Icklingham, in and about which most of the observations contained in the following pages have been made, is a little village of West Suffolk, situated on the northern bank of the river Lark. It lies between Mildenhall and Bury St. Edmunds, amidst country which is very open, and so sandy and barren that in the last geological survey it is described as having more the character of an Arabian desert than an ordinary English landscape. There are, indeed, wide stretches where the sand has so encroached upon the scanty vegetation of moss and lichen that no one put suddenly down amongst them would think he were in England, if it happened to be a fine sunny day. These arid wastes form vast warrens for rabbits always, whilst over them, from April to October, roam bands of the great plover or stone-curlew, whose wailing, melancholy cries are in artistic unison with their drear desolation. The country is very flat: no hill can be seen anywhere around, but the ground rises somewhat, from the river on the northern side, and this and a few minor undulations of the sand look almost like hills, against the general dead level. I have seen the same effect on the great bank of the Chesil, and read of it, I think, in the desert of Sahara. These steppes on the one side of the river pass, on the other, into a fine sweep of moorland, the lonely road through which is bordered, on one side only, by a single row of gaunt Scotch firs. Westwards, towards Cambridgeshire, the sand-country, as it may be termed, passes, gradually, into the fenlands, which, in a modified, or, rather, transitional form, lie on either side the Lark, as far as Icklingham itself.

The Lark, which, for the greater part of its limited course, is a fenland stream, rises a little beyond Bury (the St. Edmunds is never added hereabouts), and enters the Ouse near Littleport. It is quite a small river; but though its volume, after the first twelve miles or so, does not increase to any very appreciable extent, the high artificial banks, through which, with a view to preventing flooding, it is made to flow, after entering the fenlands proper, give it a much more important appearance, and this is enhanced by the flatness of the country on either side: a flatness, however, which does not—nor does it ever, in my opinion—prevent its being highly picturesque. Those, indeed, who cannot feel the charm of the fenlands should leave nature—as distinct from good hotels—alone. For myself, I sometimes wonder that all the artists in the world are not to be found there, sketching; but in spite of the skies and the windmills and Ely Cathedral in the near, far, or middle distance, I have never met even one. It is to the fens that the peewits, which, before, haunted the river and the country generally, retire towards the end of October, nor do they return till the following spring, so that Icklingham during this interval is almost—indeed, I believe quite—without a peewit. Bury is eight miles from Icklingham, and about half-way between them the country begins to assume the more familiar features of an English landscape, so that the difference which a few miles makes is quite remarkable.

Fifty years ago, I am told, there were no trees in this part of the world, except a willow here and there along the course of the stream, and a few huge ones of uncouth and fantastic appearance, which are sometimes called “she oaks” by the people. The size of these trees is often quite remarkable, and their wood being, fortunately, valueless, they are generally allowed to attain to the full of it. They grow sparingly, yet sometimes in scattered clusters, and the sand, with the wide waste of which their large, rude outlines and scanty foliage has a sort of harmony, seems a congenial soil for them. They are really, I believe, of the poplar tribe, which would make them “poppels” hereabouts, were this understood. These trees, with some elders and gnarled old hawthorns, which the arid soil likewise supports, rather add to than diminish the desolate charm of the country, and, as I say, till fifty years ago there were no others. Then, however, it occurred to landowners, or to some local body or council, that sand ought to suit firs, and now, as a consequence, there are numerous plantations of the Scotch kind, with others of the larch and spruce, or of all three mingled together.

Thus, in the more immediate proximity of Icklingham we have the warrens or sandy steppes, the moorlands passing here and there into green seas of bracken, the river, with a smaller stream that runs into it, and these fir plantations, which are diversified, sometimes, with oaks, beeches, and chestnuts, and amidst which an undergrowth of bush and shrub has long since sprung up. Beyond, on the one hand, there are the fenlands, and, on the other, ordinary English country. In all these bits there is something for a bird-lover to see, though, I confess, I wish there was a great deal more. The plantations perhaps give the greatest variety. Dark and sombre spots these make upon the great steppes or moors, looking black as night against the dusky red of the wintry sky, after the sun has sunk. In them one may sit silent, as the shadows fall, and see the pheasants steal or the wood-pigeons sweep to their roosting-trees, listening to the “mik, mik, mik” of the blackbird, before he retires, the harsh strident note of the mistle-thrush, or the still harsher and more outrageous scolding of the fieldfare. Blackbirds utter a variety of notes whilst waiting, as one may say, to roost. The last, or the one that continues longest, is the “mik, mik” that I have spoken of, and this is repeated continuously for a considerable time. Another is a loud and fussy sort of “chuck, chuck, chuck,” which often ends in almost an exaggeration of that well-known note which is generally considered to be the one of alarm, but which, in my experience, has, with most other cries to which some special meaning is attributed, a far wider and more generalised significance. As the bird utters it, it flies, full of excitement, to the tree or bush in which it means to pass the night, and here, whilst the darkness deepens, it “mik, mik, mik, mik, miks,” till, as I suppose, with the last “mik” of all, the head is laid beneath the wing, and it goes peacefully to sleep. It is now that the pheasants come stealing, often running, to bed. You may hear their quick, elastic little steps upon the pine-needles, as they pass you, sometimes, quite close. I have had one run almost upon me, as I sat, stone still, in the gloom, seen it pause, look, hesitate, retreat, return again, to be again torn with doubt, and, finally, hurry by fearfully, and only a pace or two off, to fly into a tree just behind me. This shows, I think, that pheasants have their accustomed trees, where they roost night after night. In my experience this is the habit of most birds, but, after a time, the favourite tree or spot will be changed for another, and thus it will vary in a longer period, though not in a very short one. This, at least, is my idea; assurance in such a matter is difficult. The aviary may help us here. Two little Australian parrakeets, that expatiate in my greenhouse, chose, soon after they were introduced, a certain projecting stump or knob of a vine, as a roosting-place. For a week or two they were constant to this, but, after that, I found them roosting somewhere else, and they have now made use, for a time, of some half-dozen places, coming back to their first choice in due course, and leaving it again for one of their subsequent ones. Part of this process I have noticed with some long-tailed tits, which, for a night or two, slept all together, not only in the same bush but on the same spray of it. Then, just like the parrakeets, they left it, but I was not able to follow them beyond this. It would seem, therefore, that birds, though they do not sleep anywhere, but have a bedroom, like us, yet like variety, in respect of one, within reasonable limits, and go “from the blue bed to the brown.”

Pheasants are sometimes very noisy and sometimes quite silent in roosting, and this is just one of those differences which might be thought to depend on the weather. For some time it seemed to me as if a sudden sharp frost, or a fall of snow, made the birds clamorous, but hardly had I got this fixed, as a rule, in my mind, when there came a flagrant contradiction of it, and such contradictions were soon as numerous as the supporting illustrations. I noticed, too, that on the most vociferous nights some birds would be silent, whilst even on the most silent ones, one or two were sure to be noisy, so that I soon came to think that if their conduct in this respect did not depend, purely, on personal caprice, it at least depended on something beyond one’s power of finding out. The cries of all sorts of birds are supposed to have something to do with the weather, but I believe that any one who set himself seriously to test this theory would soon feel like substituting “nothing” for “something” in the statement of the proposition. It is much as with Sir Robert Redgauntlet’s jackanape, I suspect—“ran about the haill castle chattering, and yowling, and pinching, and biting folk, specially before ill weather or disturbances in the state.” Every one knows the loud trumpety note, as I call it, with which a pheasant flies up on to its perch, for the night. It is a tremendous clamour, and continues, sometimes, for a long time after the bird is settled. But sometimes, after each loud flourish, there comes an answer from another bird, which is quite in an undertone; in fact a different class of sound altogether, brief, and without the harsh resonance of the other, so that you would not take it to be the cry of a pheasant at all were it not always in immediate response to the loud one. It proceeds, too, from the same spot or thereabouts. What, precisely, is the meaning of this soft answering note? What is the state of mind of the bird uttering it, and by which of the sexes is it uttered? It is the cock that makes the loud trumpeting, and were another cock to answer this, one would expect him to do so in a similar manner. It is in April that my attention has been more particularly drawn to this after-sound, so that, though early in the month, one may suppose the male pheasant to have mated with at least a part of his harem. One would hardly expect, however, to find a polygamous bird on terms of affectionate connubiality with one or other of his wives, and yet this little duet reminds me, strongly, of what one may often hear, sitting in the woods, when wood-pigeons are cooing in the spring. Almost always they are invisible, and it is by the ear, alone, that one must judge of what is going on. Everywhere comes the familiar “Roo, coo, oo, oo-oo,” and this, if you are not very close, is all you hear, and it suggests that one bird is sitting alone—at least alone in its tree, though answered perhaps from another. Sometimes, however, one happens to be at the foot of the tree oneself, and then, if one listens attentively, one will generally hear a single note, much lower, and even softer than the other which precedes it, a long-drawn, hoarse—but sweetly, tenderly hoarse—“oo.” The instant this has been uttered, comes the note we know, the two tones being different, and suggesting—which, I believe, is the case—that the first utterance is the tender avowal of the one bird, the next the instant and impassioned response of the other.

There is, perhaps, as much monotonous sameness—certainly as much of expressive tenderness—in the coo of the wood-pigeon as in any sound in nature, and yet, if one listens a little, one will find a good deal of variety in it. Every individual bird has its own intonation, and whilst, in the greatest number, this “speaks of all loves” as it should do, in some few a coo seems almost turned into a scream. Sometimes, too, I have remarked a peculiar vibration in the cooing of one of these birds, due, I think, to there being hardly any pause between the several notes, which are, usually, well separated. Such a difference does this make in the character of the sound, that, at first, one might hardly recognise it as belonging to the same species. Even in the typical note, as uttered by any individual bird, there is not so much sameness as one might think. It is repeated, but not exactly repeated. Three similar, or almost similar, phrases, as one may call them, are made to vary considerably by the different emphasis and expression with which they are spoken. In the first of these the bird says, “Roo, coo, oo-oo, oo-oo,” with but moderate insistence, as though stating an undeniable fact. Then quickly, but still with a sufficiently well-marked pause, comes the second, “Roo, coo, oo-oo, oo-oo,” with very much increased energy, as though warmly maintaining a proposition that had been casually laid down. In the third, “roo, coo,” &c., there is a return to the former placidity, but now comes the last word on the subject: “ook?” which differs in intonation from anything that has gone before, there being a little rise in it, an upturning which makes it a distinct and unmistakable interrogative, an “Is it not so?” to all that has gone before.

Considerable numbers of wood-pigeons roost, during winter, in the various fir plantations which now make a feature of the country round Icklingham. They retire somewhat early, so that it is still the afternoon, rather than the evening, when one hears the first great rushing sound overhead, and a first detachment come sweeping over the tops of the tall, slender firs, and shoot, like arrows, into them. Then come other bands, closely following one another. The birds fly in grandly. Sailing on outspread wings, they give them but an occasional flap, and descend upon the dark tree-tops from a considerable height. The grand rushing sound of their wings, so fraught with the sense of mystery, so full of hurry and impatience, has a fine inspiriting effect; it sweeps the soul, one may say, filling it with wild elemental emotions. What is this? Is it not a yearning back to something that one once was, a backward-rushing tide down the long, long line of advance? I believe that most of those vague, undefined, yet strongly pleasurable emotions that are apt to puzzle us—such, for instance, as Wordsworth looks upon as “intimations of immortality”—have their origin in the ordinary laws of inheritance. What evidence of such immortality as is here imagined do these supposed intimations of it offer? Do they not bear a considerable resemblance to the feelings which music calls up in us, and which Darwin has rationally explained?1 “All these facts,” says Darwin, “with respect to music and impassioned speech, become intelligible to a certain extent, if we may assume that musical tones and rhythm were used by our half-human ancestors during the season of courtship, when animals of all kinds are excited, not only by love, but by the strong feelings of jealousy, rivalry, and triumph. From the deeply-laid principle of inherited associations, musical tones, in this case, would be likely to call up, vaguely and indefinitely, the strong emotions of a long-past age. Thus, in the Chinese annals it is said, ‘Music’ (and this is Chinese music, by the way) ‘has the power of making heaven descend upon earth’; and, again, as Herbert Spencer remarks, ‘Music arouses dormant sentiments of which we had not conceived the possibility, and do not know the meaning’; or, as Richter says, ‘tells us of things we have not seen and shall not see.’” I have little doubt myself that the feelings to which we owe our famous ode, and those which were aroused by music in the breast of Jean Paul and the Chinese annalist, were all much of the same kind, and due to the same fundamental cause. We may, indeed, say with Wordsworth that the soul “cometh from afar,” but what world is more afar than that of long past time, which we may, yet, dimly carry about with us in our own ancestral memories?

There is, I believe, no falser view than that which looks upon the poet as a teacher, if we mean by this that he leads along the path of growing knowledge; that he, for instance, and not Newton, gets first at the law of gravitation, and so forth. If he ever does, it is by a chance combination, merely, and not as a poet that he achieves this; but, as a rule, poets only catch up the ideas of the age and present them grandly and attractively.

“A monstrous eft was, of old, the Lord and Master of Earth,” &c.

Yet this very ode of Wordsworth “on intimations of immortality,” has been quoted by Sir Oliver Lodge in his Presidential Address to the Society for Psychical Research,2 as though it were evidential. I cannot understand this. Surely a feeling that a thing is, is not, in itself, evidence that it is—and, if not, how does the beauty and strength of the language which states the conviction, make it such? In this famous poem there is no jot of argument, so that the case, after reading it, stands exactly the same as it did before. No more has been said now, either for or against, than if any plain body had expressed the same ideas in his or her own way. For these mysterious sensations are not confined to poets or great people. They are a common heritage, but attract outside attention only when they find exalted utterance. Suum cuique therefore. The poet’s aptitude is to feel and express; not, as a rule, to discover.

Besides the grand sweeping rush of the wood-pigeons over the plantation, which makes the air full of sound, there is some fluttering of wings, as the birds get into the trees; but this is less than one might expect. It is afterwards, when they fly—first one and then another—from the tree they have at first settled in to some other one, that they think will suit them better, that the real noise begins. Then all silence and solitude vanishes out of the lonely plantation, and it becomes full of bustle, liveliness, and commotion. The speed and impetus of the first downward flight has carried the birds smoothly on to the branches, but now, flying under them, amongst the tree trunks, they move heavily, make a great clattering of wings in getting up to the selected bough, and often give a loud final clap with them, as they perch upon it.

Wood-pigeons are in greater numbers in this part of Suffolk than one might suppose would be the case, in a country for the most part so open. However, even a small plantation will accommodate a great many. I remember one cold afternoon in December going into one of young oaks and beeches, skirting a grove of gloomy pines, where the rooks come nightly to roost. My entry disturbed a multitude of the birds in question, but after sitting, for some time, silently, under a tree of the dividing row, they returned “in numbers numberless,” almost rivalling the rooks themselves. Some trees seemed favourites, and, from these, clouds of them would, sometimes, fly suddenly off, as if they had become overcrowded. There was a constantly recurring clatter and swish of wings, and then all at once the great bulk of the birds, as it seemed to me, rose with such a clapping as Garrick or Mrs. Siddons might have dreamed of, and departed—quantities of them, at least—in impetuous, arrowy flight. I should have said, now, that the greater number were gone, though the plantation still seemed fairly peopled. Towards four, however, it became so cold that I had to move, and all the pigeons flew out of all the trees—a revelation as to their real numbers, quite a wonderful thing to see. Some of the trees, as the birds left them, just in the moment when they were going, but still there, were neither oaks nor beeches—nor ashes, elms, poplars, firs, sycamores, or any other known kind for the matter of that—but pigeon-trees, that and nothing else.

For wrens, tits, and golden-crested wrens these fir plantations are as paradises all the year round. The first-named little bird may often be seen creeping about amongst the small holes and tunnels at the roots of trees—especially overturned trees—going down into one and coming out at another, as though it were a mouse. It is very pretty to see it peep and creep and disappear, and then demurely appear again. Often it will be underground for quite a little while—long enough to make one wonder, sometimes, if anything has happened to it—but nothing ever has. As soon as it has explored one labyrinth, it utters its little chirruppy, chirpy, chattery note, and flits, a brown little shadow, to another, into the first dark root-cavern of which it, once more, disappears. House-hunting, it looks like—for the coming spring quarter, to take from Lady Day, it being February now—but it is too early for the bird to be really thinking of a nest, and no doubt the finding of insects is its sole object. The golden-crested wrens are more aerial in their search for food. They pass from fir-top to fir-top, flitting swiftly about amongst the tufts of needles, owing to which, and their small size, it is difficult to follow their movements accurately. The pine-needles seem very attractive to them. I have often searched these for insects, but never with much success, and I think, myself, that they feed principally upon the tiny buds which begin to appear upon them, very early in the year. In winter they may often be seen about the trunks of the trees, and I remember, once, jotting down a query as to what they could get there on a cold frosty morning in December, when a spider, falling on the note-book, answered it in a quite satisfactory manner.

Many spiders hibernate under the rough outer bark of the Scotch fir, often in a sort of webby cocoon, which they spin for themselves; numbers of small pupÆ, too, choose—or have chosen in their pre-existences—the same situations, especially that of the cinnabar moth, which is extremely common about here. Its luridly-coloured caterpillar—banded with deep black and orange—swarms upon the common flea-bane, which grows something like a scanty crop over much of the sandy soil; and when about to pupate, as I have noticed with interest, it ascends the trunk of the Scotch fir, and undergoes the change in one of the numerous chinks in its flaky bark. I have seen numbers of these caterpillars thus ascending and concealing themselves, but I do not know from how great a distance they come to the trees. Probably it is only from quite near, for the majority, to get to them, would have to travel farther than can be supposed possible, and, moreover, fir-trees in these parts date, as I said, only from some fifty years back. Doubtless it is mere accident, but when one sees such numbers crawling towards the trees, and ascending as soon as they reach them, it looks as though they were acting under some special impulse, such as that which urges birds to migrate, or sends the lemmings to perish in the sea. These caterpillars, however, as I now bethink me, are nauseous to birds. I have thrown them to fowls who appeared not to see them, so that they offer, I suppose, an example of warning coloration. If, however, the caterpillar is unpalatable, the chrysalis probably is also, so that it would not be for these that the golden wren, or the coal-tit, its frequent companion, searches the bark in the winter.

Coal-tits, too, feed much—ne m’en parlez point—on the delicate little buds at the ends of the clusters of spruce-needles, but they, likewise, pull at and examine the needles themselves, so may, perhaps, find some minute insects at their bases. They eat the buds of the larch, too, and, as said before, whatever they can get by prying and probing about, on the trunks of all these firs—especially that of the Scotch one, which they search, sometimes, very industriously. Whilst thus engaged they say at intervals, “Woo-tee, woo-tee, woo-tee” (or “Wee-tee,” a sound between the two), and sometimes “Tooey, tooey, tooey-too; tooey, tooey, tooey-too.” They flit quickly from place to place, and, both in this and their way of feeding generally, a good deal resemble the little golden wrens. The latter, however, are brisker, more fairy-like, and still more difficult to watch. Yet, do not let me wrong the coal-tit—he moves most daintily. Every little hop is a little flutter with the wings, a little flirt with the tail. His little legs you hardly see. He has a little game—not hop, skip, and jump, but hop, flirt, and flutter. His motion combines all three—in what proportions, how or when varying, that no man knoweth. How, exactly, he gets to any place that he would, you do not see, you cannot tell—he is there, that you see, but the rest is doubtful. He does not know, himself, I believe. “Aber frag’ mich nÜr nicht wie,” he might say, with Heine, if you asked him about it.

But if there is such a mystery in the movements of the coal-tit, what is to be said about those of the long-tailed one? Most unfair would it be to omit him, now that the other has been mentioned. Nor will I. Dear little birdikins! The naturalist must be blasÉ, indeed, who could ever be tired of noting your ways, though he might well be weary of following you about amongst the delicate larches, which are most your fairy home and in which you look most fairy-like. Such a dance as you lead him! For always you are passing on, making a hasting, running examination of the twigs of the trees you flit through, searching systematically, from one to another, in a sort of aerial forced-march, which makes you—oh, birdikins!—most difficult to watch. Like other tits, you—Oh, but hang the apostrophe; I can’t sustain it, so must drop, again—and I think for ever—into the sober third person. Like other tits, then, these little long-tailed ones are fond of hanging, head downwards, on the under side of a bough or twig: but I am not sure if I have seen other tits come down on a bough or twig in this way—at any rate not to the same extent. Say that a blue or a great tit, and a long-tailed one, are both on the same bough, together. The two former will fly, or flutter—fly, to another, alight upon its upper side, and get round to its under one, by a process that can be seen. The long-tailed tit will jump and arrive on the under side, hanging there head downwards. That, at least, is what it looks like, as if he had turned himself on his back, in the air, before seizing hold of his twig. Really there is a little swing down, after seizing it—like an acrobat on a trapeze—but this is so quick that it eludes the eye. It is by his legerdemain and illusion, and by his jumping, rather than flying, from bough to bough, that the long-tailed tit is distinguished. He often makes a good long jump—a real jump—without appearing to aid himself with his wings at all. The note of these tits is a “Zee, zee—zee, zee, zee, zee,” but it is not of such a sharp quality as the “zee” or “tzee” of the blue tit. It is more pleasing—indeed, there is something very pleasing about it. What is there, in fact, that is not pleasing about this little bird?

But I have something more to say upon the subject of the coal-tit’s diet; for he eats, I believe, the seeds of the fir-cones, and manages not only to pick them out of these, but to pick the cone itself to pieces in so doing—a wonderful feat, surely, when one thinks how large and hard the cone is, and how small the bird. It is not on the tree that I have seen these tits feeding in this manner, but on the ground, and the question, for me, is whether the cones that lay everywhere about had been detached and then reduced, sometimes, almost to shreds, by them or by squirrels. At first I unhesitatingly put it down to the latter, but I soon noticed that in these particular firs—not part of a plantation but skirting the road, as is common here—a squirrel was never to be seen. Neither were coal-tits numerous, but still a pair or two seemed to live here, and were often engaged with the cones. Half-a-dozen of these I took home to examine at leisure. Two, I found, had been only just commenced on, and the punctures upon them were certainly such as might have been made by the beak of a small bird, suggesting that the tit had here begun the process of picking the cone to pieces, before any squirrel had touched it. One of the outer four-sided scales had been removed, and as no cut or excoriation was visible upon the surface thus exposed, this, again, looked more as if the scale aforesaid had been seized with a pincers—the bird’s beak—and torn off, than as though it had been cut away with a chisel—the squirrel’s teeth—for, in this latter case, the plate beneath would, in all probability, have been cut into, too, at some point, and not left in its natural smooth state. Another two of these cones consisted of the bases only, and from their appearance and the debris around them, seemed to have been pecked and torn, rather than gnawed to pieces. In five out of the six, the extreme base—that part from the centre of which the stalk springs—had been left untouched. In the sixth, however, this had been attacked, and presented a rough, hacked, punctured appearance, the stalk itself—represented by just a point—having apparently been pecked through, suggesting strongly that the tits had commenced work while the cone hung on the tree, and had severed it in this way. All round the basal circle the scales had been stripped off, and the exposed surface was smooth and unexcoriated—as in the other instance—except where a portion of it seemed to have been torn, not cut, away. Two seed-cavities were exposed and empty. It certainly looked as though these cones had been hacked and pulled to pieces by the tits, and not gnawed by squirrels, so as this agreed with the absence of the latter, and what I had actually seen the bird doing, I came to the conclusion that they had been. Perhaps there is nothing very wonderful in it after all, but, looking at a fir-cone, I should have thought it clean beyond the strength of a coal-tit to tear it to pieces. But what, now, is the origin of the name “coal-tit,” which seems to have no particular meaning? Is it a corruption of “cone-tit,” which, if the bird really feeds on the seeds of the fir, and procures them in this manner, would have one? German Kohlmeise, however, is rather against this hypothesis.