Shakespeare’s “guest of summer, the temple-haunting martlet,” makes “his pendent bed and procreant cradle,” year after year, on the flint walls of my house in Icklingham, thus offering me every facility for a full observation of its domestic habits. For long I have been intending to make these a study, but the very proximity which seemed to be such an advantage, has proved a hindrance; for it is one thing to steal silently into a lonely plantation, or lie, at full length, on the wild waste of the warrens, and another to sit in a chair, in one’s own garden, or look out of a window in one’s own house. So, though the martins were always most interesting, I never could keep long near them; yet some very inadequate notings, forming a scrappy and widely-sundered journal, I have made, and will here give in their entirety, since they concern a bird so loved.
“May 25, 1900.—This morning I watched a pair of martlets building their nest against the wall of my house.
“5.55.—Both birds fly to the nest, and one, that is much the handsomer and more purple of the two, makes several pecks at the other, in a manner half playful, half authoritative. I take this one to be the male, and the other, who is greyer, the female. She, in return for her husband’s friendly pecking, cossets him, a little, with her beak, nibbling his head. Neither of the two are working at the nest. The throat of the male seems very much swelled, yet he deposits nothing, and, in a little while, flies off, leaving the female, who, however, soon follows him. The male, as I believe him to be, now comes and goes, several times. Each time, he just touches the edge of the nest with his bill, flying off almost immediately afterwards, nor can I discover that he adds to the mud of it, on any one occasion.
“6.10.—Now, however, he has put—is still putting—a little piece there. Bending down over the nest’s edge, which he just touches with his bill, he communicates a little quivering motion to his head, during which, as it would seem, something is pushed out of the beak. I cannot make out the process, but now that he is gone, I see a little wet-looking area, which may be either fresh mud that has just been brought, or a moistened bit of the old. I think, however, it is the first. Now, again, he comes as before, flies off and returns, and thus continues, never bringing anything in the bill that I can see, but, each time, giving himself a little press down in the nest, and, simultaneously, stretching his neck outwards, and a little up, so that the rounded, swollen-looking throat just touches its edge. After doing this twice or thrice, he makes a dip down, out of the nest, and flies off. I can never make out that he either brings or deposits anything. The other bird comes, also, two or three times, to the nest, but neither does she seem to do anything, except sit in it and just touch its edge with her bill. One bird, coming whilst the other is thus sitting in the little mud cradle, hangs, fluttering, outside it, for awhile, with a little chirrupy screaming, and then darts off. There must have been, by now, a dozen visits, yet the birds, apparently, bring nothing, and do little, or nothing, each time. Another visit of this sort, the bird just touching the rim with its swollen throat—not the beak—and then dropping off—a light little Ariel. And now another: and, this time, the partner bird hovers, chirruping, in front of the nest, as the first one lies in it—but nothing is brought, and nothing done that I can see. It now seems plain that, for some time during the nest-building—or what one would think was the nest-building—the birds visit the nest, either by turns, or together, yet do nothing, or next to nothing, to it. Two more of these make-believes, but now, at last, mud is plainly deposited by the visiting bird; but I cannot quite make out if it is carried in the bill, or disgorged out of the throat.
“6.50.—Both birds to the nest. One has a piece of mud in the bill, which it keeps working about. Yet it is half in the throat, too, it would seem, and often as though on the point of being swallowed. At last, however, it is dropped on the rim—that part of it so often touched. Then the bird begins to feel and touch this mud, and I see a gleam of something white between the mandibles, which, I think, is the tongue feeling, perhaps shaping, it. The other bird now flies off, and I see this one, quite plainly, pick up a pellet of mud and swallow it. This, with the swollen and globular-looking throat, which I have kept remarking, seems to make it likely that the mud used in building is swallowed and disgorged. Another visit, now, but I cannot quite make things out. I see a bit of mud held in the beak, and after, if not before, this, the bird has made actions as though trying to bring up something out of its throat. However, I cannot sit longer against the wall of my own house.
“26th.—At 6 A.M. one of the martlets comes to the nest, and, as he settles down upon it, he utters notes that are like a little song, and very pretty to hear. Lying, thus, in the nest, he just touches the edge of it with the beak, but, though the throat looks quite globular, no mud, that I can see, is deposited. He shifts, then, so as to lie the opposite way, and, soon after, flies off, making his pretty little parachute drop from the brink, as usual. Soon he returns—for I watch him circling—and stays a very short time, during which no mud is deposited. The nest, too, I notice, seems to have advanced very little since I left it yesterday, though this was no later than 7 A.M. Another musical meeting, now, and the arriving bird, finding the musician on the nest, clings against it, and there is a sort of twittering, loving expostulation, before she leaves him in possession. This second bird is not nearly so handsome, the back not purple like that of the other, and the white throat is stained and dirty-looking. It is this one that swallowed the mud yesterday, and, I think, does the greater part of the work—the hen, I feel pretty sure. During another visit, the bird applies its bill, very delicately, to the mud-work of the nest—always its edge or parapet—and there is that quick, vibratory motion of the whole head, which I have before mentioned. It appears to me that, during this, mud must be deposited, but in such a thin, small stream, that I can see nothing of it. Sparrows—out on them!—have taken possession of the first-built of my martins’ nests, and the dispossessed birds—if they are, indeed, the same ones—have commenced another, close beside it. But I must go.”
Gilbert White, in his classic, alludes to the slow rate at which house-martins build, and also gives a reason for it. He says: “About half an inch seems to be a sufficient layer for a day.” To me it seems that, at some stage of the construction, they must build even slower than this, and the curious thing is, that, at the proper building-time, and when, to casual observation, the birds seem actively building, they come and come and come again, and yet do nothing, each time. Well, “tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis,” but it is pleasant to think that all this was going on in White’s days, on the walls of his house, no doubt, as of mine now. When everything else has been swept away, yet in nature we still have some link with past times. These martins, the rooks, a robin, any of the familiar homy birds, can be fitted into any home, with any person about it. Yet that is not much—or rather it is too difficult. Let any one try, and see how far he gets with it.
“May 17, 1901.—These birds may have intercommunal marriages—or something a little outrÉ. There are the nests of two, under the eaves of one wall of my house, and their owners go, constantly, from one of them to another, entering both. When I say ‘constantly,’ I mean that I have seen it several times. There was always another bird in the nest from which the one flew, and sometimes, if not always, in the one to which he went. Thus there are three birds to the two nests, for I cannot make out a fourth. Also there is entire amicableness, for the same bird, when it enters each nest, in turn, is received with a glad twitter by the one inside. What, then, is the meaning of this? Are two hens mated with one male bird, and has each made a nest, at which he has helped, in turn? Or is there a second male, not yet flown in, but who will resent the intrusion of the other, when he does? Nous verrons. It is one of these two nests that is in process of being taken possession of by the sparrows; for the deed is not done all at once—‘nemo repente fuit turpissimus.’ A martin is in this one, now, when the hen sparrow flies up, and, as she clings to the entrance, out he flies. She fastens upon him, and keeps her hold, for some time, in the air. The martin, as far as I can see, makes no attempt to retaliate, but only flies and struggles to be loose. When he is, his powers of flight soon carry him out of the sparrow’s danger, though the latter, at first, attempts a pursuit, which, however, she soon gives up.
“18th.—At 6.30 A.M. there is a pair of martins in each of the nests, and the sparrows do not seem to have prevailed. These two pairs of birds, then, must, I suppose, have entered one another’s nests, and they appear to be on the friendliest terms, a friendly twitter from the one nest being, often, answered by a friendly twitter from the other. At least it sounds friendly, and there have been these double entries. During the time that the sparrow was besieging the martin’s nest, she had all the appearance of real proprietorship. A true grievance, a just indignation, was in her every look and motion. She felt so, no doubt, and therein lies the irony of it. Nature is full of irony.
“22nd.—One or other of the two martins has, more than once, entered the nest usurped by the sparrows, so that I begin to doubt if the latter have really succeeded. As against this, however, I see both the sparrows, on the roof near, and the cock bird has twigs and grass in his bill. Yet, as long as I see them, they do not come to the nest. Nevertheless, another nest is now being begun, about a foot from the one they have invaded, and the birds building this, must, I feel sure, be the owners of the latter.
“23rd.—At 7 this morning the building of the new nest is going rapidly forward, but the hen sparrow, with a sinister look, sits near, in the gutter running round the roof. She has a little grass in her bill, and with this, after a while, she flies to the abandoned nest. She clings outside it, for a little, then, all at once, instead of entering, attacks the two martins building their new one, flying at each, in turn, and pecking them venomously. The martins do not resist, and soon take to flight, but once again the sparrow attacks them, with the grass still in her bill, before entering the old nest with it, as finally she does. Undeterred by these two attacks, the martins continue to ply backwards and forwards, ever building their nest. The hen sparrow soon flies out of her ill-gotten one, and away, and, shortly afterwards, the cock comes and sits on the piping, with a small tuft of moss and grass in his bill. For a most inordinate time he sits there, with these materials, and then, time and time again, he flies into a neighbouring tree, and returns with them, going off, still holding them, at last, without once having been to the nest. Meanwhile the hen has returned with a much more considerable supply, which she takes into the nest, at once. Afterwards she comes with more, but again her anger is aroused by the sight of the two poor martins, always building, and she flies at them, laden as she is, just as before. They take flight, as usual, but soon return, and continue industriously to build. Both are now doing so in the prettiest manner, lying side by side, but turned in opposite directions, so that each works at a different part of the nest. Then one of them flies eight times (if not more) to the nest, and away again, with a large piece of black mud protruding, all the while, from his bill, which is forced considerably open by it. He seems, each time, unable to bring it out, but, on the ninth return, succeeds in doing so—if, indeed, this is the explanation. When he flies in, this last time, it does not look such a bulk in the mouth as before. It may be—and this, perhaps, is more probable—that it had not before been sufficiently worked up with the salivary secretions, and that the bird was doing this, all the time, though making its little visits as a matter of custom. During the earlier ones he had the nest to himself, but, on the last, his partner was there, and he almost pushed her out of it, with a little haste-pleading twittering, seeming to say, ‘Mine is the greater need.’ Both the sparrows have been, several times, in and out of the old nest, during this, and sometimes sitting in it together. The hen is building in good, workmanlike fashion, whereas the cock contributes but little. The mud which these martins used to build with, was brought, by them, from a little puddle in the village street, till this became dry, after which I did not see where they went. I have seen quite a number of them, including some swallows, collecting it at a pond in a village near here. A very pretty sight it was, to see them all so busy, and doing something dirty so cleanly—for, after all, swallowing mud is dirty if looked at in a commonplace kind of way, though not at all so, really, if we consider the end to which it is done.
“30th.—Two more martlets are beginning a nest just above my bedroom window, and on the very mud-stains of their last one. Others seem choosing a site, for two pairs of them hang upon certain spots, twittering together, in a most talking manner, flying away, then, and returning to talk again, as if they were—not house-, but foundation-hunting. I notice that these birds, when they fly from the proposed or contemplated site, will often, after making a circle round, wheel in to the nest nearest to it, and, poised in the air, beneath the portal, take, as it were, a little friendly peep in. Yet it is not all friendly, for I have just seen a bird struggling for entrance, and expelled by the proprietor of the nest—by the one proprietor, I think, but both were at home, and my impression is that if only one had been, the visitor might have been well received, as, indeed, I have seen and recorded. Now, too, I have seen a fight in the air between two martins, À propos of an intended entrance on the part of one of them. House-martins, therefore, fight amongst themselves—as do sand-martins, very violently—and this makes their apparent total inability to defend themselves against the attacks of sparrows, the more remarkable. No doubt the sparrow is a stronger bird, but the martins, with their superior powers of flight, might annoy it incessantly when in the vicinity of the nest, to the extent, perhaps, of driving it away. That they should all combine for this purpose is, perhaps, too much to expect, but when one sparrow, only, attacks a pair of them, one might think that both would retaliate. As we have seen, however, a pair of martins, when attacked in this way upon three occasions quite failed to do so. Probably the period of fighting and striving has long ago been passed through, and the sparrow, having come the victor out of it, is now recognised as an inevitability. It is better for any pair of house-martins—and consequently for the race—to give up and build another nest, than to waste their time in efforts which, even if at last successful, would make them the parents of fewer offspring.
“June 1st.—The nest above my window has been built at a great rate, and is now almost finished. Compare this with the very slow building of some martins last year, and with Gilbert White’s general statement. There is no finality in natural history, and any one observation may be contradicted by any other. This nest, the day before yesterday, was only just beginning, and now it is almost finished. A layer of half an inch a day, therefore, is quite inadequate to the result, and so the supposed reason for the slow rate of advance, when the nest is built slowly, falls to the ground.27 Late in the year, the nests do, sometimes, drop—by which I have made acquaintance with the grown young, and the curious parasitic fly upon them—but this, I think, belongs to the chapter of accidents, and is not to be avoided by any art or foresight of the bird. Other nests have now been begun, and these, like all the rest, as far as I can be sure of it, are on the exact sites of so many old ones. What interests me, however, is that, on two of these sites, nests, for some reason, were not built last year, though they were the year before. Possibly they were begun there last year, but destroyed without my knowledge (women and gardeners would do away with birds, between them), in which case no further attempt was made to build there. But this I do not think was the case. The birds, therefore—supposing them to be the same ones—missed a year, and then built in the same place as two years ago. There were only the stains of the old structures left, but these were covered by the fresh mud, as a head is by a skull-cap. These martins, therefore, assuming them to have been the same, must either not have built, last year, or, having had to build somewhere else, they must yet have remembered their old place of the year before, and come back to it.
“5th.—This evening I watched my martins from the landing window, at only a few yards’ distance. Two had made nests on a wall that stood, at an angle, just outside, and in either one or both of these nests, one of the two birds was usually sitting. Thus, either two or three more, as the case might be, were wanted to make up the two pairs that owned the two nests. But instead of two or three, often six or eight, at a time, would be fluttering under the nests, and a still greater number circled round about, from which these came, at intervals, to flutter there. That every one of these birds was interested, in some way and to some degree, in the two nests, was quite obvious. They seemed, often, on the point of clinging to one, with a view to entering it, and to be stopped, only, by the bird inside giving, each time, a funny little bubbling twitter, which seemed, by its effect, to mean, ‘No, not you; you’re not the right one.’ But whenever a bird did enter one of the nests, he flew straight at it, and was in, in a moment, being received—if the other one was at home—with a shriller and louder note, something like a scream. The harsher sound meant welcome, and the softer one, unwillingness.
“That there is some interest taken by the martins of a neighbourhood—or, at least, of any little colony—in the nests built by their fellows, seems clear, and I have recorded, both the friendly entries of one bird into two nests, each of which was occupied by another, and the struggles of two, to enter one, where, also, the partner bird, either of one or the other, was sitting. All these facts together seem best explained by supposing that the female house-martin is something of a light-o’-love, and that when she builds her nest, more than one male holds himself entitled to claim both it and her, as his own. If, for some reasons, we feel unable to adopt this view, we may fall back upon that of a social or communistic feeling, as yet imperfectly developed, and wavering, sometimes, between friendliness and hostility. Be it as it may, the facts which I have noted appear to me to be of interest. In regard to the last-mentioned one—the interest, namely, manifested by several birds, in nests not their own—White of Selborne says: ‘The young of this species do not quit their abodes all together; but the more forward birds get abroad some days before the rest. These, approaching the eaves of buildings, and playing about before them, make people think that several old ones attend one nest.’ How does this apply here? ‘Nohow,’ I reply (with Tweedledee), for no young birds could possibly have left the nests, at this date (June 5). I doubt, indeed, whether any eggs had been hatched. White, living in a southern county, says elsewhere (Letter LV.): ‘About the middle of May, if the weather be fine, the martin begins to think in earnest of providing a mansion for its family.’ This is my experience too, and in East Anglia, at any rate, where May is generally like a bad March, and often colder, I am sure he never thinks about it sooner. Neither in Dorsetshire, too, when I was last there, did any martins begin building, in a village where they build all down the street, before about the middle of May, as White says, and when I inquired for them, a week or ten days sooner, the cottage people, who must know their habits in this respect, told me it was too early for them yet. Elsewhere, ’tis true, we read that the martin ‘sets about building very soon after its return, which may be about the middle of April,’ though I never remember them here before May. This is not my experience, nor was it White’s, who says—and, I believe, with great correctness—‘For some time after they appear, the hirundines in general pay no attention to the business of nidification, but play and sport about, either to recruit from the fatigue of their journey, or,’ &c. &c. (Letter LV.) (the rest of the sentence is historically interesting). However, let some young martins, in some places, be as precocious as they like, this I know, that none were abroad in Icklingham, in the year 1901, upon the 5th of June. The several birds, therefore, that attended one nest in the way I have described, were old, and not young, birds, and I connect their conduct with those other cases I have mentioned, which point towards a socialistic tendency in this species.
“24th.—Watching from the landing window, this morning, I saw a house-martin attacked by another one, whilst entering its nest with some feathers. I called to our Hannah to bring my son’s fishing-rod, and never took my eyes off the nest, whilst she was coming with it. Meanwhile, one martin had come out, and, on my touching the nest with the rod, a second did, also. One of a pair, therefore, had, by making its nest, excited the anger of a third bird, and this I have seen more than once. Is the angry bird, in such cases, a mere stranger, or is it a rival, in some way? If the last—and the other seems unlikely—does one hen consort with two or more cocks, or vice versÂ? I have noticed, however, with more than one kind of bird, that the hens seem jealous of each other collecting materials for the nest.28
“August 3rd.—It is customary for two of the young martins to sit with their heads looking out at the door of the nest—very pretty they look—and ever and anon one of the parent birds will fly in to them, as she circles round, and hanging there, just for a moment, there is a little twittering chorus—mostly I think from the chicks—and off she flies again. It is difficult to be quite sure whether, in these short flying visits, the chicks are really fed. Sometimes they are so short that this seems hardly possible. At others something does seem to pass, and the mouth of one of the chicks may be seen opened, just after the parent flies off. Yet it hardly seems like serious feeding. But at this very moment a bird has, thus, flown in to the young, and one of them, I am sure, was, this time, fed. This has happened again—and yet again—but now, this last time, the parent bird has entered the nest. The time before, whilst the one parent was hanging there, and, I think, giving the chick something, the other flew in to the wall, and clung there, about six inches off, seeming to watch the scene with pleased attention. Yet, though food does, as I now feel sure, sometimes pass in these visits, at others, as it seems to me, only remarks do. At this stage of the argument, one of the young birds projects its tail through the entrance-hole, and voids its excrement. Under this nest and another one, about two feet from it, there is a heap of excrement on the slanting roof of the greenhouse below; an interesting thing to see, and cleanly if rightly considered, yet unsightly I must confess—that part of it, alone, exists for the feminine eye. Out comes another tail, now, and the heap is increased. In this pretty way the nest is kept pure and wholesome.
“Now I have had a fine view of the feeding, having moved into a better position. The parent bird clung to the nest, and one of the chicks, thrusting out its head from the aperture, opened its mouth, so that it looked like a little round funnel. Into this the parent bird thrust not only her bill, but the upper part of her head as well, and the chick’s mouth closing upon it, there instantly began, on the part of both, those motions which accompany the process of regurgitation, as it may be witnessed with pigeons, and as I have witnessed it with nightjars. These becoming more and more violent, the parent bird was, at last, drawn by the chick, who kept pulling back upon her, into the nest—that, at least, was the appearance presented. For some moments only the posterior part of the dam’s body could be seen projecting through the aperture, and this continued to work violently, in the manner indicated. Then she disappeared altogether. A few minutes afterwards, another and much more lengthy visit is paid, by one of the old birds, to the nest, but, this time, though a young one looks out with open mouth, no feeding takes place.
“I have now to record that a bird about to enter the next nest to this, from which another, whose snowy throat proclaims it to be full-grown, has just looked out, is attacked, as it clings to the mud, and driven off, by a third bird. In the course of some few minutes this occurs twice again, the attack, each time, being very fierce, and the struggle more prolonged. And now, but shortly afterwards, the same two birds (as I make no doubt) fly, together, on to the nest, and both enter it, shouldering and pushing one another. They are in it some time, during which I can make nothing out clearly. Then one emerges, and I can see that the other has hold of him with the beak, detaining him slightly, as he flies away. This other, in a moment, flies out too, and then the head of a third—the one, no doubt, that has been in the nest, all the time—appears at the entrance, as before. Now this nest, though so late in the season, has the appearance of being a new one. It even seems not yet entirely finished, though nearly so. Perhaps it has been repaired, but, in any case, there are no young birds in it, nor do I think the old ones are sitting again, yet—for probably there have been earlier broods. If we assume this, and that two out of the three birds are the mated pair, then we must suppose either that, all the while, a rival male has continued to fight for the possession of the nest and the female, or that two females lay claim to the nest, and have, perhaps, helped to build it. If this latter be the case, we may, perhaps, see in it an extension of that spirit of jealousy or rivalry which I have often observed in female birds, whilst collecting materials for their respective nests. Is it possible that such feelings may have led to that habit which the females of some birds have (or are supposed to have) of laying their eggs in one common nest? But I do not suppose so. In this case, as before, it appears that one of the rival birds—male or female—is preferred by the bird in the nest, for this one, now, as the prevailing party flies in and clings on the parapet, breaks into a perfect jubilee of twitterings, and fuller, croodling notes, that may almost be called song—very pretty indeed, and extremely pleasing to hear. Evidently either two males have fought for access to a female—or two females to a male—in a nest which one, or both, or all three have helped to make; but the difficulty in distinguishing the sexes prevents one from saying which of these two it is. Meanwhile the parent bird has, for long, clung to the other nest, without feeding the young.
“5th.—A young martlet has just been fed, leaning its head far out of the nest. The process was quick, this time. Still, it must, I think, have been a regurgitatory one. Two chicks, looking out from their nest, have been, for some time, uttering a little piping twitter. Suddenly, with a few louder, more excited tweets, they stretch out both their heads, and their two widely-opened mouths look like little perfectly round craters, as the dam flies up and pops her head—as it were—as far as it will go, right into one of them. Almost instantly she is away again. Still, from what I have seen before, and from never catching anything projecting from the parent’s beak, I think the food must have been brought up from the crop, or at least from somewhere inside—for I am not writing as a physiologist. The first case which I have recorded should, I think, be conclusive, and it was very carefully observed. There have just been two visits in such quick succession that I think it must have been the two parents. No doubt they both feed the young, but it is not so easy to actually see that they do. One of them flies in again, now, plunging its bill instantly right into the centre of the open mouth of the chick. Withdrawing it, almost at once, nothing is seen in the chick’s mouth, though it is evident it has swallowed something. In another visit, a few minutes afterwards, the finger-in-a-finger-stall appearance of the parent’s and chick’s bills, and the motions of the latter, as though sucking in something, are much more apparent.
“Whether the dam always, or only sometimes, disgorges food that it has swallowed, or partially swallowed, or, at least, that it has brought inside the mouth, I cannot be sure; but I believe that the insects on which the young are fed, are never just carried in the beak, in the way that a thrush, robin, wagtail, &c., brings worms or flies to its young. When one thinks of the bird’s building habits and its swollen throat, bulged out with mud—as I think it must be—one may surmise that it finds it equally natural to hold a mash of insects in this way. I believe that all the swallow tribe, as well as nightjars, engulf their food in the way that a whale does infusoria, instead of seizing it, first, with the bill—at least that this is their more habitual practice. Thus, I was watching some swallows, once, flying close over the ground, when a large white butterfly (the common cabbage one, I think) suddenly disappeared, entombed, as it were, in one of them. Now, had a sparrow seized the butterfly the effect would have been quite different, and so would the process have been. It would have seized it, in fact, but the swallow must have opened its gape, and, in spite of the size of the butterfly, it went down so quickly that, to the eye, it looked as if it had been at once enclosed. Possibly, on account of its size, it was, perforce, held just for a moment, till another gulp helped it down. But the process, as I say, was very different to the more usual one, and I doubt if an ordinary passerine bird could have swallowed a butterfly on the wing, at all. It is rare, I think, for anything so large as this to be hawked at by swallows or martins. Small insects are their habitual food, and of these the air is often full. That numbers should be swallowed down which are too small to hold in the bill, seems almost a necessity, and that the house-martin, in particular, does this, and brings them up again for the young, in the form of a mash or pulp, I think likely from what I have seen, and, also, from the bird’s habit of swallowing and disgorging mud. That they, also, sometimes bring in insects in the bill may very well be the case, but I have not yet seen them do so, and, especially, I have missed that little collected bundle which, from analogy, I should have expected to see. The most interesting point, to me, however, about the domestic life of these birds, is their social and sexual relations, which I think are deserving of a more serious investigation than is contained in the scanty record which I here offer.”
Another entry, which I cannot now find, referred to the sudden late appearance of several sand-martins, who ought—had they read their authorities—to have known better. I cannot help thinking that Gilbert White has been treated very unfairly about that theory of his. If certain of the swallow tribe are sometimes seen, on sunny days, in winter, then that is an interesting circumstance, and one which has to be accounted for. White, in drawing attention to it, has done his duty as a field naturalist, and the explanation which he has offered is one which seems to meet the facts of the case. If a swallow is here at Christmas, it cannot be in Africa, and as it cannot feed here, and is not, as a rule, seen about, it becomes highly probable that it is hibernating. It is not the rule for swallows to do this—nor do I understand White to say that it is—but it is the exception, here, that should interest us, especially at this time of day, when we know that what is the exception, now, may become the rule later on. The whole interest, therefore, lies in the question whether swifts, swallows, martins, &c., ever do stay with us during the winter, instead of migrating, and, in regard to this, White offers some evidence. What he deserves except praise for so doing I cannot, for the life of me, see, but what he gets—from a good many quarters, at any rate—is a sort of dull, pompous, patronising taking to task—“Good boy, but mustn’t do that.”
Moorhen and Nest
