F.L.S. John Watson

Nature's barometers are the only ones of which most country-folk have any knowledge. These they may consult at all times, and they know them by heart. Almost all field-workers are "weather wise," and their conversation on this head has no town conventionalism about it. The farmer has been so beaten about by wind and weather that he himself is scarcely sensible to changing atmospheric conditions; but that does not prevent his observing its influence on the things about him. Before rain his dogs grow sleepy and dull, the cat constantly licks herself; geese gaggle in the pond, fowls and pigeons go early to roost, and the farm horses grow restless. Abroad, the ants are all hurry and scurry, rushing hither and thither; spiders crowd on the wall; toads emerge from their holes; and the garden paths are everywhere covered with slugs and snails. When the chaffinch says "weet, weet," it is an infallible sign of rain. As the rain draws nearer peacocks cry and frogs croak clamorously from the ditches. These are signs which almost every one has heard who lives in the country; though one of the surest ways of predicting weather changes is by observing the habits of snails. Snails never drink, but imbibe moisture during rain and exude it afterwards. They are seldom seen abroad except before rain, when they commence climbing trees and getting upon leaves. The tree snail is so sensitive to weather that it will commence to climb two days before the rain comes. If the downpour is to be prolonged, the snail seeks the under part of a leaf; but if a short or light rain is coming on, it stays on the outside. There is another species which is yellow before and bluish after it. Others indicate change by dents and protuberances resembling tubercles. These begin to show themselves ten days before rain, and when it comes the pores of the tubercles open and draw in the moisture. In others again deep indentations, beginning at the head between the horns and ending with the jointure of the tail, appear a few days before a storm.

One of the simplest of nature's barometers is a spider's web. When there is a prospect of wind or rain, the spider shortens the filaments by which its web is sustained and leaves it in this state as long as the weather is variable. If it elongates its threads, it is a sign of fine calm weather, the duration of which may be judged by the length to which the threads are let out. If the spider remains inactive, it is a sign of rain; if it keeps at work during rain, the downpour will not last long, and will be followed by fine weather. Observation has taught that the spider makes changes in its web every twenty-four hours, and that if such changes are made in the evening, just before sunset, the night will be clear and beautiful.

Sleeping is characteristic of certain plants; and though it was at one time thought that this might have reference to the habits of insects, it is now believed to be more dependent on the weather. The tiny scarlet pimpernel, the "old man's weather-glass," opens at seven and closes soon after two. The daisy unfolds its flower at sunrise and sleeps at sunset. Dandelions close up at about five o'clock; at which time the white water-lily has been asleep an hour and the mouse-ear chickweed two hours. The yellow goat's-beard opens at four and closes just before twelve, and has for its English name "John-go-to-bed-at-noon." Local circumstance influences the flowers in their opening and closing, though they are pretty constant from day to day. Many flowers close their petals during rain—probably to prevent the honey and pollen from being rendered useless or washed away.

Birds are admirable weather prophets, and from their number and obtrusiveness have furnished many examples. In his "Paradise of Birds," Mr. Courthope makes one of them say—

"Besides, it is true

To our wisdom is due

The knowledge of Sciences all;

And chiefly those rare

Metaphysics of air

Men 'Meteorology' call.

And men, in their words,

Acknowledge the Birds'

Erudition in weather and star;

For they say 'Twill be dry,

The swallow is high,'

Or 'Rain, for the chough is afar.'"

Mr. Ruskin says that he was not aware of this last weather-sign; nor, he supposes, was the Duke of Hamilton's keeper, who shot the last pair of choughs on Arran in 1863. He trusts that the climate has wept for them, and is certain that the Coniston clouds grow heavier in these his last years. All the birds of the swallow kind fly high at the advent of or during fine weather, and low before a storm. These facts are accounted for by another. When the weather is calm the ephemerÆ upon which swallows feed fly high in air, but just over the earth or water if it be rough. The cry of the chaffinch has already been mentioned; in Scotland the children say, "Weet-weet [the cry], Dreep-dreep" [the consequence].

In Hampshire swans are believed to be hatched in thunderstorms; and it is said that those on the Thames have an instinctive prescience of floods. Before heavy rains they raise their nests. This is characteristic of many birds, which add piles of material to their nests to prevent swamping. When rooks fly high, and seem to imitate birds of prey by soaring, swooping, and falling, it is an almost certain sign of coming storms. Staying in the vicinity of the rookery, returning at mid-day, or coming to roost in groups, are also said to be omens to the like effect. Various proverbs would seem to indicate that the cry of the owl, heard in bad weather, foretells a change. The constant iteration of the green woodpecker's cry before a storm has given it the name of rain-bird, rain-pie, and rain-fowl. Storm-cock is a provincial name shared by this bird and the missel-thrush, the latter often singing through gales of wind and rain. Storm-bird is also applied to the fieldfare. The abhorrence in which the mariners hold the swallow-like storm-petrel is well known; its appearance is believed to denote wild weather. This little bird is the Mother Carey's chicken of sailors, and is also called storm-finch and water-witch. Herons, says an old author, flying up and down in the evening, as if doubtful where to rest, "presage some evill approaching weather"—a legend as old as Virgil, though probably devoid of foundation. Concerning gulls in general, children who live by the sea say "Seagull, seagull, sit on the sand; It's never good weather while you're on the land;" and fisherfolk know that when the seamews fly out early and far to seaward fair weather may be expected. To Scotch shepherds the drumming of snipe indicates dry weather and frost at night; and Gilbert White remarks that woodcocks have been observed to be remarkably listless against snowy foul weather; while, according to another author, their early arrival and continuance "foretells a liberal harvest." In Wiltshire the coming of the dotterel betokens frost and snow, and there is a proverb that the booming of the bittern will be followed by rain or worse. In Morayshire, when the wild geese go out to sea they say the weather will be fine; but if towards the hill, stormy. The saw-like note of the great titmouse is said to foretell rain; that of the blue-tit, cold. In the south of France so much store is set by the wisdom of the magpie, that if it builds its nest on the summit of a tree the country-folk expect a season of calm; but if lower down, winds and tempests are sure to follow. When a jackdaw is seen to stand on one of the vanes of the cathedral tower at Wells, it is said that rain is sure to follow within twenty-four hours. Wells must be a wet place! In Germany, dwellers in the country lack faith in the skylark's song as announcing fine weather; but when the lark and the cuckoo sing together they know that summer has come. The robin, buzzard, lapwing, starling, and a number of other birds are said to foretell weather changes.

We have, however, noticed that in nearly all the species named the various cries and calls are closely connected with the bird's food supply.

II.
FERRETS AND FERRETING.

The ferret commonly used in this country is an animal of the weasel kind, belonging to a large genus and having its true home in the Tropics. Unlike its British congeners, it shows its southern nature in being unable to stand any great degree of cold, even an English winter being sufficient to kill it if not properly housed. This may also be seen in rather a remarkable manner, as probably no one ever saw a ferret enter a rabbit-hole without its peculiar "shiver." Like the cat, it has a decided objection to wetting its fur, and especially does it show this upon being transferred from a warm pocket or bag to the damp soil of a burrow. Zoologically the ferret is one of the most interesting animals of the group to which it belongs; and this from the fact that it is a true breeding albino, having the white fur and pink eyes peculiar to this variety. Under domestication it breeds more frequently and is more prolific than in its wild state. It is somewhat smaller than the polecat, but readily breeds with that animal, and produces young intermediate in character between the parent species. It is owing to this fact that we have now two well-defined varieties—one of a brown colour, and known as the polecat ferret, the other the more common white variety. The first is said to be the more hardy and vicious; and it is to secure these qualities that keepers on large warrens cross their ferrets with the wild polecat.

In this country ferrets are kept more for work than as pets, and are used for making rabbits bolt from their burrows. To do this scarcely any training is necessary, and three young ferrets which we used the other day worked as well as their more experienced parents. There are various reasons why white ferrets are to be preferred as opposed to the brown polecat variety. They are usually more docile and pleasant to handle. A brown ferret is apt to be nipped up by a sharp dog in mistake for a rat or rabbit, while a white one is always apparent, even when moving amongst the densest herbage. This specially applies to night time, and hence poachers invariably use white ferrets. Gamekeepers who know their business prefer ferrets taken from poachers to any other. The poacher carefully selects his ferrets, and from the nature of his trade he cannot afford to work bad ones. Some ferrets cause rabbits to bolt rapidly, while others are slow. Sometimes a ferret will drive a rabbit to the end of a blind burrow, and after killing it will not return until it has gorged itself with blood; and more trouble is added if the ferret curls itself up for an after-dinner sleep. Then of course it has either to be left or dug out; if the former, it is well to bar every exit and to return with a dead rabbit when hunger has succeeded the gorged sleep. Ferreting is mostly practised in winter; and it is to guard against such occasions as these that working ferrets are generally muzzled. A cruel practice used to obtain of stitching together the lips of ferrets to prevent their worrying rabbits and then "laying up." But the most humane method of muzzling is with soft string; a muzzle constructed of which may be quite effective and at the same time not uncomfortable to wear. Care must be taken not to hurt the ferret, as if the string annoys him he will do nothing but endeavour to get it off. Occasionally ferrets are worked with a line attached; but this is an objectionable practice. There may be a root or stick in which the line may get entangled, when there will be digging, and no end of trouble in getting it out.

From what has been already said, and from the uncertainty of ferreting, it will be understood why the poacher can only afford to use the best animals. Of the many modes of taking the "coney," ferreting is the most common. Of course this is the poacher's method; but it varies little from that of the gamekeeper or the legitimate "sportsman." When the rabbits can be induced to bolt freely very good sport can be had; but in this respect they are most capricious. They bolt best on a windy day and before noon; after that they are sluggish, and often refuse to come out at all. As the rabbit "darts across a narrow ride like a little brown shadow, quick must be the eye and ready the hand that can get the gun to the shoulder and discharge it in the brief second that elapses between the appearance of a tiny brown nose on one side the path and the vanishing of a little snow-white patch of down on the other." Those that have ferreted much have probably seen strange revelations while indulging in the sport. A mound or brae sometimes seems to explode with rabbits, so wildly do they fly before their enemy. We have seen twenty rabbits driven from one set of holes. When the ferrets are running the burrows, stoats and weasels are occasionally driven out; and among other creatures unearthed we remember a brown owl, a stock-dove, and a shell-duck, all of which were breeding in the mounds.

To many persons ferrets are objectionable pets; but if properly kept they are among the cleanest of animals. Playful as kittens, they are harmless if properly handled, and much fondling tends to tame them. Ferrets not only soon get used to handling, but like it. They ought always to be seized boldly and without hesitation, for if the hold has to be adjusted a bite may be the result. And a bite from a ferret, especially to a person in bad health, is sometimes a serious matter. If a ferret is inclined to be vicious attract its attention with a glove in front, bringing the other hand down with a rapid sweep, grasping it firmly by the neck and shoulders. Food has much to do with temper, and confined under favourable conditions ferrets will be cleanly and sweet as in their natural habitat. They require to lie dry and have a roomy abode. Pine shavings are better than straw to bed them, and pine sawdust ought to be sprinkled about. The resinous matter in these acts as an antiseptic, and as a deterrent to vermin. Closely-confined ferrets become weak and tender, and are susceptible to cold. Bread and milk ought to be the prevailing food, with a good meal of flesh weekly. These combined will keep them in good condition and perfect health. The common diseases to which ferrets are liable are owing to unsuitable food and damp or dirty housing.

III.
OUR HERONRY.

The herons have just returned to the heronry after an absence of many months. At the end of September the old and young birds flew off together, and dispersed themselves over the low-lying mosses which margin the estuary of the river. Here they stayed during the winter, feeding but little in the bay, but making long flights either to the quiet tarns among the hills or to the neighbouring trout streams. Like the poacher, the heron pursues its silent trade by night, and loves the moonlit ones best. Now that the birds are breeding, their habit and daily routine are ordered quite otherwise than during the winter months. This year they returned to nest during the last week of March, and immediately sought out the trees in the most elevated part of the wood. By the middle of April but few nests remained unfinished, while the majority contained eggs. The trees selected for the huge burdens of sticks are oak, ash, elm, and silver firs; and the nests themselves are flat platforms with just the slightest depression for the pale green eggs. Close by the home of the herons is a rookery; and although it has not always been so, the two species now dwell together in perfect amity. Nests of the herons and of their sable companions are not unfrequently found in the same tree. Any threatened invasion of the two colonies of brooding birds produces a very different result on their respective denizens. The rooks get off their nests and circle, crying and cawing, until the disturber has vanished; the herons fly silently and straight away. During a stormy spring like the present[6] many of the eggs are blown from the nest and destroyed—a fate which often befalls the young herons themselves in autumn. Now that the birds are breeding it is easy to see by the aid of a binocular that they sit upon their nests with their legs under them, and not (as was once supposed) either pushed through the sticks or thrust behind them. In its domestic relations the heron is both amicable and honest. If a nest is blown down the birds go to work in the precincts of the rookery, but never touch the rooks' sticks. The heron's nest is a rude, wide-spreading platform constructed of beech-twigs, and not lined with wool as generally stated, but with the fine shoots of the larch. The appearance is that of a ringdove's nest on a large scale, and so open in texture that the sitting bird or eggs may be seen through the foundation. The heron breeds both early and late, and has often three or four broods in a season. At this time they are rarely seen fishing in the bay, and seem to prefer round fish upon which to feed their young, probably on account of the narrowness of gape and swallow. To obtain the requisite food the herons move off at evening to the quiet tarns and streams which abound in trout and eels. As the young birds come to maturity they are driven from the nest, and in a few days a new clutch of eggs is laid. The incubation of these is performed by both parents, one sitting during the day the other at night. As soon as young herons are able to look about them they have a habit of standing erect in the nest, and, not being very stable, are not unfrequently blown to the ground. If no harm befalls them, they are here fed by the old birds, though they never attempt to regain their lofty nests. Everywhere beneath the heronry there is an ancient and fish-like smell; and this by the warm days of summer becomes almost unbearable.

When nesting operations are over, they leave their summer haunt among the tall trees and make down to the bay and low-lying marshes. At this season the birds are gregarious, and their daily movements afford material for pleasant study. If the fishing ground in the channel is fruitful, sport goes on harmoniously; but if otherwise, chase is given to the successful fishers by the lesser black-backed gulls; these birds invariably cause the herons to drop their game, catching it as it falls. See, on a calm sunny day in September, the Stacy-Marks-like group waiting patiently in the channel for the flow. Some are erect, with heads settled gracefully over their backs; others are exposing their breasts and outspread wings to the autumnal sun; while some few, like geese, may be seen settled on their legs with necks elegantly arched. It is not less interesting to watch an individual fisher than a group when the retiring tide has left the channel. It wades cautiously with lowered head and out-stretched neck, each step being taken by a foot being drawn out of the water and as quietly replaced in advance. By gentle movements the heron is often enabled to strike and secure a flook at once. If a fish is missed, a sharp look-out is kept for its line of escape, and then a stealthy step is made in that direction. Should the distance be beyond reach of the bird's vision, a few flaps of the wings are tried in the eagerness of the pursuit. Sometimes a heron may be observed, when wading, to stand still suddenly, when no doubt its pectinated toe prevents the escape of a flat-fish or other victim.[7] A characteristic of flight may also be mentioned. When a heron rises from the ground the legs hang down, but as soon as it has acquired a settled flight they are extended backwards. These and the retracted head and neck adjust the equipoise of the body. The slow languid flaps of the wings would seem to indicate the heron as a slow-flying bird; but this impression is quite erroneous. If timed by a watch, it will be found that no fewer than two hundred and fifty separate wing movements are made per minute, counting the upward and downward strokes. The literary legacy as to the heron's varying altitude of flight foreboding fair weather or foul would seem to have no foundation in fact; at least, years of observation have yielded no indication of this. The altitude of flight is regulated according to the distance of the bird's fishing ground. If the place is near, the flight is slow and sluggish at only a few yards above the surface; if lower down the bay the flight is higher; while if to a distant spot, more vigorous and rapid wing-movements indicate the intention.

When fishing in a trout stream the heron stands looking more like a lump of drift-stuff caught in the bushes than an animate object. Gaunt, consumptive, and sentinel-like, the bird watches with breast depressed and poised upon one leg. Woe to the tiny trout or samlet that comes within reach of its formidable pike, for it is at once impaled and gulped down. This impalement is given with great force, and a wounded heron has been known to drive its bill right through a stout stick. Nothing from fry to mature fish comes amiss to the heron, and the young consume great quantities. Sometimes they gaff an individual which is difficult to dispose of. It is related that a heron was seen one evening going off to a piece of water to feed; the spot was visited next morning, when it was discovered that the bird had struck its beak through the head of an eel, and the eel thus held had coiled itself so tightly round the neck of the heron as to stop the bird's respiration, and both were found dead. An authoritative statement has been made to the effect that the heron's services in destroying pike, coarse fish, rats, and water-beetles may be set off against its depredations in trout streams; but from this we must dissent.

IV.
PLOVERS AND PLOVERS' EGGS.

In April and May thousands of plovers' eggs are annually sent to the London markets from all parts of the country. The gourmets' appreciation of this delicacy causes an ever-increasing demand, which, however rapid its growth, will always be met. For the green plover is one of the commonest of British birds, and is greatly on the increase. It flocks during the winter, and according to the severity or openness of the weather indulges in short local migrations from the plashy meadows and uplands to the sea-coast. Upon the approach of spring the flocks break up and resort to their breeding-grounds. These are usually at some elevation, and in the north the bird builds at an altitude of one thousand five hundred feet. Probably one of the reasons of the plover's great abundance is the readiness with which it adapts itself to local circumstance, and the clever manner in which it conforms to the environment in which it finds itself. For although a great many birds may be found breeding at a considerable elevation, numbers nest in the sea marshes, among the plough and upland fields, and along the marram-covered flats.

The lapwing is an early breeder, and eggs may often be found by the middle of March. It is these first captures which fetch such fancy prices in the market, and as much as fifteen shillings has been paid for a single egg. So anxious are the poulterers to obtain these, that one of them recently informed Mr. Howard Saunders that if he were assured of having the first ten eggs, he would not hesitate at giving five pounds for them. Of course, as the season advances the price rapidly decreases, and the normal price per dozen when the supply becomes general is about five shillings. As an instance of the difficulty which an untrained eye has in detecting the eggs of the green plover when in the nest, it may be mentioned that a person unaccustomed to birds'-nesting was sent up a furrow in which were six nests, each containing eggs, and these were to be collected. By the time that the end of the furrow was reached the collector had put his foot into one nest and had failed to find the other five. This is not always the case, however, and persons who study the habits of the plover experience but little difficulty in finding the nests. In fact, shepherds and others often walk straight up to them. They watch the movements of the parent bird, and know from the conformation of the ground to a yard where the nest will be. When you come upon a breeding haunt of green plovers, it will be noticed that many of the birds fly straight and silently away. When this is so it will be certain that the bird is the female and that it is sitting upon eggs. The bird does not rise immediately from the nest, but runs for a distance of some yards before it takes wing. If it allows a near approach, and rises low, the probability is that incubation is far advanced, and the eggs, of course, will not be worth taking. There are two ways, however, of determining this. Three or four eggs are the usual complement, and if there be fewer than three, or they are not warm to the hand, the bird has not begun to sit. Partly incubated eggs when placed in water float with their large end uppermost; if fresh they sink on their sides. The conduct of the male is very different from that of his mate. If a person approach the nest, he flies crying and calling overhead, and tries to lure the intruder from the vicinity. His peculiarly rounded wings beat the air, causing a loud humming sound which in France has given to the lapwing its name of vanneau, a fan. One characteristic of birds of the plover kind is that they lay from three to four eggs; and this holds good with the lapwing. These are so well known as not to need description; but there is one peculiarity which may be remarked. The eggs are beautifully pyriform in shape, and when the female leaves the nest deliberately it will be found that the smaller ends of the eggs are together, thereby taking up but little room in the nest. When the young are hatched they run about immediately, often with the shell upon their backs. Although they must remain upon the ground for two or three weeks, they are admirably protected by the assimilative colouring of their down, which renders them most difficult to detect.

It would be interesting to know just when lapwings' eggs became a marketable commodity. Pennant as early as 1776 quotes them at three shillings a dozen; and thirty years later Daniel states that their price was four shillings. There would appear to be but little organisation in connection with the collecting of plovers' eggs, and this is probably why the price is kept up. The majority of the eggs are gathered by shepherds, keepers, and labourers, who are assisted by women and children; but the latter find comparatively few nests.

Not unfrequently the early clutches are covered with snow, and more than one set of nests have been known to have perished in this way. But the species is a hardy one, and the birds persevere until they are successful in rearing one nest of young. Hence there is no ground for the apprehension expressed in some quarters lest so useful a bird (as this is stated to be to agriculturists) should be destroyed by taking a few of the first layings. That the peewit evinces considerable attachment to its nest and eggs the following example will show. On an evening about the middle of May a gentleman found a lapwing's nest containing four eggs. Three of these were completely covered with a cake of dry dung, which had accidentally been kicked over the nest by the cattle and which the birds were unable to remove. The eggs were chilled, but the gentleman took them home, placed them in an oven over-night, and at six next morning replaced them in the nest. The old birds were hovering about, and the hen went immediately to the nest. Three of the eggs hatched the following morning, the remaining one having been accidentally cracked.

It must not be supposed that all the so-called plovers' eggs exposed for sale have really been laid by that species. The eggs of rare wading birds have frequently been selected from among them, and those of the snipe are not at all uncommon. In cooking, it is discovered that numbers of eggs are far advanced in incubation, when, of course, they are useless; and it is not always easy to apply tests to determine this while purchasing. At table the eggs are usually served hard boiled. Sometimes they are shelled and served up with BÉchamel sauce; though their more frequent use is as decoration for salad, the beautiful colour of the "white" admirably setting off the dish.

Not only are plovers' eggs delicacies, but some of the birds themselves are highly appreciated at table. Of all the species known to naturalists, however, two only are recognised by gourmets. These are the green and gold: the first the common kind, which produces the plovers' eggs; the second a handsome bird, somewhat rare, and larger than the former. It has beautiful golden markings, a soft liquid eye, and breeds upon the tops of the highest mountains. The golden plover fetches a much higher price than the green, and living the two are easily distinguishable. When cooked the difference in size is not appreciable, though the former may always be known by the absence of the hind-toe. Lapwings were formerly "mewed" for the purpose of feeding, and fatted upon liver. A thousand birds, supposed to be of this species, were served at a feast on the enthronisation of Archbishop Nevill. In Ireland the birds are netted in autumn in very considerable numbers; though, strangely enough, the eggs are neither appreciated nor collected as they are here. A new phase of the trade in lapwings' eggs is that of preserving them for use during the winter months.

V.
BROWN IN SUMMER, WHITE IN WINTER.

Of the protective colouring exhibited by several birds and quadrupeds in countries that remain during a greater part of the year under snow, Britain furnishes several interesting examples. Amongst these are the ptarmigan, variable or Alpine hare, ermine, Greenland falcon, snowy owl, Lapland bunting, with other less marked instances. The very existence of each of these creatures depends upon the closeness with which it conforms to its environment; and just as it does this effectively so it is robust as a species and flourishes. The inherent variability in some cases is great, and definite changes can be brought about in comparatively short periods. In other species, however, modification is slow, and only obtained by the long process of natural selection. As an instance of the first, we have the change from dark brown to purely white of the stoat or ermine; of the second, the indigenous red grouse of the British Isles is an example. This bird is found nowhere else in a wild state. With us there is no reason why it should assume the white winter plumage like its congeners, and yet there can be no question that our bird is the local representative of the white willow-grouse, which ranges over the whole of Northern Europe. There are absolutely no structural differences between the two. Here is a species, then, which has lost, through disuse, the power of turning white in winter with the absence of the necessity for doing so.

Let us see how the adoption of protective colouring holds as applied to these species—all of which are brown in summer, white in winter. The Iceland falcon and the ptarmigan have pretty much the same habitat, the one preying upon the other. The ptarmigan's plumage during the breeding season is dark brown, even approaching to black; but in autumn, during the transition stage, it is grey, this being the general tint of the mosses and lichens among which it lives. Suppose, however, that the summer bird never changed its plumage, what chance of survival would it stand against its enemies when the ground was covered with snow? Remaining, as it would, a black speck on the otherwise white surface, it would in a few years become extinct. The ptarmigan, then, furnishes an example of the assumption of three different states of plumage, each assimilating to the physical conditions by which it is surrounded. Of course the same rule applies to the falcon, which is also white. Precisely the same set of facts operate in the case of the large snowy owl in the fir countries which it inhabits. Here its food consists of lemmings, Alpine hares, and birds, particularly the willow-grouse and ptarmigan. The balance of nature would be slightly against it, however, in the capture of animals which have assumed protective colouring, and hence we are told that "it has been known to watch the grouse-shooters a whole day for the purpose of sharing the spoil. On such occasions it perches on a high tree, and when a bird is shot skims down and carries it off before the sportsman can get near it." Yet again the same reasoning applies to the beautiful silver fox, which structurally in nowise differs from its red-furred cousin of more southern counties.

Hares, according to the altitude of their range, show almost every degree of variableness between red and white. Our common hare is widely distributed, and to such an extent do varietal forms differ that several distinct species (so called) have been evolved out of one. The extreme forms do seem widely separated, until we connect them with the many intermediate links. It then becomes evident that these differences are, after all, such as may be accounted for by conditions of climate and geographical range. The northern form has thick fur, which inclines to white in winter; the central variety has fur of only moderate thickness, becoming grey in winter; and the southern, thin fur of a deep rufous tinge. The calling of these varieties "species" is simply scientific hair-splitting; though this hardly applies to the true variable or mountain hare. This Alpine form is distributed over the countries within the Arctic Circle, though with us its southern haunt is determined by Scotland and Ireland. Again in this species we have three forms, each mainly characteristic of certain latitudes. The first inhabits warm low-lying countries, and does not change colour in winter; of this the Irish hare is a type. The second, the variety common to Northern Europe, which is grey in summer and purely white in winter; while the third is the Arctic form—white right through the year. The six types are probably all varieties of one species, which, for protection, conform to their own environment; and so successfully do they do this, that the progeny of two pair of mountain hares which in 1854 were turned down in the Faroes might long ago have been counted by thousands. The Scotch variety of this species, which does not change the colour of its fur in winter, is there called the blue hare.

Another interesting example of creatures which are brown in summer and white in winter is the ermine. This is still a fairly common British fur animal, and the change may therefore be watched without going far afield. In the fur countries of high latitudes the change is universal; while here, except in unusually severe winters, it is only partial. In the Lake District, where we have observed a considerable number of these animals, a purely white one is exceedingly rare, though pied specimens are not at all uncommon. The nearest general approach to whiteness was during the prolonged severity of the winter of 1880-81. The last colour about to vanish is usually a brown stripe, prolonged posteriorly down the back; though when the weather is of extreme severity the whole transition can be brought about within a fortnight. It is not that the summer fur is cast and a new one substituted for it, but that each individual hair changes colour. Cold artificially applied will in time bring about the same results as a naturally severe temperature.

There arrive every year in this country, from the north, flocks of pretty little birds called snow-buntings. They come from within the Arctic Circle, and are so variable in their plumage that naturalists almost despaired of ever getting a characteristic description. Indeed, so much a puzzle did these little strangers offer, that for long they were described by the older naturalists as three different birds. Of course, we now know that the mountain, tawny, and snow bunting are one; and this because they have been obtained in almost every possible stage of transition. They breed upon the summits of the highest hills with the ptarmigan; and like that bird regulate their plumage according to the prevailing aspect of their haunts. In this they succeed admirably, and flourish accordingly.

VI.
ADAPTATION TO HAUNT.

The process of natural selection, tending to the survival of the fittest, would almost invariably seem to use colour as its main working factor. The exemplification of this law is, perhaps, nowhere better seen than in the colouring of animals and birds. In the keen struggle for existence, the creature which conforms most nearly to its environment is the one most likely to survive, and therefore perpetuate its characteristics. For upon the fact that the peculiarities of the parents are reproduced in their offspring depends the whole theory of evolution. This may at first suggest that the generality of animals and birds closely conform to the type of the parent stock, and that therefore there is little chance of variation. But while this is so, it is equally true that when any "sport" occurs this is tenaciously retained providing it possesses any advantages over its neighbours in the struggle for existence. In this way a new type may be set up, differing so far from the original as in time to rank as a species.

The great power of variability in animals and plants is probably not yet fully comprehended. We know, however, from Darwin's experiments how many distinct varieties in the case of pigeons have been produced from the wild blue rock, each showing profound modification, not in colour alone, but also in bone structure. Then there are those which show the development of hoods and frills, and others, again, which have within them the homing instinct to an almost incredible degree. All this, of course, has been brought about by man, mostly by selection, and it serves to show how pliable nature is. What has been done to pigeons applies to domestic animals. Given a few years, any monstrosity can be produced, however extravagant; our shorthorns and blood horses have been produced out of the very sorriest material, and now stand as the idealised types of their kind. And what man does artificially, nature is doing daily, but by slow and sure methods of her own. None but those who have dipped beneath the surface can conceive of the struggle which is going on for existence. Nature's competition is of the keenest kind; the strongest survive, the weakest go to the wall. Even an object so low in the scale of animal creation as a chrysalis assumes a red coat when it is attached to a bright brick wall, and a grey one when it affixes itself to limestone. This inherent power it has in itself, and those individuals which can most cleverly practise deceit in hiding from birds and other enemies survive and reproduce their kind.

With regard to instances of variability which come under our immediate notice, the red grouse of our moorlands as already mentioned is a striking example. There can now be no doubt that this is the "willow grouse" of the Scandinavian Peninsula. Our indigenous bird found itself in an insular position, and has changed from white to speckled red so as to conform to the colour of the heather; it has also modified the colour of its eggs to suit the changed conditions of its existence. Had it remained white, it would soon have been wiped out of existence by the peregrine and other of the large falcons. There can be no question that bird and animal or insect dons the colour and form best calculated to protect it. Whether this change is conscious to the creature that practises it is beside the main question, and hardly enters into the issue. The process is invariably slow, but if any "accidental sport" occurs which is likely to be of use, it is tenaciously retained, and progress is made at a bound.

Many of our British birds exhibit capital instances of protective colouring, and it is a somewhat striking fact that birds of sombre plumage build open nests, while the brilliantly coloured birds either have covered nests or build in holes in trees.

Returning to sexual colour, the dull summer female plumage which characterises so many ground-feeding birds is all the more remarkable as they are the mates of males for the most part distinguished by unusual brilliancy of plumage. The few exceptions to this rule are of the most interesting nature, and go eminently to prove it. In these exceptions it happens that the female birds are more brightly plumaged than the males. But the remarkable trait comes out that in nearly the whole of these cases the male sits upon the eggs. Now this fact more than any other would seem to indicate that the protection afforded by obscure colouring is directly intended to secure the bird's safety during the long and most critical period of its life. This law of protective colouring, it will be seen, most influences those species which build on the ground, and one or two examples may be adduced from our own avi-fauna, as in the case of the rare dotterel, which breeds on the fells. In winter the colouring of the sexes in this species is almost identical; but when the breeding season comes round, the female dons a well-defined and comparatively conspicuous plumage, while it is found that the dull-coloured male alone sits upon the eggs.

Mr. Wallace has pointed that the bee-eaters, mot-mots, and toucans—among the most brilliant of tropical or semi-tropical birds—all build in holes in trees. In each of these cases there is hardly any difference in the plumage of the sexes, and where this is so the above rule is almost invariable. Again, our native kingfisher affords an illustration. Woodpeckers, many of which are brightly coloured above, build in the boles of trees, and our own titmice, with their exquisite tints, construct domed nests. Visitors to the Zoological Gardens in Regent's Park will have noticed that the orange-plumaged orioles have pensile nests, which is a characteristic of the order to which they belong, most of the members of which are conspicuous. Bird enemies come from above rather than below, and it will be noticed that the modifications referred to all have reference to the upper plumage. Protective colouring, having for its object the preservation of the species which adopt it, will be found to enter more or less into the economy of every animal and bird and insect in a state of nature; and therefore it will be seen that there is a general harmony between the colours of an animal and those of its habitation, of which fact almost every living natural object furnishes evidence.

There comes periodically to this country a bird of the starling kind, known as the rose-coloured pastor. It has the back, breast, and sides of an exquisite pale pink; and it is perhaps this bright plumage which prevents it from establishing a residence here. In its continental haunts the bird is observed to affect trees or shrubs bearing rose-coloured flowers, such as the blossoms of the pink azalea, among which the birds more easily escape notice. This is an instance of what is known as adaptive or protective coloration, which we need not go abroad to observe.

The struggle for existence among plants and animals is a hard one, and every point gained in the direction tends to survival. The modification in the forms and colours of insects, and the successful shifts thereby made to elude their enemies, provide the striking facts of the case. Birds modify and rearrange the colours of their plumage, adapt the coloration of their eggs, and the structure and material of their nests, all to the same end. We know that the more highly organised flowers have changed form and colour to satisfy their insect visitors, while the insects themselves have modified their organs so as to enable them the better to visit certain flowers. In Sumatra Mr. Wallace found a large butterfly, its upper surface of a rich purple and with a broad bar of deep orange crossing each wing. The species is found in dry woods and thickets, and when on the wing is very conspicuous. Among the bush and dry leaves the naturalist was never able to capture a specimen; for, however carefully he crept to the spot where the insect had settled, he could never discover it until it suddenly started out again. But upon one occasion he was fortunate enough to note the exact spot where the butterfly settled, and, although it was lost sight of for some time, he at length discovered it close before his eyes. In its position of repose it exactly resembled a dead leaf attached to a twig.

So in our own country we may observe that the purple emperor butterfly affects certain of the brightly coloured wild geraniums, upon which, in repose it is almost impossible to detect it. The brown-spotted fritillaries of our birch woods also offer examples of this class, it being difficult to detect them against the fungus-pitted leaves of every shade of brown and dun and yellow.

VII.
HOW THE WORLD IS FERTILISED.

In approaching the subject of the geographical distribution of animals and plants, one is struck with the marvellous methods which nature adopts for the dispersal of her types. If the seeds of forest trees were merely shed to the ground immediately beneath, they would be in an environment precisely the least likely to further the reproduction of their kind. Instead of this, many of the seeds of forest trees are furnished with wings, an adaptation which allows them to be easily wafted by the wind, and thus fits them for wide dispersal. It is only by possessing some such advantage as this that certain species could survive at all. It is true that acorns and other kindred fruits do not possess this advantage, but then they are largely fed upon by birds, and birds, as will presently be shown, are an admirable means of dispersal. The crop of a wood-pigeon, which burst when the bird fell to the ground when shot, was found to contain sixty-seven acorns, besides a number of beech mast and leaves of clover. In this connection imagine the possible rate of multiplication which would follow the accidental dissemination of a single head of red poppy. If left undisturbed it would, under ordinarily favourable circumstances, ripen forty thousand seeds, each capable of producing a successor. It has been stated by a competent authority that one red poppy could produce plants enough in less than seven years to occupy every inch of the thirty and odd million acres of the United Kingdom.

Ocean currents have not unfrequently been the means of connecting the floras of different continents, and seeds and fruit are sometimes picked up on the western coasts of Britain which have been wafted across the whole Atlantic Ocean. It is also known that certain birds of long and sustained powers of flight cross the Atlantic unaided, and what this may possibly mean will presently be shown. Even land animals are known to cross straits between island and island upon rafts—drift-wood or bits of floating bark.

A quaint instance of transportation of fish spawn is given by an old writer. Izaak Walton believed that pike were bred from pickerel-weed; though he seems to have had some suspicion of this piece of unnatural history, and qualifies his statement by saying that if it is not so "they are brought into some ponds some such other ways as is past man's finding out." But one of his contemporaries attacks this heterodoxy, and "propounds a rational conjecture of the heron-shaw." He thinks it quite likely that while fishing the heron might "lap some spawn about her legs", in regard to adhering to the segs and bull-rushes near the shallows, as myself and others without curiosity, have observed. And this slimy substance adhering to her legs, and she mounting the air for another station, in all probability mounts with her. When note, the next pond she haply arrives at, possibly she may leave the spawn behind her, an observation now known to be strictly accurate. Herons are not the only birds which are aids to dispersal. Although the feet of birds are generally clean, Darwin in one case removed sixty-one grains, and in another twenty-two grains, of dry argillaceous earth from the foot of a partridge, and in the earth there was a pebble as large as the seed of a vetch. The same naturalist had sent to him by a friend the leg of a woodcock, with a little cake of dry earth attached to the shank, and weighing only nine grains; this contained seeds of the toad-rush, which not only germinated but flowered. But perhaps the most interesting case of all was that of a red-legged partridge forwarded by Professor Newton. This had been wounded, and was unable to fly; and a ball of hard earth adhered to it, weighing six and a half ounces. The earth had been kept for three years, but when broken and watered, and placed under a bell-glass, no fewer than eighty-two plants sprang from it.

American passenger pigeons are frequently captured in the State of New York with their crops still filled with the undigested grains of rice that, according to Mr. Howard Saunders, must have been taken in the distant fields of Georgia and South Carolina, apparently proving that the birds had passed over the intervening space within a few hours. It is known that at certain seasons thousands of these beautiful pigeons are killed, not only by man, but by predatory animals and birds; and their long migratory journeys as a possible means of dispersal becomes at once evident. As bearing on this particular subject, Darwin has proved that the hard seeds of fruit pass uninjured through even the digestive organs of a turkey. In the course of two months he picked up in his garden twelve kinds of seeds out of the excrement of small birds which seemed perfect, and some of them germinated. The crops of birds do not secrete gastric juice, and consequently do not in the least injure germination. Darwin forced many kinds of seeds into the stomachs of dead fish, and then gave them to fishing eagles, storks, and pelicans in the Zoological Gardens. The birds, after long intervals, either ejected the seeds in pellets or passed them; after which several kinds still retained the power of germination. In the tropics countless swarms of locusts sometimes suddenly make their appearance, and as suddenly vanish. They cover every leaf-bearing thing, and occasionally denude whole districts of their greenery. So great are their powers of flight that they have been seen at sea nearly four hundred miles from nearest land. In Natal the farmers, rightly or wrongly, believe that the locusts introduce injurious seeds upon their grass lands, and the following would seem to show that their belief is well founded. A Mr. Weale, who was in their way of thinking, collected a packet of dried pellets and sent them to England. When closely examined under the microscope they revealed a number of tiny seeds from which plants of seven kinds of grasses were ultimately raised.

In comparatively few years a small island in mid ocean had quite an important addition to its flora, merely from the fact that the grave of an officer was dug with a spade that had been used in England. The seeds from which these sprang were embedded in the dry earth adhering to the spade. Floating driftwood is quite an important means of dispersal, as can easily be understood; and the natives of some of the coral islands in the Pacific procure stones for their tools solely from the roots of drifted trees, the stones being a valuable royal tax. In this connection Darwin made the following interesting experiments. He found that when irregularly-shaped stones were embedded in the roots of trees, small parcels of earth were frequently enclosed in their interstices or behind them, so perfectly that not a particle could be washed away during the longest transport. Out of one small portion of earth thus completely enclosed by the roots of an oak about fifty years old three dicotyledonous plants germinated. It is well known that in many cases a few days' immersion in sea-water is sufficient to kill seeds, but a number taken out of the crop of a pigeon which had floated on the water for thirty days nearly all germinated. Other aids to dispersal already referred to are wading birds, which frequent the muddy edges of ponds, and, if suddenly flushed, would be the most likely to have muddy feet. "Birds of this order wander more than those of any other, and they are occasionally found on the most remote and barren islands of the open ocean; they would not be likely to alight on the surface of the sea, so that any dirt on their feet would not be washed off; and when gaining the land they would be sure to fly to their natural fresh-water haunts. I do not believe," says Darwin, "that botanists are aware how charged the mud of ponds is with seeds; I have tried several little experiments, but will here only give the most striking case. I took in February three tablespoonfuls of mud from three different points, beneath water, on the edge of a little pond; this mud when dried weighed only six and three-quarter ounces. I kept it covered up in my studio for six months, pulling up and counting each plant as it grew. The plants were of many kinds, and were altogether five hundred and thirty-seven in number; and yet the viscid mud was all contained in a breakfast cup. Considering these facts, I think it would be an inexplicable circumstance if water birds did not transport plants to unstocked ponds and streams, situate at very distant points. The same agency may have come into play with the eggs of some of the smaller fresh-water animals."

The manner in which the ubiquitous brown rat obtrudes itself everywhere is only paralleled by the like qualities in the British sparrow. Our weeds have migrated to the colonies, and certain kinds have almost overrun them. In New Zealand the common dock is now widely disseminated, the original seeds being sold by a lively British tar as those of the tobacco plant.

THE END.

PRINTED BY NICHOLS AND SONS, 25, PARLIAMENT STREET WESTMINSTER.

"A pleasant little book for anglers and lovers of nature."—Saturday Review.

BRITISH SPORTING FISHES.

By JOHN WATSON. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.

From the GLOBE.

"The papers it contains treat of salmon, trout, grayling, pike, perch, and most fresh-water fish. There are pleasant chapters on silvers streams and good practical essays on the depopulation and restocking of trout streams, water and fish poachers, ephemerÆ, and above all a useful article on fish stews."

From the SPEAKER.

"Naturalists as well as anglers will find Mr. Watson's remarks about 'British Sporting Fishes' quite worthy of their attention. The book is written by a man who has mastered the wily tactics of salmon, pike, trout, perch, carp, and bream, and knows how to bait a tempting hook for each and all of them. The 'small fry' of lake and river are not forgotten by Mr. Watson, and two of the most interesting chapters in a lively volume are devoted to roach, minnow, stickleback and other little fish."

From the SATURDAY REVIEW.

"A pleasant little book for anglers and lovers of nature is Mr. John Watson's 'British Sporting Fishes.' All fresh-water fish that afford any sort of sport are sporting fish according to the author, who finds room in his delightful sketches of the life-histories and habitats of fish for the smallest of small fry, the roach, the minnow, the stickleback, and so forth. Mr. Watson's sketches follow a downward scale, from salmon and trout to the small fry of the pool and the brook, and all are characterized by remarkable delicacy of observation."

From the MORNING POST.

"'Sketches of British Sporting Fishes,' by John Watson, afford pleasant reading interspersed with information, the result of practical experience and close observation. Nor does the author confine his remarks entirely to fish, but touches on such connected subjects as fish poaching, some of the tricks of which he describes. The chapter on grayling is written in the same easy and unpretentious style as the rest of the book."

Footnotes

[1]

For several interesting facts concerning the flight of insects, especially the dragon-fly, I am indebted to the late Dr. Gough.

[2]

"Sometimes while stealing along in a quiet deep channel but a few yards wide, worn through the rock, or between it and the green bank opposite, the spectator would marvel at the broad expanse of shingle or barren sand. Little would he wonder if, after a week's rain, he sought the same spot, when Tweed was coming down in his might, and every tributary stream, transformed for the nonce into a river, swelled the mighty flood. Then timber trees, sawn wood, dead animals, farming implements, even haystacks would come floating down, and the very channel of the river would be diverted, sometimes never to return to its ancient course. Sad was the havoc occasioned among the embryo spawn; torn from its bed, it would be carried down stream, to be devoured by the trout or the eel, or to perish amid the waste of waters. We felt on these occasions pretty safe. Our principal enemies were dispersed: the gulls sought worms in the ploughed uplands; the kingfisher and the solitary heron flew away to the smaller streams, where the less turbid water permitted them to see their prey. The cold, slimy, cruel eel, alone of all our enemies, was then to be dreaded. Crawling along at the bottom of the water, his flat wicked head pressed against the gravel, so as to escape the force of the stream, the wily beast would insinuate himself into every crevice or corner, where a small fish might have taken shelter, or a drowned worm be lodged, and all was prey to him." The Autobiography of a Salmon.

[3]

"One had better throw open his pond or river to all the poachers in the district than indulge in a taste for swans. If any one doubts this, let him row up the Thames from Weybridge to Chertsey, or on to Laleham, during the latter end of the month of April or early in May, and take particular and special notice of what the swans are doing. If he has still any doubt, and likes to kill one or two and cut them open, he will solve his doubts and do a service at the same time; he may be fined for it, but he will certainly suffer for a good action and in a good cause. A swan can and will devour a gallon of fish-spawn every day while the spawn remains unhatched, if he can get it; and it is easily found. I leave the reader to calculate what the few hundreds (I might almost say thousands) on the Thames devour in the course of two or three months. Their greediness and voracity for fish-spawn must be witnessed to be believed. If this were not so, the Thames ought to swarm to excess with fish, whereas it is but poorly supplied. Here is a little calculation. Suppose each swan only to take a quart of spawn per diem, which is a very low average indeed; suppose each quart to contain fifty-thousand eggs (not a tithe of what it does contain). I am not speaking of salmon and trout here, their ova being much larger; suppose only two hundred swans (about a fourth, perhaps, of the number really employed) are at work at the spawn, and give them only a fortnight for the period of their ravages. Now what is the result we get? Why, a little total of one hundred and forty million. One hundred and forty million of eggs! Suppose only half of those eggs to become fish, and we have a loss of seventy millions of fish every year to the River Thames—a heavy price to pay for the picturesque, particularly when the reality may perhaps be doubled, or trebled, or even quadrupled." Francis Francis.

[4]

"Then the kingfisher, with rufous breast and glorious mantle of blue, would dart like a plummet from his roost, and seize unerringly any little truant which passed within his ken. The appetite of this bird was miraculous; I never saw him satisfied. He would sit for hours on a projecting bough, his body almost perpendicular, his head thrown back between his shoulders; eyeing with an abstracted air the heavens above or the rocks around him, he seemed intent only upon exhibiting the glorious lustre of his plumage, and the brilliant colours with which his azure back was shaded; but let a careless samlet stray beneath him, and in a twinkling his nonchalant attitude was abandoned. With a turn so quick that the eye could scarce follow it, his tail took the place of his head, and, falling rather than flying, he would seize his victim, toss him once into the air, catch him as he fell, head foremost, and swallow him in a second. This manoeuvre he would repeat from morning till night; such a greedy, insatiable little wretch I never saw!"—The Autobiography of a Salmon.

[5]

"In this neighbourhood I escaped, by pure good fortune, a danger that I afterwards learnt proved fatal to thousands—nay, tens of thousands—of my young companions. The stream had apparently divided, and whilst I followed the course of the right-hand one, the greater number passed down the wider but less rapid left-hand division. Here they speedily encountered a terrific mill-wheel, and, dashing on one side, they found their progress stopped by a small net, which being placed under them, they were landed literally by bushels. My informant, who escaped by passing under the mill-wheel at the imminent risk of being crushed to death, assured me that the bodies of our unlucky brethren were used as manure! And, degrading as the suggestion is, it seems not impossible, for the numbers taken could not be sold or used for food."—The Autobiography of a Salmon.

[6]

1890.

[7]

Dr. T. Gough.

Transcriber's Note: Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. Dialect spellings, contractions and inconsistencies have been retained as printed.

The cover of this ebook was created by the transcriber and is hereby placed in the public domain.