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With a view to testing how far certain birds will tolerate the eggs of others of a different species in their nests, I commenced a series of experiments last spring in the neighbourhood of Elstree. I discovered that a Thrush will take no notice whatever of the introduction of a Blackbird's egg to her nest, and that the latter bird is equally indifferent to an exchange with her lighter-coloured neighbour. I intended to endeavour to carry out the exchange to entire clutches, but, unfortunately, my experiments were all ruined by Carrion Crows and mischievous boys, of which we can boast a goodly number in our particular corner of Hertfordshire.
As some indication of the great struggle for existence going on amongst birds, I have, from close observation and a pretty extensive experience, little hesitation in saying that I do not believe that one-third of the eggs laid by British wild birds, preserved and otherwise, ever produce in any single season chicks which have the good fortune to grow to adults. Egg collectors, schoolboys, and savage destroyers who despoil for the mere love of annihilating the beautiful; table and manufacturing requirements; bird-catchers who take clutches of young song-birds; Eagles, Falcons, Hawks, Owls, Ravens, Crows, Rooks, Magpies, Jays, and Gulls; foxes, dogs, cats, rats, stoats, weasels, and snakes; bad weather and accidents - all claim a tithe either of sitting hens, eggs, or young birds.
Some birds' eggs and young have to trust for protection entirely to their close harmonisation with surrounding objects, and this they often do with the most remarkable success. I remember a case of a dozen people wandering all over quite a small patch of sand and shingle in search of sea-shells, and yet missing a Ringed Plover's eggs, which, by a miracle, also escaped the much more likely calamity of being trodden upon. I visited the place a few days afterwards, when the young birds had been hatched, and, although I made a systematic search for them, three in number, I failed entirely to discover a single bird. I accordingly retired to a roofless shed sixty yards distant, and well above the little spit of sand and shingle, which I kept under close observation through my field-glasses. In about ten minutes the female ran down from a ridge of rocks, and standing head to wind began to call in sweet low notes. Presently a little grey tuft of down ran swiftly up to her, and disappeared beneath her right wing, and was instantly followed by another which came from an opposite direction, and sought cover by ducking its head and going beneath her puffed out breast feathers. A third darted up, but did not immediately take shelter, although his mother continued to call for him. He dallied for a while in examination of a small pool of water, which was thickly coated with bright green weed and slime, and after picking up, or pretending to do so, one or two morsels of food in the most business-like fashion, retired beneath his mother's sheltering wing, and she ceased to call.
Young ringed plover on shingle
Young ringed plover on black cloth
After a while I dashed down upon them at my utmost speed. The old bird ran straight away for fifteen yards or so, and then began to tumble about and practise her decoying antics. The young ones took their departure each in an opposite direction, and by the time I reached the spot there was not the slightest sign of one of them. Eventually, however, I discovered all three, and upon measuring, found that the one which had travelled farthest away from the place where its mother crouched had run six yards before clapping down to hide. In order to show the wonderful way in which these little creatures harmonise with their surroundings, and thus escape detection, I got my brother to photograph one of them exactly where it crouched, and then folding a black focussing cloth up I placed it beneath the chick, and had another study made. By this means, I think, we have succeeded in illustrating with some degree of clearness the value of protective coloration, so far as the limitations of black and white will allow.
Young Curlews, Golden Plovers, Peewits, and Sandpipers, all run about directly they leave the shell; indeed, sometimes actually before they have accomplished their deliverance. I have on more than one occasion seen a baby Peewit wandering about with half of its prison house still attached to its downy rump; and if a hawk or other bird of prey should happen to appear overhead, they instinctively clap flat upon the ground, and remain motionless as stones until the danger has passed. In order to illustrate the benefits of keeping absolutely still and trusting for safety to the protective coloration of its upper parts, I sought systematically for a young Curlew last summer on the Westmorland hills, and when I found it half hidden in a tuft of withered grass, I got my brother to make a photograph of it exactly where it lay, and then another of the long-legged creature standing on the muddy shores of a half-silted-up cattle pond. As soon as the second picture had been taken, the bird deliberately walked into the water, swam straight across, and upon regaining the opposite bank, ran away swiftly up a steep hillside.
Young curlew crouching
Young curlew standing up
I have often been astonished at the great distance at which Curlews can be heard calling, but never had any notion of the immense power of their vocal organs until the day I caught the one figured overleaf. I was sitting beneath a stone wall with the bird on my lap waiting until my brother recharged some photographic slides, when its mother flew close overhead, uttering her familiar call-note, which her offspring instantly answered in a loud, harsh, ear-splitting cry of the most unmusical character I have ever heard.
Young Peewits have a peculiar habit when caught and released of stooping gracefully every few yards they run away, and making what appears to be a very pretty curtsey in return for their deliverance. Similar antics are practised by adult birds of this species pretending, when under observation, of which they are conscious, to pick up bits of food where there is every reason for believing none really exists.
I know of no prettier sight than that afforded by watching at close quarters a pair of shy birds feeding their young without the slightest suspicion of being under observation. They do their work then with an easy deliberation and linger over the nest and its precious contents with a thousand signs of parental pride and deep natural affection.
Young peewit
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