Starlings are not birds to make part of an olla podrida merely—as in my last chapter—so I shall devote this one to them, more or less entirely. I will begin with a defence of the bird, in regard to his relations with the green woodpecker. Not, indeed, that he can be acquitted on the main charge brought against him, viz. that he appropriates to himself the woodpecker’s nest. This he certainly does do, and his conduct in so doing has aroused a good deal of indignation, not always, perhaps, of the most righteous kind. The compassionate oologist, more especially, who may have found only starling’s eggs where he thought to find woodpecker’s, cannot speak patiently on the subject. His feelings run away with him, in face of such an injustice. The woodpecker is being wronged—by the starling; it will be exterminated—all through the starling. It makes his blood boil. To console himself he looks through his fine collection, which contains not only woodpecker’s eggs—say a roomful—but woodpeckers themselves—in the fluff.16 It is something—balm in Gilead—yet had it not been for the starling there might have been more.

Personally, I do not share in the panic, and if the green woodpecker should disappear from this island—as, indeed, it may—the starling, I am confident, will have had but little to do with it. The result, as I believe, of the present friction between the two birds, will be of a more interesting and less painful character. For say that a woodpecker be deprived of its first nest, or tunnel, it will assuredly excavate another one. Not, however, immediately: it is likely, I think, that there would be an interval of some days—perhaps a week, or longer—and, by this time, a vast number of starlings would have laid their eggs. Consequently, the dispossessed woodpecker would have a far better chance of laying and hatching out his, this second time, and a better one still, were he forced to make a third attempt. No doubt, a starling wishing to rear a second brood would be glad to misappropriate another domicile, but, as the woodpecker would be now established, either with eggs or young, it would probably—I should think, myself, certainly—be unable to do so, but would have to suit itself elsewhere. The woodpecker should, therefore, have reared its first brood some time before the starling had finished with its second, and so would have time to lay again, if this, which I doubt, is its habit. Thus, after the first retardation in the laying of the one species, consequent upon the action of the other, the two would not be likely again to come into collision; nor would the woodpecker be seriously injured by being forced, in this way, to become a later-breeding bird. As long as there are a sufficient number of partially-decayed trees for both starlings and woodpeckers—and any hole or hollow does for the former—I can see no reason why the latter should suffer, except, indeed, in his feelings; and even if a time were to come when this were no longer the case, why should he not, like the La Plata species, still further modify his habits, even to the extent, if necessary, of laying in a rabbit burrow? Love, I feel confident, would “find out a way.”

But there is another possibility. May not either the woodpecker or the starling be a cuckoo in posse? If one waits and watches, one may see first the one bird, and then the other, enter the hole, in each other’s absence, and it is only when the woodpecker finds the starling in possession—and this, as I am inclined to think, more than once—that he desists and retires. Now, the woodpecker having made its nest, is, we may suppose, ready to lay, and, if it were to do so, it is at least possible that the starling might, in some cases, hatch the egg. True, the latter would still have his nest, or a part of it, to make, but it is of loose material—straw for the most part—and the cow-bird of America has, I believe, been sometimes brought into existence under similar circumstances. Some woodpeckers, too—evolution, it must be remembered, works largely through exceptions—might be sufficiently persistent to lay an egg in the completed nest of the starling. In this latter case, at any rate, it seems more than likely that the original parasite would become the dupe of his ousted victim, “and thus the whirligig of time” would have “brought in his revenges.”

Whether in speculating upon the various possible origins of the parasitic instinct, as exhibited in perfection by the cuckoo, this one has ever been considered, I do not know, but it does not appear to me to be in itself improbable. It is not difficult to understand a bird seizing another one’s nest, first as a mere site for, and then, gradually, as its own. That the dispossessed bird should still strive to lay in its own appropriated nest, and, often, succeed in doing so, is also easy to imagine; and if this should be its only, or most usual, solution of the difficulty, it would lose, through disuse, the instinct of incubation, and become a cuckoo malgrÉ lui. All feeling of property would, by this time, be gone; the parasitic instinct would be strongly developed, and that it should now be indulged, at the expense of many, or several, species instead of only one—once the robber, but whose original theft would be no longer traceable—is a sequel that one might expect. In a process like this there would have been no very abrupt or violent departure, on the part of either species—of the dupe or of the parasite—from their original habits. All would have been gradual, and naturally brought about. Therefore, as it appears to me, all might very well have taken place. Let me add to these speculations one curious fact in regard to the two birds whose inter-relations have suggested them, which extremely close observation has enabled me to elicit. I have noticed that a woodpecker which has abandoned its hole, always lays claim to magnanimity, as the motive for such abandonment, whereas the starling as invariably attributes it to weakness. I have not yet decided which is right.

But the starling may be regarded in a nobler light than that of a parasitical appropriator, or even a mere finder of, dwellings. He is, and that to a very considerable extent, a builder of them, too. I have some reason to think that he is occasionally, so to speak, his own woodpecker, for I have seen him bringing, through an extremely rough and irregular aperture, in a quite decayed tree, one little beakful of chips after another, whilst his mate sat singing on the stump of the same branch, just above him. The chips thus brought were dropped on the ground, and had all the appearance of having been picked and pulled out of the mass of the tree. Possibly, therefore, the aperture had been made in the same way.

It is in gravel-or sand-pits, however, that the bird’s greatest architectural triumphs are achieved. Starlings often form colonies here, together with sand-martins, and the holes, or, rather, caverns, which they make are so large as to excite wonder. A rabbit—nay, two—might sit in some of them; two would be a squeeze, indeed, but one would find it roomy and comfortable. The stock-dove certainly does, for she often builds in them, as she does in the burrows of rabbits, and can no more be supposed to make the one than the other. Besides, I have seen the starlings at work in their vaults, and the latter growing from day to day. But no, I am stating, or implying, a little too much. Properly, satisfactorily at work I have not seen them, though I have tried to; I have been unfortunate in this respect. But there were the holes, and there were the starlings always in and about them, and, sometimes, hanging on the face of the sand-pit, like the sand-martins themselves. That the latter had had anything to do with these great, rounded caves, or that the starlings had merely seized on the last year’s martin-holes, and enlarged them, I do not believe. That may be so in some cases, but here, as it seems to me, it would have been impossible. Sand-martins, as is well known, drive their little narrow tunnels, for an immense way, into the cliff—nine feet sometimes, it is said, but this seems rather startling. Large and roomy and cavernous as are the chambers of the starlings, yet they are not quite so penetrating, so bowelly, as this. Therefore—and this would especially apply in the earlier stages of their construction—the original martin-holes ought always to be found piercing their backward wall, if the starlings had merely widened the shaft for themselves. This, however, has not been the case in the excavations which I have seen, even when they were mere shallow alcoves in the wall of the cliff—but just commenced, in fact. Moreover, some of these starling-burrows were several feet apart, the cliff between them being unexcavated. Sand-martins, however, drive their tunnels close together, and in a long irregular line, or series of lines, so that if, in these instances, starlings had seized upon them, there ought to have been many small holes in the interstices between the large ones. Lastly, if a starling can do such a prodigious amount of excavation for himself, why should he be beholden to a sand-martin, or any other bird, for a beginning or any part of it? That he will, sometimes, commence at a martin’s hole, just as he might at any other inequality of the surface—as where a stone has dropped out—and, so, widen a chink into a cavern, a fine, roomy apartment (as Shakespeare ennobled inferior productions, which was not plagiarism), I am not denying, nor that he might enjoy work, all the more, when combined with spoliation. But, with or without this, the starling appears to me to be an architect of considerable eminence, and, as such, not to have received any adequate recognition.

To return to these wonderful sand-caves—his own work—it seems curious, at first, considering their size, how he can get them so rounded in shape. Here there is no question of turning about, in a heap of things soft and yielding, pressing with the breast, to all sides, moulding, as it were, the materials, like clay upon the potter’s wheel—the way in which most nests are made cup-shaped; but we have a large, airy, beehive-like chamber, somewhat resembling the interior of a Kaffir hut, except that the floor is not flat, but more like a reversed and shallower dome. The entrance, too, is small, compared to the size of the interior, in something like the same proportion. Here, on the outside, where the birds have clung, the sand looks scratched, as with their claws, or, sometimes, as though chiselled with their beaks; but within, the walls and rounded dome have a smooth and swept appearance, almost as if they had been rubbed with sandpaper. Sometimes I have wondered if the starlings scoured, so to speak, or fretted the inside of their caverns, by rapidly vibrating their wings against them, so as to act like a stiff brush on the soft, friable sandstone. One of my notings, when watching in the sand-pits, was this: “A starling appears, now, at the mouth of a hole, waving his wings most vigorously. Then disappearing into it, again, he quickly returns, still waving them, and moves, so, along the face of the cliff, for there is something like a little ledge below the row of holes.” This bird, indeed, waved its wings so long and so vigorously that I began to think it must have a special and peculiar fondness for so doing—that here was an exaggeration, in a single individual, of a habit common to the species, for starlings during the nesting season are great performers in this way. But if the wings were used as suggested, they would certainly, I think, be sufficiently strong, and their quill-feathers sufficiently stiff, to fret away the sand; and as their sweeps would be in curves, this would help to explain the domed and rounded shape of these bird cave-dwellings. Only, why have I not seen them doing it? Though many of the holes were unfinished—some only just begun—and though the birds were constantly in them, I could never plainly see any actual excavation being done by them, except that, sometimes, one, in a perfunctory sort of manner, would carry some nodules of sand or gravel out of a hole that seemed nearly finished; yet still they grew and grew. The thing, in fact, is something of a mystery to me.

It is easier to see how, when the chambers are completed, the starlings build their nests in them; and, especially, the fact of their entering and plundering each other’s is open and apparent. They seem to chance the rightful owner being at home, or in the near neighbourhood. There is no stealth, no guilty shame-faced approach. Boldly and joyously they fly up, and if unopposed, “so,” as Falstaff says (using the little word as the Germans do now); if not, a quick wheel, a gay retreat, and a song sung at the end of it. Such happy high-handedness, careless guilt! A bird, issuing from a cave that is not his own, is flown after and pecked by another, just as he plunges into one that is. The thief soon reappears at the door of his premises, and sings, or talks, a song, and the robbed bird is, by this time, sing-talking too. Both are happy—immer munter—all is enjoyment. A bird, returning with plunder, finds the absent proprietor in his own home. Each scolds, each recognises that he has “received the dor”; but neither blushes, neither is one bit ashamed. Happy birdies! They fly about, sinning and not caring, persist in ill courses, and how they enjoy themselves! There is no trouble of conscience, no remorse. “Fair is foul, and foul is fair,” with them. It is topsy-turvyland, a kind of right wrong-doing, and things go on capitally. Happy birdies! What a bore all morality seems, as one watches them. How tiresome it is to be human and high in the scale! Those who would shake off the cobwebs—who are tired of teachings and preachings and heavy-high novellings, who would see things anew, and not mattering, rubbing their eyes and forgetting their dignities, missions, destinies, virtues, and the rest of it—let them come and watch a colony of starlings at work in a gravel-pit.

But starlings are most interesting when they flock, each night, to their accustomed roosting-place; in autumn, more especially, when their numbers are greatest. It is difficult to say, exactly, when the more commonplace instincts and emotions, which have animated the birds throughout the day, begin to pass into that strange excitement which heralds and pervades the home-flying. Comparatively early, however, in the afternoon many may be seen sitting in trees—especially orchard trees—and singing in a very full-throated manner. They are not eating the fruit; a dead and fruitless tree holds as many, in proportion to its size, as any of the other ones. Presently a compact flock comes down in an adjacent meadow, and the birds composing it are continually joined by many of the singing ones. Whilst watching them, other flocks begin to sweep by on hurrying pinions, and one notices that many of the high elm trees, into which they wheel, are already stocked with birds, whilst the air begins, gradually, to fill with a vague, babbling susurrus, that, blending with the stillness or with each accustomed sound, is perceived before it is heard—a felt atmosphere of song. One by one, or mingling with one another, these flocks leave the trees, and fly on towards the wood of their rest; but by that principle which impels some of any number, however great, to join any other great number, many detach themselves from the main stream of advance, and fly to the ever-increasing multitudes which still wheel, or walk, over the fields. It seems strange that these latter should, hitherto, have resisted that general movement which has robed each tree with life, and made a music of the air; but all at once, with a whirring hurricane of wings, they rise like brown spray of the earth, and, mounting above one of the highest elms, come sweeping suddenly down upon it, in the most violent and erratic manner, whizzing and zigzagging about from side to side, as they descend, and making a loud rushing sound with the wings, which, as with rooks, who do the same thing, is only heard on such occasions. They do not stay long, and as all the flocks keep moving onwards, the immediate fields and trees are soon empty of birds. To follow their movements farther, one must proceed with all haste towards the roosting-place. About a mile’s distance from it, at the tail of a little village, there is a certain meadow, emerald-green and dotted all over with unusually fine tall elms. In these, their accustomed last halting-place, the starlings, now in vast numbers, are swarming and gathering in a much more remarkable manner than has hitherto been the case. It is, always, on the top of the tree that they settle, and, the instant they do so, it becomes suddenly brown, whilst there bursts from it, as though from some great natural musical box, a mighty volume of sound that is like the plash of waters mingled with a sharper, steelier note—the dropping of innumerable needles on a marble floor. On a sudden the sing-song ceases, and there is a great roar of wings, as the entire host swarm out from the tree, make a wheel or half-wheel or two, close about it, and then, as though unable to go farther, seem drawn back into it, again, by some strong, attractive force. Or they will fly from one tree to another of a group, swarming into each, and presenting, as they cluster in myriads about it, before settling, more the appearance of a vast swarm of bees, or some other insects, than of birds. These flights out from the trees, always very sudden, seem, sometimes, to be absolutely instantaneous; whilst in every case it is obvious that vast numbers must move in the same twinkle of time, as though they were threaded together.

All this time, fresh bands are continuing to arrive, draining different areas of the country. From tree to field, from earth to sky, again, is flung and whirled about the brown, throbbing mantle of life and joy; nature grows glad with sound and commotion; children shout and clap their hands; old village women run to the doors of cottages to gaze and wonder—the starlings make them young. Blessed, harmless community! The men are out, no guns are there, it is like the golden age. And now it is the final flight, or, rather, the final many flights, for it is seldom—perhaps never—that all, or even nearly all, arrive together at the roosting-place. As to other great things, so to this daily miracle there are small beginnings; the wonder of it grows and grows. First a few quite small bands are seen flying rapidly, yet soberly, which, as they near or pass over the silent wood—their pleasant dormitory—sweep outwards, and fly restlessly round in circles—now vast, now narrow—but of which it is ever the centre. “Then comes wandering by” one single bird—apart, cut off, by lakes of lonely air, from all its myriad companions. Some three or four follow separately, but not widely sundered; then a dozen together, which the three or four join; then another small band, which is joined by one of those that have gone before it, itself now, probably, swollen by amalgamation. Now comes a far larger band, and this one, instead of joining, or being joined by, any other, divides, and, streaming out in two directions, follows one or other of those circling streams of restless, hurrying flight, that girdles, as with a zone of love and longing, the darksome, lonely-lying wood. A larger one, still, follows; and now, more and faster than the eye can take it in, band grows upon band, the air is heavy with the ceaseless sweep of pinions, till, glinting and gleaming, their weary wayfaring turned to swiftest arrows of triumphant flight—toil become ecstasy, prose an epic song—with rush and roar of wings, with a mighty commotion, all sweep, together, into one enormous cloud. And still they circle; now dense like a polished roof, now disseminated like the meshes of some vast all-heaven-sweeping net, now darkening, now flashing out a million rays of light, wheeling, rending, tearing, darting, crossing, and piercing one another—a madness in the sky. All is the starlings’ now; they are no more birds, but a part of elemental nature, a thing affecting and controlling other things. Through them one sees the sunset; the sky must peep through their chinks. Surely all must now be come. But as the thought arises, a black portentous cloud shapes itself on the distant horizon; swiftly it comes up, gathering into its vast ocean the small streams and driblets of flight; it approaches the mighty host and is the mightier—devours, absorbs it—and, sailing grandly on, the vast accumulated multitude seems now to make the very air, and be, itself, the sky.

As a rule, this great concourse separates, again, into two main, and various smaller bodies, and it is now, and more especially amongst the latter, that one may witness those beautiful and varied evolutions which are, equally, a charm to the eye and a puzzle to the mind. Each band, as it circles rapidly round, permeated with a fire of excitement and glad alacrity, assumes diverse shapes, becoming, with the quickness of light, a balloon, an oil-flask, a long, narrow, myriad-winged serpent, rapidly thridding the air, a comet with tail streaked suddenly out, or a huge scarf, flung about the sky in folds and shimmers. A mass of flying birds must, indeed, assume some shape, though it is only on these occasions that one sees such shapes as these. More evidential, not only of simultaneous, but, also, of similar motion throughout a vast body, are those striking colour changes that are often witnessed.17 For instance, a great flock of flying birds will be, collectively, of the usual dark-brown shade. In one instant—as quickly as Sirius twinkles from green to red, or red to gold—it has become a light grey. Another instant, and it is, again, brown, and this whilst the rapidly-moving host seems to occupy the same space in the air, so lightning-quick have been the two flashes of colour and motion—for both may be visible—through the living medium; as though one had said, “One, two,” or blinked the eyes twice. Yet in the sky all is a constant quantity; the sinking sun has neither rushed in nor out, on all the wide landscape round no change of light and shade has fallen, and other bands of moving birds maintain their uniform hue. Obviously the effect has been due to a sudden change of angle in each bird’s body, in regard to the light—as when one rustles a shot-silk dress—and this change has shot, in the same second of time, through myriads of bodies. Sometimes the light of the sky will show, suddenly, like so many windows, through a multitude of spaces, which seem to be at a set and regular distance from one another; and then, again, be as suddenly not seen, the whole mass becoming opaque to the eye, as before. Here, again, the effect, which is beautiful, can only be produced by a certain number of the birds just giving their wings a slant, or otherwise shifting their posture in the air, all at the same instant of time. This, at least, is the only way in which I can explain it.

What the nature of the psychology is, that directs such movements, that allows of such a multitudinous oneness, must be left to the future to decide; but to me it appears to offer as good evidence for some form of thought-transference—containing, moreover, new points of interest—as does much that has been collected by the Psychical Research Society, which, in its investigations, seems resolved to treat the universe as though man only existed in it. This is a great error, in my opinion, for even if greater facilities for investigation are offered by one species than by any other, yet the general conclusions founded on these are almost certain to be false, if the comparative element is excluded. How could we have acquired true views in regard to the nature and meaning—the philosophy—of any structure in our human anatomy, through human anatomy alone? How should we know that certain muscles, found in a minority of men, were due to reversion, if we did not know that these same muscles were normally present in apes or other animals?18 Exactly the same principle applies to the study of psychology, or what is called psychical research: and it is impossible not to get exaggerated, and, as one may say, misproud ideas of our mental attributes, and consequently of ourselves, if we do not pay proper attention to the equivalents, or representatives, of these in our blood relations, the beasts.

In fact, if we study man, either mentally or physically, as one species amongst many, we have a science. If we study him only, or inordinately, we very soon have a religion. The Psychical Research Society appears to me to be going this way. Its leading members are becoming more and more impressed by certain latent abnormal faculties in the human subject, but they will not consider the nature and origin of such faculties, in connection with many equally mysterious ones scattered throughout the animal kingdom, or pay proper attention to these. The wonder of man, therefore, is unchecked by the wonder of anything else: no monkey, bat, bird, lizard, or insect pulls him up short: he sees himself, only, and through Raphaels and Virgils and genius and trances and ecstasies—soon sees himself God, or approaching, at least, to that size. So an image is put up in a temple, and joss-sticks lighted before it. Service is held. There are solemn strains, reverential attitudes, and “Out of the deeps,” and “Cometh from afars,” go up, like hymns, from the lips of officiating High Priests—the successive Presidents of the Society. It is church, in fact, with man and religion inside it. Outside are the animals and science. In such an atmosphere field natural history does not flourish. You may not bring dogs into church. That, however, is what I would do, and it is just what the Society ought to do. With man for their sole theme they will never, it seems likely, get beyond a solemn sort of mystic optimism. If they want to get farther they should let the dogs into church.

Whilst starlings are thus flying to the roosting-place, they often utter a peculiar, or, at any rate, a very distinctive note, which I have never heard them do, upon any other occasion, except in the morning, on leaving it. It is low, of a musical quality, and has in it a rapid rise and fall—an undulatory sound one might call it, somewhat resembling that note I have mentioned of the great plover, which, curiously enough, is also uttered when the birds fly together in flocks. But whilst there is no mistaking the last, this note of the starlings is of a very elusory nature, and I have often been puzzled to decide whether it was, indeed, vocal or only caused by the wings. Sometimes there seems no doubt that the former is the case, but on other occasions it is more difficult to decide. I think, however, that it is a genuine cry, and, as I say, I have only heard it upon these occasions, nor have I ever heard or read any reference to it. It is usually stated that starlings fly, together, in silence, but besides the special note I have mentioned, and which is totally unlike any of their other ones, they often make a more ordinary twittering noise. It is not loud, and does not seem to be uttered by any large proportion of the birds, at once. Still, their numbers being so great, the volume of sound is often considerable; and no one could watch starlings going to roost, for long, without hearing it. Those, therefore, who say that they always fly in silence cannot have watched them for long.

The final end and aim of all the gatherings, flights, circlings, and “skiey” evolutions generally, which are gone through by starlings, at the close of each day, is, of course, the entry into that dark wood where, in “numbers numberless,” yet packed into a wonderfully small space, they pass the night, clinging beneath every leaf, like those dreams that Virgil speaks of. This entry they accomplish in various ways. Sometimes, but rarely, they descend out of the brown firmament of their numbers, in one perpetual rushing stream, which seems to be sucked down by a reversed application of the principle on which the column of a waterspout is sucked up from the ocean. More often, however, they fly in, in detachments; or again, they will swarm into one of the neighbouring hedges, forming, perhaps, the mutual boundary of wood and meadow, and, commencing at the remote end, move along it, flying and fluttering, like an uproarious river of violent life and joy, the wood at last receiving them. But should there be another thicket or plantation, a field or so from their chosen dormitory, it is quite their general habit to enter this, first, and fly from it to the latter. The passage from the one to the other is an interesting thing to see, but it does not take place till after a considerable interval, during which the birds talk, and seem to be preparing themselves for going to bed. At last they are ready, or the proper time has come. The sun has sunk, and evening, in its stillness, seems to wait for night. The babbling sing-song, though swollen, now, to its greatest volume, seems—such are the harmonies of nature—to have more of silence in it than of sound, but, all at once, it changes to a sudden roar of wings, as the birds whirl up and fly across the intervening space, to their final resting-place. It seems, then, as though all had risen, at one and the same moment, but, had they done so, the plantation would now be empty, and the entire sky, above it, darkened by an immense host of birds. Such, however, is not the case. There is, indeed, a continuous streaming out, but, all or most of the while that it is flowing, the plantation from which it issues must be stocked with still vaster numbers, since it takes, as a rule, about half-an-hour for it to become empty. It is drained, in fact, as a broad sheet of water would be, by a constant, narrower outflow, taking the water to represent the birds.

Thus, though the exodus commences with suddenness, it is gradually accomplished, and this gives the idea of method and sequence, in its accomplishment. The mere fact that a proportion of the birds resist, even up to the last moment, the impulse to flight, which so many rushing pinions, but just above their heads, may be supposed to communicate, suggests some reason for such self-restraint, and gradually, as one watches—especially if one comes night after night—the reason begins to appear. For a long time the current of flight flows on, uninterruptedly, hiding with its mantle whatever of form or substance may lie beneath. But, at last, the numbers begin to wane, the speed—at least in appearance—to flag, and it is then seen that the starlings are flying in bands, of comparatively moderate size, which follow one another at longer or shorter intervals. Sometimes there is a clear gap between band and band, sometimes the leaders of the one are but barely separated from the laggards of the other, sometimes they overlap, but, even here, the band formation is plain and unmistakable. This, as I have said, is towards the end of the flight. On most occasions, nothing of the sort is to be seen at its beginning. There is a sudden outrush, and no division in the continuous line is perceptible. Occasionally, however, the exodus begins in much the same way as it ends, one troop of birds following another, until soon there ceases to be any interval between them. But though the governing principle is now masked to the eye, one may suppose that it still exists, and that as there are unseen currents in the ocean, so this great and, apparently, uniform stream of birds, is made up of innumerable small bands or regiments, which, though distinct, and capable, at any moment, of acting independently, are so mingled together that they present the appearance of an indiscriminate host, moving without order, and constructed upon no more complex principle of subdivision than that of the individual unit. There is another phenomenon, to be observed in these last flights of the starlings, which appears to me to offer additional evidence of this being the case. Supposing there to be a hedge, or any other shelter, in the bird’s course, one can, by stooping behind it, remain concealed or unthought of, whilst they pass directly overhead. One then notices that there is a constant and, to some extent, regular rising and sinking of the rushing noise made by their wings. It is like rush after rush, a maximum roar of sound, quickly diminishing, then another roar, and so on, in unvarying or but little varying succession. Why should this be? That, at more or less regular intervals, those birds which happened to be passing just above one, should fly faster, thereby increasing the sound made by their wings, and that this should continue during the whole flight, does not seem likely. It would be method without meaning. But supposing that, at certain points, the living stream were composed of greater multitudes of birds than in the intermediate spaces, then, at intervals, as these greater multitudes passed above one, there would be an accentuation of the uniform rushing sound. Now in a moderate-sized band of starlings, flying rapidly, there is often a thin forward, or apex, end, which increases gradually, or, sometimes, rather suddenly, to the maximum bulk in the centre, and a hinder or tail end, decreasing in the same manner. If hundreds of these bands were to fly up so quickly, one after another, that their vanguards and rearguards became intermingled, yet, still, the numbers of each main body ought largely to preponderate over those of the combined portions, so that here we should have a cause capable of producing the effect in question. The starlings then—this, at least, is my own conclusion—though they seem to fly all together, in one long string, really do so in regiment after regiment, and, moreover, there is a certain order—and that a strange one—by which these regiments leave the plantation. It is not the first ones—those, that is to say, that are stationed nearest the dormitory—that lead the flight out to it, but the farthest or back regiments, rise first, and fly, successively, over the heads of those in front of them. Thus the plantation is emptied from the farther end, and that part of the army which was, in sitting, the rear, becomes, in flying, the van. This, at least, seems to be the rule or tendency, and precisely the same thing is observable with rooks, though in both it may be partially broken, and thus obscured. One must not, in the collective movements of birds, expect the precision and uniformity of drilled human armies. It is, rather, the blurred image, or confused approximation towards this, that is observable, and this is, perhaps, still more interesting.

One more point—and here, again, rooks and starlings closely resemble each other. It might be supposed that birds thus flying, in the dusk of evening, to their resting-place, would be anxious to get there, and that the last thing to occur to them would be to turn round and fly in the opposite direction. Both here, however, and in the flights out in the morning, we have that curious phenomenon of breaking back, which, in its more salient manifestations, at least, is a truly marvellous thing to behold. With a sudden whirr of wings, the sound of which somewhat resembles that of a squall of wind—still more, perhaps, the crackling of sticks in a huge blaze of flame—first one great horde, and then another, tears apart, each half wheeling round, in an opposite direction, with enormous velocity, and such a general seeming of storm, stir, and excitement, as is quite indescribable. This may happen over and over again, and, each time, it strikes one as more remarkable. It is as though a tearing hurricane had struck the advancing host of birds, rent them asunder, and whirled them to right and left, with the most irresistible fury. No act of volition seems adequate to account for the thing. It is like the shock of elements, or, rather, it is a vital hurricane. Seeing it produces a strange sense of contrast, which has a strange effect upon one. It is order in disorder, the utmost perfection of the one in the very height of the other—a governed chaos. Every element of confusion is there, but there is no confusion. Having divided and whirled about in this gusty, fierce fashion, the birds, for a moment or so, seem to hang and crowd in the air, and then—the exact process of it is hardly to be gathered—they reunite, and continue to throng onwards. Sometimes, again, a certain number, flashing out of the crowd, will wheel, sharply, round in one direction, and descend, in a cloud, on the bushes they have just left. In a second or two they whirl up, and come streaming out again. In these sudden and sharply localised movements we have, perhaps, fresh evidence of that division into smaller bodies, which may, possibly, underlie all great assemblies either of starlings or other birds.

If anything lies in the way of the starlings, during this, their last flight, to the dormitory—as, say, a hedge—the whole mass of them, in perfect order and unison, will, as they pass it, increase their elevation, though why, as they were well above it before, one cannot quite say. However they do so, and the brown speeding cloud that they make, whirling aloft and flashing into various sombre lights against the darkening sky, has a fine stormy effect. It would make the name of any landscape painter, could he put on canvas the stir and spirit of these living storms and clouds that fill, each morning and evening, a vast part of the heavens with their hurrying armies, adding the poetry of life to elemental poetry, putting a heartbeat into sky and air. Were Turner alive, now, I would write to him of these wondrous sights; for, unless he despaired, surely he can never have seen them. He who gave us “Wind, steam, and speed” might, had he known, have given us a “Sky, air, and life,” to hang, for ever (if the trustees would let it) on the walls of the National Gallery. But who, now, is there to write to? Who could give us not only the thing, but the spirit of the thing—the wild, fine poetry of these starling-flights? It is strange how much poetry lies in mere numbers, how they speak to the heart. What were one starling, winging its way to rest, or even a dozen or so? But all this great multitude filled with one wish, one longing, one intent—so many little hearts and wings beating all one way! It is like a cry going up from nature herself; the very air seems to yearn and pant for rest. And yet there is the precise converse of this. The death of one child—little Paul Dombey, for instance—is affecting to read about: thousands together seem not to affect people—no, not even ladies—at all.

It is interesting to sit in the actual roosting-place of the starlings, after the birds have got there. They are all in a state of excitement, hopping and fluttering from perch to perch, from one bush to another, and always seeming to be passing on. One is in the midst of a world of birds, of a sea of sound, which is made up, on the whole, of a kind of chuckling, chattering song, in which there are mingled—giving it its most characteristic tones—long musical whews and whistles, as well as some notes that may fairly be called warblings—the whole very pleasing, even in itself; delightful, of course, as a part of all the romance. As one sits and watches, it becomes more and more evident that a disseminating process is going on. The birds are ever pushing forward, and extending themselves through the thick undergrowth, as though to find proper room for their crowded numbers. There is, in fact, a continual fluttering stream through the wood, as there has been, before, a flying stream through the air, but, in the denseness of the undergrowth, it is hard to determine if there is a similar tendency for band to follow band. The universal sing-song diminishes very slowly, very gradually, and, when it is almost quite dark, there begin to be sudden flights of small bodies of birds, through the bushes, at various points of the plantation, each rush being followed by an increase of sound. Instead of diminishing, these scurryings, with their accompanying babel, become greater and more numerous, as the darkness increases, but whether this is a natural development, or is caused by an owl flying silently over the plantation, I am not quite sure, though I incline to the former view. Night has long fallen, before silence sinks upon that darker patch in darkness, where so many hearts, burdened with so few cares, are at rest.

Next morning, whilst it is still moonlight, there is a subdued sing-songing amongst the birds, but by crawling, first on one’s hands and knees, and then flat, like a snake, one is able to get, gradually, into the very centre of their sleeping-quarters, where, sitting still, though one may create a little disturbance at first, one soon ceases to be noticed. As daylight dawns, there is some stretching of the wings, and preening, and then comes an outburst of song, which sinks, and then again rises, and so continues to fluctuate, though always rising, on the whole, until the sound becomes a very din. At length comes a first wave of motion, birds fluttering from perch to perch, and bush to bush, then a sudden roar of wings, as numbers fly out, a lull, and then a great crescendo of song, another greater roar, a still greater crescendo, and so on, roar upon roar, crescendo on crescendo, as the tide of life streams forth. The bushes where the birds went up are completely empty, but soon they fill again, and the same excited scene that preceded the last begins to re-enact itself. Birds dash from their perches, hang hovering in the air, with rapidly-vibrating wings, perch again, again fly and flutter, the numbers ever increasing, till the whole place seems to seethe. “Fervet opus,” as Virgil says of the bees. Greater and greater becomes the excitement, more and more deafening the noise, till, as though reaching the boiling-point, a great mass of the birds is flung off, or tears itself from the rest, and goes streaming away over the tree-tops. The pot has boiled over: that, rather than an art of volition, is what it looks like. There is a roar, thousands rise together, but the greater part remain. It is as though, from some great nature-bowl of dancing, bubbling wine, the most volatile, irrepressible particles—the very top sparkles—went whirling joyously away; or as though each successive flight out were a cloud of spray, thrown off from the same great wave. It will thus be seen that the starlings fly out of their bedroom, as they fly into it, in successive bodies, namely, and not in one cloud, all together.

In the plantation are many fair-sized young trees, but it is only now, when the birds have begun to fly, that they may be seen dashing into them. They have been empty before, standing like uninhabited islands amidst an ocean of life. When roosting, starlings seem to eschew trees that are at all larger than saplings, or whose tops project much above the level of the undergrowth. Tall, thin, flexible bushes—such as hazel or thorn—closely set together, seem to be what they demand for a sleeping-place. They sit on or near the tops of these, and it is obvious that a climbing animal, of any size—say a cat or a pole-cat—would find it difficult, or impossible, to run up them, and would be sure to sway or shake the stem, even if it succeeded. Whether this has had anything to do, through a long course of natural selection, with the choice of such coverts, I do not know, nor, do I suppose, does anybody. It is matter of conjecture, but what I have mentioned in regard to the many small trees, scattered through the plantation, seems to me curious. How comfortably, one would think, could the birds roost in these, but, again, how easily could a cat run up them. Of course a habit of this kind, gained in relation to such possibilities as these, would have been gained ages ago, when there might have been great differences both in the numbers and species of such animals as would have constituted a nightly danger. Certain it is that starlings, during the daytime, much affect all ordinarily-growing trees. They roost, also, in reed-beds, where they would be still safer from the kind of attack supposed.

Even whilst this book is going through the press, have come the usual shoutings of the Philistines—their cries for blood and fierce instigations to slaughter. The starlings, they tell us, do harm, but what they really mean is this, that, seeing them in abundance, their fingers itch to destroy. It is ever so. These men, having no souls in their bodies, have nothing whatever to set against the smallest modicum of injury that a bird or beast (unless it be a fox or a pheasant) may do—against any of those sticks, in fact, that are so easily found to beat dogs with. In one dingle or copse of their estate a pheasant or two is disturbed. Then down with the starlings who do it, for what good are the starlings to them? They do not care about grand sights or picturesque effects. They would sooner shoot a pheasant nicely, to see it shut its eyes and die in the air—a subject of rapture with them, they expatiate to women upon that—than gaze on the Niagara Falls—nay, they would sooner shoot it anyhow. Were it a collection of old masters that swept into their plantations, to flutter their darlings, they would wish to destroy them too—unless indeed they could sell them: there would be nothing to look at. Pheasants are their true gods. To kill them last, they would kill everything else first—dogs, men, yea women and children—but not liking, perhaps, to say so, they talk, now, about the song-birds. The starlings, forsooth, disturb them. Oh hypocrites who, for a sordid pound or two, which your pockets could well spare, would cut down the finest oak or elm that ever gladdened a whole countryside—yes, and have often done so—would you pretend to an aesthetic motive? This wretched false plea, with an appeal for guidance in the matter of smoking out or otherwise expelling the starlings from their sleeping-places, appeared lately in the Daily Telegraph. In answer to it I wrote as follows—for I wish to embody my opinion on the matter with the rest of this chapter, nor can I do so in any better way:—

“Sir,—Will you allow me to make a hasty protest—for I have little time, and write in the railway-train—against the cruel and ignorant proposition to destroy the starlings, or otherwise interfere with their sleeping arrangements, under the mistaken idea that they do harm to song-birds? I live within a few miles of a wood where a great host of these birds roost, every night. The wood is small, yet in spite of their enormous numbers, they occupy only a very small portion of it, for they sleep closely packed—and consider the size of a starling. In that small wood are as many song-birds as it is common to find in others of similar size belonging to the district, and they are as indifferent to the starlings as the starlings are to them—or, if they feel anything as they come sailing up, it is probably a sympathetic excitement; for small birds, as I have seen and elsewhere recorded,19 will sometimes associate themselves joyously with the flight out of rooks from their woods in the morning, and I know not why they should more fear the one than the other. That they do not care to roost amidst such crowds may be true; but what of that? Were their—the song-birds’—numbers multiplied by a thousand, there would still be plenty of room for them, even in the same small wood or plantation; and, if not, there is no lack of others. What, then, is the injury done them? It exists but in imagination. How many of those who lightly urge the smoking out of these poor birds from their dormitories (must they not sleep, then?) have seen starlings fly in to roost? Night after night I have watched them sail up, a sight of surpassing grandeur and interest—nay, of wonder too; morning after morning I have seen them burst forth from that dark spot, all joyous with their voices, in regular, successive hurricanes—a thing to make the heart of all but Philistines rejoice exceedingly. Moreover, these gatherings present us with a problem of deep interest. Who can explain those varied, ordered movements, those marvellous aerial manoeuvrings, that, at times, absolute simultaneousness, as well as identity of motion and action amidst vast crowded masses of birds, flying thick as flakes in a snow-storm? Is there nothing to observe here, nothing to study? Are we only to disturb and destroy? Our island offers no finer, no more grand and soul-exalting sight than these nightly gatherings of the starlings to their roosting-places. Who is the barbarian that would do away with them? Why, it would take a Turner to depict what I have seen, to give those grand effects—those living clouds and storms, those skies of beating breasts and hurrying wings. Will no artist lift up his voice? Will no life-and-nature lover speak? I call upon all naturalists with souls (as Darwin says somewhere, feeling the need of a distinction), upon all who can see beauty and poetry where these exist, upon all who love birds and hate their slayers and wearers, to protest against this threatened infamy, the destruction of our starling-roosts. How should these gatherings interfere with the song-birds? The latter must be numerous indeed if some small corner of a wood—or even some small wood itself—to which all the starlings for ten or twenty miles around repair, can at all crowd them for room. Such an idea is, of course, utterly ridiculous, and in what other way can they be incommoded? In none. They do not fear the starlings. Why should they? They are not hawks, not predaceous birds, but their familiar friends and neighbours. The whole thing is a chimera, or, rather, a piece of unconscious hypocrisy, born of that thirst for blood, that itching to destroy, which, instead of interest and appreciation, seems to fill the breasts of the great majority of people—men, and women, too, those tender exterminators—as soon as they see bird or beast in any numbers. It is so, at least, in the country. How well I know the spirit! How well I know (and hate) the kind of person in which it most resides. They would be killing, these people—so they talk of ‘pests,’ and ‘keeping down.’”

Ever since I came to live in the west of England, I have watched the starlings as opportunity presented, and I believe, of all birds, they are the greatest benefactors to the farmer, and to agriculture generally. Spread over the face of the entire country, they, all day long, search the fields for grubs, yet because, at night, they roost together in an inconsiderable space, they “infest” and are to be got rid of. As to the smallness of the space required, and the wide area of country from which the birds who sleep in it are drawn, I may refer to a letter which appeared, some time ago, in the Standard,20 in which the opinions of Mr. Mellersh, author of “The Birds of Gloucestershire,” are referred to. That starlings eat a certain amount of orchard fruit is true—that is a more showy performance than the constant, quiet devouring of grubs and larvÆ. Such as it is, I have watched it carefully, and know how small is the amount taken, compared with the size of the orchards and the abundance of the fruit. Starlings begin to congregate some time before they fly to their roosting-place. They then crowd into trees—often high elm-trees, but often, too, into those of orchards. The non-investigating person takes it for granted that they are there, all for plunder, and that all are eating—but this is a wrong idea. The greater number—full of another kind of excitement—touch nothing, and dead barkless trees may be seen as crowded as those which are loaded with fruit. Some fruit, as I say, they do destroy, and this, in actual quantity, may amount to a good deal. But let anybody see the orchards in the west of England—where starlings are most abundant—during the gathering-time, and he may judge as to the proportion of harm that the birds do. It is, in fact, infinitesimal, not worth the thinking of, a negligeable quantity. Yet in the same year that mountains of fruit are thrown away, or left ungathered, when it may rot rather than that the poor—or indeed anybody—should buy it cheap, you will hear men talk of the starlings.

Why, then, do the starlings “infest”? Why should they be persecuted? Because they sleep together, in the space of, perhaps, a quarter of an acre here and there—one sole dormitory in a large tract of country? Is that their crime? For myself I see not where the harm of this can lie, but supposing that a thimbleful does lie somewhere, that a pheasant or two—for whose accommodation the country groans—is displaced, is not the pleasure of having the birds, and their grub-collecting all day long, sufficient to outweigh it? Is there nothing to love and admire in these handsome, lively, friendly, vivacious birds? They do much good, little harm, and none of that little to song-birds. Indeed they are song-birds too, or very nearly. How pleasant are their cheery, sing-talking voices! How greatly would we miss them—the better part of us, I mean—were they once gone! Harm to the song-birds! Why, when do these grand assemblages take place? Not till the spring is over, and our migratory warblers gone or thinking of going. They are autumn and winter sights. Are our thrushes and blackbirds alarmed, then?—or bold robin? Perish the calumny! “Infest!” No, it is not the starlings—loved of all save clods—who infest the country. It is rather, our country gentlemen. “Song-birds!” No, they have nothing to do with it. “Will you ha’ the truth on’t?” To see life, and to wish to take it, is one and the same thing with the many, so that the greater the numbers, the greater seems the need to destroy.

Peewits and Nest