# The Zoologist/4th series, vol 2 (1898)/Issue 686/Rough Nesting Notes from Yorkshire

Published in: The Zoologist, 4th series, vol 2, issue 686 (August, 1898), p. 349–355
ROUGH NESTING NOTES FROM YORKSHIRE.
By Oxley Grabham, M.A., M.B.O.U.
Herons had eggs the second week in February in spite of most inclement weather, and they still hold their own in face of persistent trapping on the trout streams. I remember some years ago, when fishing for the first time a well-known stream which shall be nameless, my wrath at seeing five Herons gibbeted hard by; a few days' experience, however, convinced me that a clean bill cannot unfortunately be given to them, for they often destroy fine fish which they cannot possibly eat, out of sheer devilment, and fond as I am of them, I must own they do a good deal of harm; however, I believe fully in the principle of live and let live, and would gladly sacrifice a few fish for the pleasure of seeing this stately bird. Thanks to the protection afforded it on certain estates, it is likely to gladden the eyes of the field naturalist for some time to come.
Woodcock are increasing yearly, and I know of a wood where over twenty pairs have bred this year, but the young are off long before the shooting season. The same increase I have noted in the breeding of Snipe and Redshank. I know of many colonies of the latter, one numbering nearly twenty pairs of birds, and so far from the nests always being placed in a tuft of grass, with the blades most carefully concealing the eggs, as we are told in the books, I have frequently found them on the open moor amidst the short ling, without any attempt at concealment; and I have found Snipe in exactly similar places.
The Lapwing, despite the netting, egging, and shooting that it has to contend with, holds its own well in most places: this I attribute to their wonderful adaptability to circumstances. I find their nests equally on the highest fells, in the marshy plains, on the moorlands, and amidst enclosed ground, and no matter how their eggs are taken, in a very short time they are laying again. I see Mr. Cordeaux states that the Lapwing is getting scarcer in ​Lincolnshire, but it is not so in the "broad-acred shire," and long may it be before its "mournful, piercing, despairing cry" ceases to be a common country sound.
On June 3rd, with Mr. James Backhouse, I watched on a certain fell, 2225 feet above the sea-level, at the distance of only five or six yards, a Dunlin brooding her just-hatched young; it was sleeting and bitterly cold, and the poor little birds must have wished they were back in the shell. There were a nice lot of the birds about, and the name they are known by in this district is "Jack Plover."
On the estate of a well-known Yorkshire naturalist, whose grounds are a perfect paradise of bird-life, and a haven of refuge to rare and common alike, the Nuthatch, Lesser Spotted Woodpecker, and Hawfinch have bred this year; and what is of still greater interest, though the nest could not be found, the owner told me that the Crossbills, which are there all the year round, were seen carrying bits of bark, fir-needles, moss, wool, &c.; but the covers are so dense that though every effort was made to trace the birds, the attempts hitherto have failed.
The Turtle Dove is yearly increasing its range, and it breeds in parts of the county where a few years ago it was unknown.
In secluded places the Goldfinch, locally known as "Redcap," still breeds not uncommonly, despite the fact that I knew of nearly forty being caught by one birdcatcher in less than a week one autumn.
The Pied Flycatcher is by no means rare, and all the nests I have examined were lined with the leaves of Luzula campestris or pilosa. In one valley I knew of a dozen pairs, but they each keep to their own district, and the nesting places are a good distance apart. I never found hair myself in a Pied Flycatcher's nest; they are very loosely put together and difficult to get out intact. The Grasshopper Warbler has been common. Most people consider it rare, but it is a very peculiar little bird and wants a good deal of knowing. After a spell of cold weather they will sometimes leave the district entirely, or, as they did in one locality this year, remain there but keep perfect silence. There is a good deal of art in finding their nests; my tutor therein, a past master at the game, has found more Grasshopper Warblers' nests than ​any one else that I ever heard of. I am not going to reveal the secret, for I have had bitter experience of that sort of thing. I once knew of a pair, and told a man who I thought was above suspicion, but he promptly went and shot one of them, which taught me a lesson I have not forgotten. Suffice it to say that under certain conditions the bird will sulk, and nothing will induce her to leave the nest; and in one instance on being touched by mistake, she feigned death, and allowed herself to be handled as if dead—a quivering of the eyelid was all that showed she was shamming. They are most prolific little birds, and I have known thirty eggs taken from one pair. I very much deprecate this sort of thing, but there are times when in pursuit of knowledge and experience, especially if one has to rely upon the good offices and information originally imparted by another, when all one can do is to sit tight. I may say that I see no harm in taking a clutch of eggs whatever, but after that I believe in allowing the birds to lay again, which they always do, and rear their young in safety. I found a nest of Locustella nævia on May 30th, containing five fresh eggs. The nest was in a big tussock of Aira cæpitosa (common turfy hair-grass), in the middle of a big osier-bed, or willow garth as it is called in the county, and was made of a foundation of willow-leaves, &c, and coarse grass, a very little moss, and lined with finer grass—a bulky nest. All the Grasshopper Warblers, when driven off their nests in thick cover, run along the ground a few yards, for all the world like a Mouse; then fly up on to some twig, reed, &c, for a few moments; and afterwards drop down into the thick grass.
I have examined a large number of Swifts' nests this year, and so far from their being small and loose structures, they have been most bulky, and in every instance they contained fresh flowers with long stalks of the buttercup. Now I have found fresh flowers of the buttercup in the nest of our old friend "Passer damnabilis;" and I have often wondered whether the Swifts occasionally take possession of these nests and agglutinate them together with their salivary secretion. But I have found Swifts' nests still containing fresh buttercups, with no Sparrows near, so that the Swifts must have taken them there themselves, though I never saw, or met with anyone who had seen them doing so. With all due deference to so excellent an authority ​as Mr. Howard Saunders, I must demur to his statement that when three eggs are found in a Swift's nest they are probably the produce of two females. I have found this to occur so often, and in isolated nests, that unless for the sake of argument one supposes the Swift to regularly lay in each other's nests, the evidence, to my mind, is strongly in favour of the hen bird by no means infrequently laying three eggs.
Kingfishers are certainly not so rare as many people suppose, but they are often unobserved. I knew of a nest, the young of which were reared within two miles of York Minster.
I witnessed the prettiest ornithological sight that I have seen for many a long day, on June 15th, on a certain large sheet of water. I rowed out to examine a Great Crested Grebe's nest, which was made on a foundation of various species of Potamogeton, surmounted by a quantity of stalks of a large Equisetum or mare's-tail. There were two other similar nests near, and I have generally found one or more of these false nests near the true nest of the Great Crested Grebe. The idea is that the cock bird uses them as resting-places or look-out stations; and though I have not been able to verify the same myself, still it seems a feasible explanation. When I arrived within a couple of hundred yards of the nest I could see through my glasses that the old bird was greatly excited. She allowed me to advance within forty yards of her, when I stopped my boat and saw that the eggs had been hatched, for she had three young ones, two or three days old with her; one was on her back, and the other two were tucked away, one under each wing. She gradually sunk herself in the water till only her head was above it, and then dived, coming up a long distance from where she went down. I never before had the pleasure of seeing a Grebe dive with her young ones, and it was a sight I most thoroughly appreciated. While the Great Crested Grebe is, if anything, on the increase, the Little Grebe, in my experience, is slightly diminishing in numbers; there are plenty in the winter, but few in the breeding-season, and they do not breed on the big sheets of water, as the large Pike play havoc with them. They are well known throughout all the three Hidings as "Tom Puddings," a cognomen which I do not remember to have seen mentioned in any book.
On this same sheet of water where the Great Crested Grebes ​were, I detected through my glass three pairs of Tufted Ducks, and on looking over a small island I found two nests, each containing ten eggs completely covered up with down. The other Ducks which I have found breeding this season in a wild state in various parts of the county are the Mallard, Teal, Shoveller, and Pochard.
Nightjars have been common. I took a friend to obtain a photograph of two eggs in situ that I had found on a moorside. The hen harmonized so beautifully with the dead bracken and bare ground that it was some time before I could make him see her. After photographing the eggs he fastened green cloth over the camera, tied a thread to the shutter, and then hid behind a large stone about twenty yards away. Though an hour was allowed she failed to come back, so we pinned portions of the bracken, which was growing all round, on to the green cloth, and then hid up again, when, after waiting about twenty minutes, on she came. Allowing a few minutes for her to settle, my friend took his shot, and an excellent one it has turned out.
This same friend told me of a prolific nest. Four years ago he found a Carrion Crow's nest; the next year it was tenanted by a Long-eared Owl, very abundant in the county; last year a Sparrowhawk took possession, and this year a Kestrel.
Everybody heard with the greatest regret of the recent shooting of an Osprey near Beverley—audi alteram partem. Some time ago, on the gentleman's estate I have before mentioned as being such a paradise for birds, an Osprey appeared and remained for six weeks; when, although it levied heavy toll on the big Trout in the lake, it was a welcome visitor, and allowed to pursue its own habits. Would that there were more such naturalists, and such havens of refuge! Some men, I verily believe, would shoot at an archangel himself if he appeared on the wing. A fine of five shillings is ridiculously inadequate; when five pounds can be obtained for the specimen it is no deterrent at all.
I am afraid that the laws relating to bird-protection are in many cases but a farce; for example—shade of Dracon!—in some places the eggs are allowed to be taken, but not the young or old birds, and, as Mr. Southwell pointed out in an excellent letter to 'The Field,' it is not fair that the onus of getting up a ​prosecution should rest with a private individual. It is not the ornithologist who takes one clutch for scientific purposes who does the harm, but the professional collector who decimates whole colonies time after time. I frankly own that I am indebted for a great deal of my knowledge of the various nesting-places, resorts, and habits of some of our rarest birds to men who, unfortunately, are sometimes tempted by the ridiculously high prices paid by collectors to shoot these birds in the breeding-season, for the sake of their plumage; but I strongly maintain that it is the collectors who are the most to blame—qui facit per alium facit per se—and not these men who are not too well endowed with this world's goods, and who, most of them, are decent fellows, struggling to earn an honest livelihood. Only this season I have known, in the county, of Cormorants being shot on the coast; Dotterel on the wolds; a Honey Buzzard, Turtle Doves, and Nightjars in the plains, in full breeding plumage, and in open defiance of the law; but what can I do? As Mr. Southwell truly remarks, even if one felt inclined to take up these cases, would it do any good? The penalties are so inadequate, and above all, though perhaps this may seem a selfish view to some, these men's mouths and others like them would be eternally closed, which when one is working up a county fauna would be a most serious thing. So that, however much one may deprecate and deplore the destruction of our favourites, the most that can be done is to see that this destruction is not wholesale. I have often procured immunity for the remainder by a little judicious expenditure of the current coin of the realm. These men rely on one's honour "not to give them away," so that one is compelled as it were to a certain extent to "bow oneself down in the house of Rimmon."
I forgot to mention that, while visiting the cliff-climbers at Bempton, where the Guillemots, Razorbills, Puffins and Kittiwakes are as numerous as ever, I was told that a Guillemot, pure white except for its black head, had been frequently seen by them.
In conclusion: I was much interested in an article that appeared in 'The Zoologist' some little time since, on the time of day at which various birds lay their eggs. I have taken particular notice this season, and the conclusion I have come ​to is that no hard and fast rule can be laid down, for while many birds—Thrushes, Blackbirds, Chaffinches, &c.—generally lay between the hours of ten and twelve a.m., a Reed Warbler I had under observation laid all its eggs before six a.m., while a Spotted Flycatcher laid its clutch in the afternoon after three p.m.
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