Another bird, very characteristic, whilst it stays, of the steppes of Icklingham, is the wheat-ear. A blithe day it is when the first pair arrive, in splendid plumage always—the male quite magnificent, the female, with her softer shades, like a tender afterglow to his fine sunset. Both are equally pleasing to look at, but the cock bird is by much the more amusing to watch.

Who shall describe him and all his nice little ways—his delicate little hops; his still more delicate little pauses, when he stands upright like a sentinel; his little just-one-flirt of the wings, without going up; his little, sudden fly over the ground, with his coming down, soon, and standing as though surprised at what he had done; or, lastly and chiefly, his strange, mad rompings—one may almost call them—wherein he tosses himself a few yards into the air, and comes pitching, tumultuously, down, as though he would tumble all of a heap, yet never fails to alight, cleanly, on his dainty little black legs? This last is “Ercles’ vein, a tyrant’s vein”: and yet he has higher flights, bolder efforts. In display, for instance, before the female, he will fly round in circles, at a moderate height, with his tail fanned out, making, all the while, a sharp little snappy sort of twittering, and clapping his wings from time to time. He does this at irregular, but somewhat long intervals, but sometimes, instead of a roundabout, he will mount right up, and then, at once, descend, in that same tumultuous, disorderly sort of way, as though he were thrown, several times, by some unseen hand, in the same general direction—it looks much more like that than flying. But there is variation here, too, and the bird’s ruffling, tousled descent, may be exchanged for a drop, plumb down, till, when almost touching the ground, it slants off, and flits over it, for a little, before finally settling. The ascent is by little spasms of flight, divided from one another by a momentary cessation of effort, during which the wings are pressed to the sides.

Larks will mount something in this way, too, and, after descending for some time, parachute-wise, and singing, one will often fold his wings to his sides, and shoot down, head first—a little “jubilee plunger”—for his song is a jubilee. Another way to come down is at a tangent, and sideways, the tip of one wing pointing the way, like the bowsprit of a little ship. Yet another is by terraces, as I call it; that is to say, after the first dive down from where it has hung singing, the bird sweeps along, for a little, at one level—which is a terrace—then dives, again, to another one, a little below it, sweeps along on that, descends to a third, and so on, down to the ground. There is, indeed, a good deal of individual variety in the way in which larks fly—at least between any two or more that one may see doing the same thing at the same time—soaring, descending, and so on. The flight itself is of many kinds—as the ordinary, the mount up to the watch-tower (“from his watch-tower in the skies”), the hanging, motionless, on extended wings, the descent, the serene on-sailing, without a stroke, as of the eagle; and, again, the suspension, with wings lightly quivering, as the kestrel hovers. But how different is the character impressed upon these last! What the eagle does in majesty, and the hawk in rapine, that the lark does in beauty only, in music of motion and song.

All this, of course, is in the spring and summer only. In the winter, when they flock, larks fly low over the land, and this they all do in much the same way. Though most of their poetry is now gone, or lies slumbering, yet they are still interesting little birds to watch. They walk or run briskly along the ground, and continually peck down upon it, with a quick little motion of the head. They appear to direct each peck with precision, and to get something each time, but what I cannot say. It may be anything, as long as it is minute; that seems to be the principle—so that, as one sees nothing, it is like watching a barmecide feast. Larks never hop, I believe, when thus feeding, though sometimes the inequalities of the ground give them the appearance of doing so. They look and move like little quails, crowd not, but keep together in a scattered togetherness, and fly, all together, over the hard earth, often seeming to be on the point of alighting, but changing their minds and going on, so that no man—“no, nor woman either”—can say whether, or when, they will settle. Creeping thus—for, however fast they go, they seem to creep—over the brown fields in winter, the very shape of these little birds seems different to what one has known it. They look flatter, less elongated; their body is like a small globe, flattened at the poles, and the short little tail projects from it, clearly and sharply. A staid tail it is in winter. I have never seen it either wagged or flirted; for between the wagging and flirting of a bird’s tail, there is, as Chaucer says about two quite different things, “a long and largÉ difference.” Much charm in these little birdies, even when winter reigns and

Occasionally one hears, from amongst them, a little, short, musical, piping, note—musical, but

By February, however, larks are soaring and singing, though, at this time, they do not mount very high. The song, too, is not fully developed, and is, often, no more than a pleasant, musical twittering, especially when two or more chase one another through the air. It is curious how often just three birds together do this, a thing I have many times noticed—not with larks only—and which I believe to lie at the base of any antic—such, for instance, as that of the spur-winged lapwing of La Plata—in which three, and no more, take a part. These trios look like a pair in love, and an interloper, but it may be two wanting, and one not caring; or again, as it has often seemed to me, none of the three may be very much in earnest. Be it as it may, with the larks, at this time, there are some delightful chasings, delightful skimmings and flutterings, and then all three mount into the air, and sing delightfully—a little Lobegesang. Nature—wild nature—has two voices, a song of joy and a shriek of agony. Eternally they mingle and sound through one another, but, on the whole, joy largely predominates. But when we come to man we get the intermediates; the proportions change, the shadows lengthen, the sky becomes clouded, one knows not what to think.

In winter the larks, here, as one might expect, keep entirely to the agricultural part of the country that encircles or intersects the numerous barren stretches. As the spring comes on, they spread over these, too, but here they are much outnumbered by their poor relations, the titlarks, to whom such wildernesses are a paradise. Indeed, by his pleasing ways, and, especially, by the beauty of his flight, this sober-suited, yet elegant little bird helps to make them so. With his little “too-i, too-i” note, he soars to a height which, compared, indeed, to the skylark’s “pride of place,” is as mediocrity to genius; but having attained it, he comes down very prettily—more prettily, perhaps, than does his gifted relative. The delicate little wings are extended, but raised, especially when nearing the ground, to some height above the back, and the fragile body, suspended between them like the car of a tiny balloon, seems to swing and sway with the air. The tail, though downward-borne with the rest of the bird, feels still some “skyey influences,” for it is “tip-tilted,” and as “like the petal of a flower,” I fancy, as any nose on any face. As the bird nears the heather from which he started—for he especially loves the moorlands—he, too (perhaps all birds have), has a way of gliding a little onwards above it, poised in this manner, which adds much to the grace of his descent. Then, softly sinking amidst it, he sits elastic on a springy spray, or walks with dainty, picked steps over the sandy shoals that lie amidst its tufty sea. This, indeed, is one of his show descents. Not all of them are so pretty. In some the wings are not quite so raised, so that their lighter-coloured under-surface—an especial point of beauty—is not seen. Sometimes, too, the titlark plunges and sweeps earthwards almost perpendicularly, his tail trailing after him like a little brown comet. But, whatever he does, he is a dainty little bird with a beauty all his own, and which is none the less for being of that kind which is not showy, but “sober, steadfast, and demure.”

Now does this flight, which I have described—the mounting and return to earth again—more resemble that of a lark or a wagtail? It is the new way to class the pipits with the latter birds, instead of with the former, which, now, they “only superficially resemble.” Had they been classed, hitherto, with the wagtails, it would, probably, have been discovered that they only superficially resembled them, and were really larks—and so it goes on, in that never-ending change-about, called classification. If the pipits are not larks, why, first, do they fly like them, and then, again, why do they sing like them? There is a certain resemblance of tone, even in the poor, weak notes of the meadow-pipit, and no one can listen to the rich and beautiful melody of the tree-pipit, as it descends to earth, in a very lark-like manner, singing all the time, without recognising its affinity with that of the skylark, to which—in Germany, at any rate—it is hardly inferior. Is song, then, so superficial? To me it seems a very important consideration in settling a bird’s family relationship. How strange it would be to find a dove, duck, crow, gull, eagle, parrot, &c., whose voice did not, to some extent, remind one of the group to which it belonged! Is there anything more distinctive amongst ourselves? The members of a family will often more resemble one another in the tone of their voice than in any other particular, even though there may be a strong family likeness, as well. Structure is quelque chose, no doubt; especially as, dissection not being a popular pastime, one has to submit to any statement that one reads, till the professor on whose authority it rests is contradicted by some other professor—as, in due time, he will be, but, meanwhile, one has to wait. Classification, however, should take account of everything, and, for my part, having heard the tree-pipit sing, and seen both it and the titlark fly, I mistrust any system which declares such birds to be wagtails and not larks.

I think our caution in accepting merely adaptive resemblances as tests of relationship may be pushed a little too far. A bat flies in the same general way as a bird, but we do not find it practising little tricks and ways—with an intimate style of flight, so to speak—resembling that of some particular group of birds. All men walk; yet a man, by his walk, may proclaim the family to which he belongs. A thousand points of similarity may meet to make any such resemblance, but it is not likely that they should unless they were founded on a similarity of structure. Surely, too, the resemblances of notes and tones must rest upon corresponding ones in the vocal organs, though these may be too minute to be made out. To some extent, indeed, these principles may be applied to get the titlarks into either family. It is a question of balance. That there is something in common between them and the wagtails I do not deny, and the fact that when the two meet on the Icklingham steppes neither seems to know the other, proves nothing in regard to the nearness or otherwise of the relationship.

The male of the pied- or water-wagtail may often be seen courting the female here, and a pretty sight it is to see. He ruffles out his feathers so that his breast looks like a little ball, and runs to her in a warm, possession-taking way, with his wings drooped, and his tail expanded and sweeping the ground. She, quite unmoved, makes a little peck at him, as though saying, “Be off with you!” whereat he, obeying, runs briskly off, but turning when hardly more than a foot away, comes down upon her, again, even more warmly than before. She may relent, then, or she may not, but, at this point, another male generally interferes, when all three fly away together. There is a good deal of similarity between the courtship of the wagtail and that of the pheasant, for, having run up to the hen, the little bird, if not too brusquely repulsed, will run about her in a semicircle, drooping his wing upon that side, more especially, which is turned towards her, so as to show all that she can see—and this I have seen the pheasant do, time after time, with the greatest deliberation.

Having noticed this method in the wagtail, I have looked for it in the wheat-ear, also—the two may often be studied together—but I have not yet seen him act in quite the same way. His chief efforts, no doubt, are those aerial ones of which I have spoken, but having exhausted these, or after sitting for some time on the top twig of an elder, singing quite a pretty little song, he will often pursue the object of his adoration over the sunny sand, with ruffled plumage, and head held down. He is reduced to it, I suppose, but it seems quite absurd that he should be. He ought to be irresistible, dressed as he is, for what more can be wanted? Nothing can be purer, or more delicately picked out, than his colouring—his back cream-grey, his breast greyey-cream. Divided by the broad, black band of the wings, these tintings would fain meet upon the neck and chin, but, here, a lovely little chestnut sea, which neither can o’erpass, still keeps them apart. They cannot cross it, to mingle warmly with each other and make, perhaps, a richer hue. Fas obstat—but fate, in chestnut, is so soft and pretty that neither of them seems to mind. Then there are pencilled lines of black and chastened white upon the face, a softening into white upon the chin, and a dab of pure white above the tail—but this you only see in flight. The tail itself seems black when it disports itself staidly, for it is the black tip, then, beyond the black of the wings, that you see. Marry, when it flirteth itself into the air, as it doth full oft, then it showeth itself white, cloaked in a chestnut. The pert little bill and affirmative legs are black. This is how I catch the bird, running over the warrens, it is not from a specimen on a table; not so exact, therefore, and yet, perhaps, more so—“lesser than Macbeth, yet greater.” Truly these wheat-ears, at 7 o’clock in the morning, with the sun shining, are splendid—which is what General Buller said his men were—but I prefer their uniform to khaki; I am not sure, however, whether I prefer it to that of the stone-chat, which, though less salient, is superior in warmth and richness. Both these handsome little birds sometimes flash about together in sandy spaces over the moorlands, or may even be seen perched on the same solitary hawthorn or elder. Then is the time to compare their styles, and not to know which to like best.

The stone-chat, by virtue of his little, harsh, twittering “char,” which, as long as you are near him, never leaves off, seems always to be an angry bird. With this assumed state of his mind, his motions, when he chars like this, seem exactly to correspond. There is something in his quick little flights about, from one heather-tuft to another, in the way he leaves and the way he comes down upon them, in the little impatient flutter of the wings, and bold assertive flirt of the tail, supported—in spite of a constant threat of overbalancing—by a firm attitude, that suggests a fiery temper. You get this, more especially, through the tail. It is flirted at you, that tail. You feel that, and, also, that the intention, if questioned, would be avouched, that were you to say to the bird, sternly and firmly—in the manner of Abraham accosting Samson—“Do you flirt your tail at me, sir?” the answer, instead of a pitiful, shuffling evasion—a half-hearted quibble—would be an uncompromising, “I do flirt my tail at you, sir.” One cannot doubt this—at least I cannot. So sure, in fact, have I always felt about it, that I have never yet asked the question. Why should I—knowing what the answer would be? But though this seems to be the stone-chat’s mental attitude, when bob and flirt and flutter are as the gesticulations accompanying hot utterance—the impatient “char, char, charring”—yet, when this last is wanting—which is when he doesn’t see you—all seems changed, and such motions, set in silence, assume a softened character. Now, instead of to the harsh chatter, it is to the soft purity of the bird’s colouring that they seem to respond.

Of all the birds that we have here, the peewits, for a great part of the year, give most life to the barren lands. In the winter, as I say, they disappear entirely, going off to the fens, though, here and there, their voice remains, mimicked, to the life, by a starling. In February, however, they return, and are soon sporting, and throwing their fantastic somersaults, over their old, loved breeding-grounds. Pleasant it is to have this breezy joy of spring-time, once again, to have the accustomed tilts and turns and falls and rushing sweeps, before one’s eyes, and the old calls and cries in one’s ears—the sound of the wings, too, free as the wild air they beat, and sunlight glints on green and white, and silver-flying snowflakes. “What a piece of work is a peewit!” The glossy green of the upper surface—smooth and shining as the shards of a beetle—glows, in places, with purple burnishings, and, especially, on each shoulder there is an intensified patch, the last bright twin-touch of adornment. The pure, shining white of the neck and ventral surface—shining almost into silver as it catches the sun—is boldly and beautifully contrasted with the black of the throat, chin, and forehead. The neat little, corally stilt-legs are an elegant support for so much beauty, and the crest that crowns it is as the fringe to the scarf, or the tassel to the fez. There is, besides, the walk, pose, poise, and easy swing of the whole body.

On the sopped meadow-land, near the river, in “February fill-dyke” weather, it is pleasant to see peewits bathing, which they do with mannerisms of their own. Standing upright in a little pool, one of them bobs down, into it, several times, each time scooping up the water with his head, and letting it run down over his neck and back. This is common; but he keeps his wings all the time pressed to his sides, so that they do not assist in scattering the water all over him, after the manner in which birds, when they wash, usually do. Nor does he sink upon his breast—which is also usual—but merely stoops, and rises bolt upright, again, every time. Having tubbed in this clean, precise, military fashion, he steps an inch or so to one side, and then jumps into the air, giving his wings, as he goes up, a vigorous flapping, or waving rather, for they move like two broad banners. He descends—the motion of the wings having hardly carried him beyond the original impulse of the spring—jumps up in the same way, again, and does this some three or four times, after which he moves a little farther off, and preens himself with great satisfaction. Either this is a very original method of washing, on the part of peewits in general, or this particular peewit is a very original bird. Apparently the latter is the explanation, for now two other ones bathe, couched on their breasts in the ordinary manner. Still the wings are not extended to any great degree, and play a less part in the washing process than is usual. Both these birds, too, having washed, which takes a very little while, make the little spring into the air, whilst, at the same time, shaking or waving their wings above their backs, in the way that the other did, though not quite so briskly, so that it has a still more graceful appearance. It is common for birds to give their wings a good shake after a bathe, but, as a rule, they stand firm on the ground, and this pretty aerial way of doing things is something of a novelty, and most pleasing. It is like the graceful waving of the hands in the air, by which the Normans—as Scott tells us—having had recourse to the finger-bowl, at table, suffered the moisture to exhale, instead of drying them, clumsily, on a towel, as did the inelegant Saxons. The peewit, it is easy to see, is of gentle Norman blood.

A STATUESQUE FIGURE
Snipe, with Starlings Bathing, and Peewits