conclusion, and that is the Short-eared Owl. This bird is quite cosmopolitan in its choice of a haunt. It is as much a fen or a marsh, a gorse covert or a moor bird as it is a heath one, apparently as much at home in one locality as another. We shall have more to say about this species, especially its migrations, when we come to deal with bird-life on the coast. But as this Owl breeds upon the heaths, amongst other places, we may as well take this opportunity of a peep at its domestic arrangements, and one or two other characteristics, distinct from its migrational movements. Owls are popularly supposed to be exclusive birds of darkness – crepuscular and nocturnal; but the Short-eared Owl is a regular day-flier, and may often be seen beating about in its own peculiar unsteady erratic way during bright sunshine without any visible sign of inconvenience. Neither does it seem ever dazed by the brilliant gleam of lighthouses, but takes advantage of the glare to catch birds more susceptible to the artificial light. During the autumn months especially we may meet with this species in the most unlikely spots, amongst the sand dunes, in turnip-fields, in wet meadows and saltings. The birds that breed on the heaths, however – especially in the English shires – seem to be sedentary. Although this Owl unquestionably feeds upon birds, say up to the size of a Missel-thrush, as its diurnal habits apparently suggest, there can be no doubt of its great usefulness to man in killing off voles, mice, reptiles, beetles, and such-like destructive pests. We need only point to the extraordinary numbers of this Owl that congregated in Scotland some few years ago during the plague of voles, and the way in which they preyed upon them, for an object-lesson of this bird’s usefulness to man. In the matter of its nesting the Short-eared Owl presents us with another anomaly. Fully in keeping with its love for open country and its partiality for daylight, it nests upon the bare ground, and in this respect differs from all the other British species. We say “nests”, but in reality there is little or no provision made for the eggs, beyond a mere hollow in which a few scraps of withered herbage are strewn. The half-dozen creamy-white eggs are, therefore, conspicuous enough in many places, though better concealed in others when they are laid under bracken or amongst heath. The sitting bird, however, crouches close over them, and shields them from observation by her own protective-coloured plumage. These eggs are usually laid in May in the northern shires, several weeks earlier in more southern localities.

With a passing glimpse at some of the more interesting phases of bird-life in the northern marshes we will bring the present chapter to a close. The Bittern, formerly a dweller in them, has long been banished from the bogs and mires not only of the northern shires, but everywhere else in our islands, and exists now as a tradition only – that is to say, as a breeding species. The Marsh Harrier – a name sufficiently suggestive of the haunts it formerly affected – has similarly disappeared from the two northern shires (Yorkshire and Lancashire), where it formerly bred. One of the most widely-dispersed birds in these marshy situations is the Water Rail – a species that is, perhaps, more overlooked, owing to its secretive habits, than any other found in our islands. It is astonishing what a small bit of marsh or bog will content a Water Rail, provided there is a sufficiency of cover. Like our old friend the Moorhen, it may also often be met with wandering from its usual boggy retreats into such unlikely places as gardens and farmyards. Although it is flushed with difficulty, it is by no means uncommonly seen on open spots or even in the branches of trees. In not a few heaths it is an almost unknown and unsuspected dweller in the marshy drains and round the rushes that fringe the shallow pools where peat or turf has been cut; indeed, we have met with it almost within hail of some of our busiest towns. Its rather bulky nest, made of a varied collection of dead and decaying herbage and aquatic plants, is always placed upon the ground in some quiet nook in its haunts, and its half-dozen or so eggs are buff in ground colour, spotted with reddish-brown and gray. Though far more local than the preceding, the Spotted Crake must also be included in our review of northern bird-life. Unlike the Water Rail, however, it is a summer migrant to the British Islands. Some individuals, however, appear to winter with us in the southern counties. The migrants appear in April in the south, several weeks later in the north. The habits of the two species are similar in many respects. The Lapwing, the Redshank, and the Common Snipe may also be met with in these situations, the Redshank in summer only, when it retires to them to breed, seeking the coasts in autumn; the others at all seasons. Amongst the Passerine birds of the marshes we may instance the Sedge Warbler – one of the most widely distributed of British species – the varied chattering music of which is a very characteristic marsh sound during the summer. At a few localities in Yorkshire and Lancashire the Reed Warbler may be met with, a migratory species like the last, but not penetrating to Scotland. Then the Reed Bunting is a familiar bird on many a marshy waste, so too is the Sky-lark and the Meadow Pipit; whilst in winter-time these places are often made lively by large congregations of Lapwings, Starlings, Rooks and Redwings, and scattered Jack Snipes from far northern haunts.

We may conclude our brief notice of marsh bird-life by a glimpse at the Black-headed Gull. This charming bird visits many a swampy piece of ground far from the sea during spring and summer to rear its young. In Lincolnshire there is an extensive gullery near Brigg – at Twigmoor – from which we have had many eggs during our long residence in South Yorkshire. There is another in South Yorkshire near Thorne; a third at Cockerham Moss in Lancashire. As we proceed northwards the colonies of this Gull increase in number, and in Scotland they are still more frequent. Many of these gulleries are situated on islands in pools in the marshes and on the heaths. Not a few of them are almost surrounded by trees of various kinds, and at the North Lincolnshire settlement nests are not unfrequently made in the branches. We have already described the colonies of the Black-headed Gull in previous works, so that but few details are needed here. In Lincolnshire the birds wander far and wide from their station near Brigg, and parties of them may be met with on the fields many miles from home. The Gulls are as regular in their habits as Rooks, with which we have often seen them fraternizing, flying out to feed on the wet meadows, and following the plough until evening, returning home in straggling streams just like their sable companions. As we get near Brigg the birds become more abundant in the fields; we remember, on one occasion, to have seen a ploughed field black and white with Rooks and Gulls, many of which when disturbed flew up from the furrows into the nearest trees; and very curious the white Gulls looked – birds that we associate with the water so closely – as they sat in the branches side by side with cawing Rooks. Early in the year, and before the birds leave the coast, the sooty-brown hood characteristic of the breeding season and of both sexes begins to be assumed. In Devonshire this takes place nearly a month earlier than in the north. In March they congregate at the old familiar stations which have been in use from time immemorial, and nest-building commences almost at once. The nests are ready for eggs by the first or second week in April. These are generally made upon the spongy ground of the marshy islands or on the marshes themselves, and in many cases are little more than hollows lined with a little dry grass. Other nests are bulkier, and these, we have often remarked, are nearest to the water, or even in the shallow pools. The three eggs are subject to much variation, but the ordinary type is brown or olive-green in ground colour, spotted and blotched with darker brown and gray. In many localities the eggs of the first laying are gathered by the tenant or proprietor of the gullery, as they are sold in vast numbers for food. Many, we know, are passed off as Plovers' eggs, but the fraud we should say would never be successful with anyone acquainted with the latter delicacy. The scene at the nests when the place is invaded by man is a very charming one, the Gulls rising in clouds into the air and wheeling about in bewildering confusion, uttering their noisy cries of remonstrance. Even more animated does the scene become when the young are hatched, for then the old birds show much greater solicitude. An inland gullery always seems to strike us as a trifle incongruous, for we are always apt to associate a Gull with the sea; yet here, miles away from the salt water, often surrounded by rural scenes, are Gulls in thousands as happy and contented as though they had never been near a coast in their lives. When the young are able to fly, however, the instinct of the sea apparently returns to them, and back they go to the salt water to wander far and wide, and lead a life of errantry until love brings them inland again in the following spring.

CHAPTER V
IN FOREST AND COPSE

Perhaps the avifauna of the woods and coppices, in northern and southern shires alike, is more similar in its general aspects than that of any other special localities with the same difference of latitude between them. Nevertheless there are southern species absent from these northern woodlands, and others common enough up here that are not seen in the counties of the south. Then again some species become rarer or commoner in the north, as the case may be, or exactly the reverse; or we shall find not a little difference in the habits of some of these woodland birds, as compared with those of southern haunts, and also in many cases considerable variation in the date of the arrival or departure of migratory species.

We confess at the beginning of this chapter to a very decided partiality for well-timbered districts, for woods and shrubberies, grand old forests and more youthful coppices; for, apart from the natural beauty of these sylvan spots, they are such favourite haunts of birds. For many years we lived almost surrounded by woodlands, and in some directions could wander for half a score miles or more amongst little else but trees – hence our affection for these places, which we got to know by heart, and in doing so became familiar with the rich array of bird-life that dwelt in their shady depths. We also retain many a vivid memory of wanderings in fir and pine wood farther north in quest of ornithological information; whilst grand old Sherwood Forest on one side of Sheffield, and equally attractive Wharncliffe Woods on the other, were the scene of many an exploration after knowledge relating to the bird-life of such localities. Then in other directions we had the noble woodlands at Eccleshall, Beauchief, and Totley, and along the Rivelin Valley – all of them nearer home, and all of them well favoured with bird-life in great variety. These extensive woods, however, are not favourite haunts of the smaller Passeres; rather are they the home of Hawks, Magpies, Crows, Jays, Doves, Woodpeckers, Pheasants, and so on; the coppices, plantations, smaller woods, and well-timbered bottoms, together with extensive shrubberies and tree-filled parks – these are the grand haunts of hosts of little birds of many species, the varied habits of which were to us a constant source of keenest delight. There is one charm about woodlands that scarcely any other description of scenery can claim constantly, and that is, summer and winter alike birds are plentiful amongst them. The moors and the sea-crags, the shore and the stream, the marsh and the heath, have their times of avine abundance, in summer or in winter, and then they are more or less deserted, but the woods and shrubberies, the coppices and timbered parks, are a haunt in summer and a refuge in winter of a vast and varied bird population as well as an aviary of almost perennial song!

These splendid woods ought to be the haunt of not a few raptorial birds, but unfortunately they are not, as persecution has done its disastrous work, and Kites and Buzzards and Hobbys have been practically exterminated by the gamekeeper. Now the Kestrel and the Sparrow-hawk are the only two that are left, at least in the localities we have specified above. In some of the Scottish woods the Buzzard still continues to breed; the Kite is restricted to one or two spots in Wales and Scotland; whilst the Hobby, though still a nesting species in Yorkshire and Derbyshire, is so rare that few observers will have the good fortune to meet with it. Once more we would urge our plea on behalf of these three species, all of them practically harmless and inoffensive birds, yet threatened with absolute extermination if the landed proprietors will not come to their assistance. An appeal to powerful land-owners – the owners of vast areas of woodlands – is possibly more effective than protective legislation, for in their hands lies all the machinery for the effectual protection of such species. Peremptory and strict orders to keepers should do all that is necessary; we have a lifelong experience of such men, and can therefore testify to their usual obedience to instructions, whether for good or evil, as regards the so-called feathered vermin dwelling in their preserves. We are therefore firmly convinced that the winning over of the land-owner to the side of those who seek to preserve our avifauna intact would be of more real benefit than any half-dozen acts of parliament so long as it is nobody’s business to enforce them.

Of the three raptorial birds mentioned above the Common Buzzard (what irony of fate for such a species to possess so misleading a name!) is the only one of which we can record any personal experience within the woodlands of Notts, North Derbyshire, and South Yorkshire, specified above. This happened many years ago, notwithstanding which we retain a very vivid remembrance of all the circumstances. We had spent the day with an old poacher, who not unfrequently allowed us to accompany him on his illegal wanderings (and we flatter ourselves on that subtle if youthful diplomacy that enabled us to stand well with both gamekeepers and poachers alike), fishing in prohibited waters, and were returning homewards through a large wood, known locally as "the Rawlinson". This wood stands just on the border-line of Derbyshire and Yorkshire; in fact, the trout stream that flows through it we believe actually divides the two counties. It used to contain many grand oaks, and was always a favourite cover for Pheasants because of the many clumps of holly-trees within it. In one of these oaks we spied a huge nest of sticks, and our poacher companion, when this was pointed out to him, volunteered the information that it was a “Big Hawk’s” nest. Tired and weary as we were, but incited by the possibility of finding some hitherto unknown eggs, we set to work to climb the mast-like trunk for some sixty feet. We can recall even now our frequent pauses for breath as we slowly approached the spot; how the nest seemed to get larger and larger as each succeeding branch was passed; and then how the big brown bird slipped off with a flutter that made our heart beat fast with anticipation; and how finally we reached the forking limbs where the nest was built, and placed our arm over the rim of sticks and felt the three warm eggs lying on the smooth lining. We climbed no higher, but transferring the precious eggs to our hat, and encouraged by the old rascal below – who would not have climbed so high for all the eggs in Christendom – we got safely down. There was some outcry afterwards from the keepers respecting the robbing of this nest, for they had intended to trap the old birds, but we kept discreetly silent. During a long residence in the neighbourhood we never saw or heard of another nest of this Buzzard.

Notwithstanding persecution, the Kestrel and the Sparrow-hawk happily can still be regarded as fairly common birds in all these woodlands. Trapping and shooting do their best each year to hasten on their extermination, but fortunately both birds breed in localities where their nests are not so very easy to discover. The Kestrel is especially fortunate in this respect, for it breeds in the deserted nests of Crows, Stock Doves, and Magpies, or in the old drey of a squirrel, and a good many of these nests may be searched without finding the one selected; not only so, but the trees are generally in full foliage before the eggs are laid or the young hatched, and this fact conduces greatly to the concealment of many a nest. We can recall many occasions when we have climbed to a score or more deserted nests in a single day, amongst these grand old woods, on the off-chance of discovering Kestrels' or Long-eared Owls' eggs, and considered ourselves well rewarded if we found one or two at most occupied by these second tenants. On the other hand, many have been the times when we have seen keepers shoot into these old nests, as well as fire and kill the brooding Hawk as she sat upon her eggs or sheltered her downy young, in spite of all remonstrance upon our part. The Sparrow-hawk breeds a little earlier. We have had a long and varied experience with the domestic economy of this plucky little bird, and we have invariably found that it not only builds its own nest, but makes a new one every season. Indeed, in not a few cases we have noticed that when its eggs have been taken from one nest it has built another in the vicinity in which to lay a new clutch. The larch woods in the Rivelin Valley – around Hollow Meadows – are, or used to be, a very favourite resort of this Hawk, possibly because keepers were somewhat lax, or never visited some of the coppices from one year to another. In these larch and spruce-fir woods, many old nests of the Sparrow-hawk might be seen, the deserted tenements of years and years. It was also rather remarkable that most of these nests were in trees within a stone’s-throw of the artillery volunteers' target, and all around them were larches and spruces snapped and splintered, and the ground and rocks scored by the conical cannon-balls which lay in dozens all over the place. From one nest in this wood we obtained, by careful management, never quite emptying it, no less than fourteen eggs during a single spring. Curiously enough upon more than one occasion we have found a nest of the Goldcrest in the same spruce-fir as the nest of the Sparrow-hawk.

Nowhere else in our experience were the Magpies allowed to live in such peace as they enjoyed in this romantic valley. On the south side, from Bell Hagg onwards to Hollow Meadows, was almost one continuous woodland, coppice succeeding coppice, until they terminated in the larch and spruce woods, where the Sparrow-hawks bred, and through which Wyming Brook bored its way under a perfect archway of trees from its source on the Bamford Moors near Redmires. Within this few miles of timber we have frequently known as many as a dozen nests of the Magpie all occupied. In not a few cases the old nest was returned to each spring, renovated and used again. Some of these nests were made high up in the oak and alder trees, others were placed in birch-trees, and less frequently in a stunted white-thorn growing amidst the briars and brambles and bracken and boulders of millstone grit on the open rough land. Not a few were placed in the alder-trees that fringed the streams between the reservoirs. The Jay, on the other hand, was a scarce bird here, for the woods had little or no undergrowth, in which that bird specially delights. In most other woods of our acquaintance the Magpie was a sorely-persecuted species, and every bird and every nest were destroyed that the keepers could discover. Several times during the course of the spring many keepers hold a grand "vermin battue". A keeper will gather round him half a dozen village loafers, and then the precious party will proceed to hunt the covers, killing every Magpie, Jay, or Hawk that comes in their way, and pulling out every nest they can discover. We know the ways of these gentry only too well, for years ago we often accompanied such a party, helpless to save, yet glad to increase our knowledge of woodland bird-life. Not a few nests have we seen on these occasions and held our peace, or visited others containing young Hawks and Magpies which we have saved by a fictitious report to the expectant keeper and his murdering band below. In any case the slaughter at the close of the day was sad enough; and as the capacious game-bags were emptied, and the Jays and Magpies and Hawks, with perhaps an odd Nightjar or an Owl – beautiful creatures each one of them, and some of the fairest avine ornaments our woodlands can boast – were turned out into a heap by the kennel door, we ceased to wonder why such species in not a few localities exist as names or traditions only. Apart from any utilitarian motive that should prompt their preservation – and mind, some of these birds are perfectly harmless or of downright service to man – surely on æsthetic grounds a universal plea should be raised for their protection, and such brutal slaughter staid once and for ever.