# The Zoologist/4th series, vol 3 (1899)/Issue 695/Original sketches of British birds, Davenport

part 2 of a series of three articles 'Original sketches of British birds'. This part published in: The Zoologist, 4th series, vol 3, issues 695 (May, 1899), p. 198–212
ORIGINAL SKETCHES OF BRITISH BIRDS.
By H.S. Davenport.
The Ring-Ousel (Turdus torquatus).
My knowledge of this species has not been acquired to any exceeding extent in Leicestershire, though sundry authors in giving a list of the counties in which it has been known to breed do not exclude the shire which is chiefly famous for Fox-hunting. I have certainly met with the Ring-Ousel in the county on the spring and autumn migrations, but of course its true breeding places are the upland wastes and the wild and rocky districts in more mountainous parts of the country.
Leaving the cultivated lowlands and the civilization of village communities behind me one April morning during the spring of 1894, I started on a nesting tramp into the mountains between Festiniog and Dolgelly, my object being to spend an hour or so with the Ring-Ousel, and to get as far as Blaenlliw, a farm about five miles distant from the Llanuwchllyn end of Bala lake, tenanted by the kindest and most hospitable of people, and, what was infinitely more to my purpose, situated right in the heart of the mountains of North Wales—"right away from everywhere," as it was succinctly described to me. It was a charming morning, and for the first mile my course lay by the side of the river Lliw, where I had occasional visions of Common Sandpipers flitting to and fro, while here and there a Grey Wagtail, or a Pied Flycatcher, or a Dipper caught my eye. After passing the gold-mine, Carn Dochan by name, I began to rise the high ground, and a walk of another mile or so brought me nearer to the haunts of the Ring-Ousel, whose home in the summer is essentially a wild and romantic one. From the summit of the rock-strewn hill between Carn Dochan and Arenig a magnificent view of some of the surrounding country was unfolded to my gaze, while the Blackbird's mellow notes, which I had listened ​to only so recently and had easily identified amidst the general chorus, began at length to be replaced by those of the Ring-Ousel, and, though I am doubtless laying myself open to the charge of bad taste, I cannot say that I regretted the exchange.
A shy bird I am inclined to call the Ring-Ousel, for it will fly from rock to rock, generally keeping at a respectful distance; but when the vicinity of its nest is invaded, temerity becomes a very strongly marked characteristic of the species. In common with the Blackbird, it possesses the habit of elevating its tail on alighting, but in my humble judgment its song bears a stronger resemblance to that of the Mistle-Thrush than to that of the Blackbird. I have been fortunate enough to hear the Ring-Ousel and Mistle-Thrush sing within a short range of each other, and, though it is always far from my wish to appear dogmatic, I cannot agree with those writers who rather liken the former's song to that of the commoner species.
The Ring-Ousel also possesses three or four piping, plaintive notes, pee-up, pee-up, pee-up, pee-up, quickly repeated; they sound inexpressibly weird and sad when heard under certain conditions, and are, I believe, the call-notes of the male. While uttering them the bird will not improbably be found perched low down on a rock, and remaining so still that, unless the listener has a first-rate eye, it will be very hard to catch a glimpse of the performer. The alarm-note is a hurried tac, tac, tac.
A nest I found on the morning to which allusion has been made was placed on the ledge of a rock, and contained four eggs; they were greenish blue in ground colour, richly blotched and flecked with purplish brown. In fact, they were typical eggs of the species. Hard by was a Common Buzzard's nest containing two fresh eggs.
I had never considered the Ring-Ousel from an epicurean point of view until the autumn of 1894, when I formed one of a party Grouse-driving on the Stiperstones, a well-known stretch of rough and rocky moorland in Shropshire, when the bird that is so easily recognized by its conspicuous gorget was daintily served up as a second course one evening for my especial benefit. In my opinion it beats all the other members of the family Turdinæ in flavour, but is not comparable with either the Snipe or Land-Rail. I should add, however, that the bird I sampled was in ​famous trim for the table, as it had been feeding on the cranberries and bilberries which grow in profusion on the Stiperstones range, and it was covered with fat. It had evidently preferred the sweeter bilberry to the cranberry, as I made a note of on picking it up.
I also found a nest of this species in the spring of 1894 on the rocky heights above Aberhirnant. Sir E. Buckley's picturesque residence in Merionethshire; it contained a single much-incubated egg. Ring-Ousels are undoubtedly partial to rocky situations, and it is perhaps worthy of remark that just about the time when Fieldfares and Redwings are quitting our shores for northern climes the Ring-Ousels make their reappearance. The nest bears a striking resemblance to that of the Blackbird, as do some of the eggs to those of that species; but a combination of care and patience should always prevent any blundering in the matter of a correct identification of the same.
The Wheatear (Saxicola œnanthe).
According to my observations, one of the earliest of the spring migrants to put in an appearance in this county (Leicestershire) is the Wheatear. I find on reference to notes extending over several years that the little Chiffchaff hunts it very closely, but in the matter of actual precedence, in the large majority of cases, the Wheatear is easily first.
I have observed its sprightly form even before the middle of March in some seasons, and have been frequently struck with wonder at its comparative tameness on arrival in this country, allowing a very imminent approach as it does, and apparently courting close inspection. Invariably by itself when I have so observed it—for, like other migratory species, the males precede the females—it regards the intrusion of a visitor on its temporary halting ground with consummate indifference. I should here remark, however, that the grass pastures and tillage lands of High Leicestershire are little calculated to permanently attract such species as resort for breeding purposes to the downs and warrens and the wild, mountainous, and uncultivated districts of more southern counties.
A favourite resting ground in the spring of the year with an odd Wheatear or so is a large rabbit-warren on the borders of my ​native village, and thither I generally betake myself in quest of the earliest arrival of this species. There is an old saying that spring has come when you can place your foot on five full-blown daisies in a cluster, but our feathered visitors, to my thinking, are the best harbingers of the glad time of the year; and whether it be sight of Wheatear or song of Chiffchaff, there is no doubting the eloquence of the reminder that the frosts and snows of winter are virtually a thing of the past.
Wheatears only stay a few days on their first arrival in these parts, moving forward to their breeding quarters as soon as they have recuperated their exhausted strength. Yet they afford us more than a passing glimpse of them in September, and it is not at all uncommon when out Partridge-shooting to notice them on the fallows, or in fields where stones have been gathered together into little heaps. Where, however, in the spring time only a single bird had been noticed, in the autumn there would frequently be two of them together.
I have only met with one instance of this species breeding in Leicestershire, and consider the fact of its having nested where it did most unusual. That Wheatears should repair to the rocky heights round about Bardon and Bradgate to rear their young does not surprise me in the least, for in such wild tracts they are quite in their element; but that a pair of these birds should have had recourse to a drain-pipe on the turnpike road in Skeffington parish, in which situation they built a nest in May, in the year 1875, and laid five eggs of a pale greenish blue speckled very distinctly with brown, was quite a novel experience. The eggs were slightly incubated when I found them, and the birds must have employed a vast amount of cunning to have escaped detection so long, as the drain-pipe was within but a short distance of the village school, and there are few boys who are not indefatigable nest-hunters during their play-hours. This nest was constructed of pretty much the same materials as are to be found in the general run of Wheatears' nests, the lining being of cowhair, rabbits' fur, and a large quantity of feathers; but the exterior was composed of fibrous roots, dried bents, moss, and hay, and it was bits of the latter protruding from the drain-pipe that first gave me the clue to the nest. Of course my suspicions had been previously aroused by seeing the birds in the locality.
​It is very seldom that Wheatears perch on trees, but I have seen them do so, and they have not avoided the higher branches. The male bird sings very prettily, and it has often been my good fortune to hear it in the rock-strewn mountains of North Wales. The song consists of four or five rich, clear, mellow notes succeeded by an equal number of trilling ones, which might easily be mistaken for some of the tremulous strains of the Whinchat, though they are more musical and less harsh. It sings when stationary as well as in the air, and a pretty sight it is to watch it quit its perch on a rock, mount into the air after the manner of the Whitethroat, twist and jerk about, singing all the while, and then descend to its original starting point. It frequently runs two or three steps before taking wing, and when apprehensive of danger it repeats again and again what sounds in my ears like trz-wee, wee, trz-wee, wee. The bird is not uncommon on the mountainous tracts of rocky moorland in North Wales, as I have already intimated, and a favourite place for its nest, according to my observations, is in a stone wall, though I have also met with nests in rabbit-burrows, as well as in the cavities beneath great boulders of rock. I found the species especially abundant on Lundy Island in the spring of 1897. I am always glad to get a chance of hearing a song which has been much vaunted by authors, though few birds are so speedily on the alert as Wheatears when they mark the approach of an intruder. The male bird, perched conspicuously on some rock or wall, is almost certain to catch the eye first, but probably, long before you have seen it, it has seen you, and telegraphed a warning note to its mate. It will fly about from boulder to boulder, out of sight one moment and reappearing the next; but do not be misled by an apparent indifference to your presence. Though you may note it dart forth and catch an insect, it is all the while vigilant and suspicious to a degree, and though you may crouch in the bracken and keep watch for an hour, it has not forgotten, nor will you entrap it into overlooking, your presence; while as to betraying the whereabouts of the nest, depend upon it, it will be pure guesswork if you find it. It is a vivacious little bird to watch, and seems to have a high opinion of its own superior intelligence; while the rapid up-and-down movements of the tail, which appears to be ever in motion, is a habit which we are more apt to associate with members of the Wagtail family.
​I have noticed in clutches of eggs of this species, that when all the eggs have rust-coloured specks on the surface, one of the number generally has such specks much more strongly pronounced than the rest. Again, that when the clutch is of a pale greenish unspotted blue, uniform in colour, one egg occasionally exhibits a few faint rust-coloured specks. Such an egg I regard as answering to the variety that is so frequently found in the nests of other species, and in none is the difference so emphasized, in my opinion, as in the case of the Sparrow-Hawk and the Tree-Sparrow. Eight is freely spoken of as the extreme number of eggs in a clutch, but my belief is that six is much more frequent; very rarely seven. I have never found so many as eight myself, nor have I known anyone who has actually found this number; I have never met with a dealer who had a clutch of eight for sale, and therefore it would be interesting to me to learn what the authority is, and whence it emanated, for such a statement.
It is, of course, matter of history what immense numbers of Wheatears used to be taken in traps on the downs in bygone years when assembling previous to retiring from this country. In those days they were esteemed very delicious articles of food, and though the taste may not have died out, yet, owing to the large tracts of waste land which have been reclaimed since that era, the haunts of the Wheatear have been much encroached upon and virtually broken up. It is, too, common knowledge that the species is an adept at the art of mimicry; but it may not be so generally known that on fine warm nights in May it will sing till long after dark.
The Whinchat (Pratincola rubetra).
I have noticed that this species is to be met with more frequently some years than in others, and though doubtless numbers resort to furze-clad commons for breeding purposes in general with their near relatives the Stonechats, I do not agree that the nest is of necessity to be sought in such wild districts. On the contrary, I look upon the Whinchat, which is a spring migrant and arrives in this country about the middle of April, as a sociable bird, and partial to cultivated fields and roadside hedges, whereabouts it finds an abundance of insectivorous food and suitable spots for rearing its young.
​Considerable stress has been laid on the fact that Whinchats study the art of concealment when constructing their nests, or, perhaps I should more correctly say, when choosing a site for the same; but that such cannot be the invariable rule is, I think, made evident by the very open situations in which I have found them. On more than one occasion have I discovered a nest mainly owing to first having caught a passing glimpse of the glossy greenish-blue eggs reposing in it. I have known nests in various situations: in grass fields, in the banks of roadside ditches, in coarse grass on a hillside, on railway embankments, and at the bottom of gorse bushes on the upland wastes. There is no doubt that when built in this last-mentioned position the nest is exceedingly well hidden, and not likely to be easily discovered unless you chance to beat the bird out of her recess, or detect her quitting it as she hurriedly flies forth at the signal of danger from her mate. If the eggs are on the point of being hatched, the hen will sit uncommonly close; but if they have only been recently laid, the alarm-notes have the desired effect of scaring her away immediately.
During the period of incubation the male bird keeps a vigilant and incessant outlook, and gives warning of the approach of an intruder by sharply uttering the notes utac, utac, and there is no more convenient eminence for observing this habit than the top of a railway embankment, the cock bird, as a rule, being perched, sentinel-like, on the telegraph wires. My wife found two nests of this species on a grassy slope just outside Scarborough in the summer of 1892, each containing six eggs, which is the usual number of the clutch. There was nothing remarkable in the mere discovery of the nests beyond the fact that both were built within a few yards not only of each other, but of the old nests of the preceding year. Yet another instance of the tendency of birds to return annually to their erstwhile haunts. One of the nests I found by first noticing the eggs, was placed in an open bank in the middle of a field adjoining the river Lugg, in Herefordshire; it was the sort of situation a Redbreast might have chosen, but almost too exposed, I should have thought, for even this confidential species. Another nest was placed in a grass meadow that had been "laid" for hay, and could be seen from the footpath that bisected it.
​However, the most sure and effective way of discovering the nests of many of our spring migrants is to note the exact spot of a district they frequent on their arrival; there or thereabouts—unless the halt, as in the case of the Wheatear, is destined to be merely temporary—you may generally rely on meeting with them two or three weeks later. I took a clutch of seven beautiful eggs on May 18th, 1893, under circumstances which will serve by their narration a twofold purpose, viz. to adorn my story and point a moral.
I had noticed a pair of Whinchats frequenting a broken straggling hedgerow on their arrival just a month previously, and had also remarked that an artificial cutting or trench, overgrown with rank herbage, ran alongside of it. The movements of the birds showed pretty plainly that they had come to stay, so, merely jotting down in my note-book a memorandum as to the species, locality, and date, I troubled no more about the matter until the morning I removed their eggs to my cabinet. I have merely related the above as evidence of what can be done by a little intelligent observation in the early days of spring. I would also impress upon all those who tread the paths of ornithology the infinite value of learning the song of each different bird; many and many a time has a ripple of melody betrayed the fact of a nest in my vicinity when I had little suspected it. Again, it is of untold advantage to have at your fingers' ends the different haunts affected by the different species for nesting purposes, and the actual sites usually selected by them. Moreover, it is not probable that your eye will see every nest when you are hunting a hedge, or bank, or bushes, or the brushwood and undergrowth of plantations and woods—far from it; though the possession of a stout walking-stick, discreetly used, will frequently make up for any ocular shortcomings.
The eggs of the Whinchat vary in number from five to seven, but, as has been already intimated, six is a favourite clutch. Some are inclined to rotundity, others are elongated; while their ground colour is of a greenish-blue type, and occasionally exhibits a polished appearance, more especially when the eggs have been incubated for any length of time. Sometimes they are without the wreath of brownish frecklings round the larger end, but in most series this addition to their beauty is, I have reason to ​believe, fairly well established; occasionally the specks are faintly distributed all over the shell. The illustrious Colonel Montagu, who states that the eggs are entirely blue, without a spot, and in this connection compares them with those of the Stonechat, evidently had an experience very different to more modern observers; and it is difficult to reconcile what he so emphatically alleges on the point with the observations that annually come under my own notice, except on the plausible supposition that it is only of late years the brown frecklings have become so pronounced a feature in the appearance of the egg. They have little of the turquoise-blue of the Hedge-Sparrow's eggs about them, and they ought never to be confused with those of the Redstart, and seldom with those of the Stonechat. The variety egg I have often noticed in nests of the Whinchat takes the form of a much lighter ground shade, and the frecklings are generally more emphasized. To assert, however, that this egg is invariably the last one laid is contrary to the fact, for I have known instances when it was the first.
Sometimes when in pursuit of food this species has a pretty habit of poising itself on hovering wing—after the manner of Swallows in hay-fields before the grass has been laid low—and then darting down, snatching its prey, and flitting back as quickly as possible to the top of the bending spray from which it had only a few moments previously gone through the same process. I do not mean that Swallows actually perform all this—only that their suspensory movements in mid air when hawking for insects at a low level over tall standing grass are very similar to the hoverings of the Whinchat. The analogy, however, must not be carried any farther, for as the former species snaps up its prey at about its own level, the latter often indulges in a downward, almost pouncing kind of movement.
The statement that the Whinchat as a species passes the winter in these islands is, of course, entirely apocryphal; it may be that individuals have remained on occasions, but in the majority of cases it is warrantable to suppose that casual observers have mistaken the Stonechat for the bird under discussion. Neither have I any faith in the assertion that this species is double-brooded, and only regret that there is no means of tracing the authority for some of the remarkable statements ​with which not a little of the popular literature of the every-day bird-life of our islands is overburdened.
The song of the Whinchat is not unlikely to escape notice amidst the conflicting strains of various warblers, and, even if heard, may easily be mistaken by careless listeners for that of the Redstart. There is a peculiar harshness, not by any means unpleasing, about it; but, though I am very familiar with it, and never deem a few minutes' delay in order to listen to it as time ill-spent, I have presence of mind enough to know how feeble most attempts are that aim at reducing the songs of birds to writing. Syllables suggestive of the call-notes are all very well and frequently instructive, as, for instance, the late Mr. Seebohm's felicitous rendering of the Lesser Redpoll's call-note by the French word henri; nevertheless, attempts to give the full song of a bird on paper must more often than not end in fiasco. That of the Whinchat is interspersed with some beautiful flute-like strains, but the harsher tones predominate in the refrain which is not disappointingly curtailed, and is repeated again and again from some elevated perch where the performer takes up a conspicuous position on the topmost twig for minutes together. The performance is usually accompanied by a fanning motion of the tail.
My impression is that Whinchats' nests need not be looked for much before the end of the second week in May; my earliest recorded date is on May 12th for the first egg, and some other dates run thus: May 21st, May 26th, May 27th, May 28th, and May 29th; and it is partly on this account—late nesting—that I decline to accept the apparently irresponsible statement that the species rears two broods every year. The young of the first nest cannot be taught to provide for themselves all in a moment, and though some birds undoubtedly have two or three broods in the course of a summer, they are chiefly those that nest in our gardens and orchards, and whose young are out of the first-laid eggs before some of the migrants have reached our shores. Again, if these alleged second broods were so common, the males would surely treat us to a second edition of their May concert in June, which, as a matter of fact, they do not. Towards the end of this latter month, to my mind, it is quite melancholy to take a stroll through the woods—almost every voice is hushed.
​The male bird is quickly apprehensive of danger, and in nine cases out of ten espies the intruder long before the latter espies him. It is too late to acquire much information about the site of the nest when your first intimation of the presence of this pretty migrant is a sight of him on some commanding perch. As in the case of the Wheatear, the Goldfinch, and the Golden-crested Wren, I have never discovered the male Whinchat actively participating in the building of the nest, and I am quite positive that not a few of the smaller nests which we come across in this country in the course of the summer are solely the work of the females.
One word more. Is the Whinchat a mimic? It certainly possesses a note at times not unlike that of a Partridge, though, of course, on a modified scale.
The Stonechat (Pratincola rubicola).
The Stonechat affects those wild uplands and barren heaths which are studded with a luxuriant growth of furze and other bushes of a corresponding height, and here it secures concealment for its nest and young, and a supply of food, more or less, all the year round. I have only twice met with this bird in Leicestershire, and that was during the winter of 1886, and the autumn of 1898. I should mention, perhaps, that my home for over ten years was at Ashlands in that county, between two and three miles from my native village, and in the winter I have referred to a Stonechat used to come and perch on the temporary railings which protected a new cricket-ground that was being made near to the house. None of the workmen engaged in levelling the turf had the least idea what the bird was, though they showed a little discernment when sending me a message to the effect that "a funny kind of Flycatcher" was their constant companion. Certainly, the Stonechat's method of taking its food on the wing very much resembles that of the bird above mentioned, and the fact of its presence near to Ashlands in mid-winter tended to confirm Harley's statement to the effect that at that season "it left its ordinary habitat of the whin-covered moor and wild for the cultivated field and hedgerow." What warranty he had, however, for saying that the nest was occasionally lodged on the horizontal bough of a Scotch fir, I know not.
I am presumptuous enough to think, after careful observation, that the nomenclature of each of the three species, viz. the ​Wheatear, the Whinchat, and the Stonechat, is open to improvement, and that if lots were drawn as to which of the names should be applied to each bird, the result might not improbably be more in accordance with their individual haunts and habits than is now the case. The favourite perch of the Wheatear is beyond all doubt on some wall or rock, and its affection for stony places is notorious. The Whinchat, to my thinking, frequents the lowland pastures more frequently than the upland heaths, and is not necessarily to be sought amongst whins; while, on the contrary, the haunts of the Stonechat are confined almost exclusively to wild heaths and commons, and on the topmost sprays of the whin-bushes it is almost invariably to be seen stationed. Nevertheless, the Wheatear does not take its name from the haunts it particularly affects, as its congeners are supposed to do.
Bircher Common—or, to use the vernacular of the district, Bircher "Kimmin"—is one of the favourite resorts in Herefordshire of the Stonechat. Here it is an early breeder, and those who are in want of its eggs and meditate a search for the same on their own account, had better make a note of the fact. The allegation that it rears two broods in a season, however, is probably correct. The nest, somewhat slovenly put together, is almost invariably placed on the ground in the recess of some furze-bush, and is most skilfully concealed. It is composed of moss and dry grass, and lined with finer grass, hair, and occasionally a few feathers, while I have one nest in my memory, taken on Bircher Common, that was profusely lined with sheep's wool.
The eggs are subject to a certain amount of variation, but the ground colour is generally of a pale greenish blue, typical more of the shade of Spotted Flycatchers' eggs than that of those of its allied species, the Whinchat. They are, however, very prettily and distinctly mottled with specks and spots of reddish brown, which, when not confluent, frequently form a wreath round the broad end. I have never come across the unspotted variety in my wanderings. The most perfect clutch of Stonechat's eggs I ever saw came from the common I have already alluded to; they were not only of unusual size, but a magnificent zone of bold brown markings enriched the broad end of every one of them. Five is as frequent a number in a clutch as six, according to my observations.
The Redstart (Ruticilla phoenicurus).
Many birds pause awhile after reaching this country before engaging in nesting operations, but I am rather inclined to think that the Redstart is not one of the number. I knew of a nest in the hole of a tree one year that contained an egg so soon as the first day of May. Early on the morning of May 5th a heavy snowstorm raged for a couple of hours, and when, shortly afterwards, I inspected the nest, I found the hole, which faced due north, filled with snow, some of the eggs broken, the interior of the nest disarranged, and the locality forsaken by the birds themselves.
I have found many nests of this species in the course of my rambles, and noticed that, in addition to being a comparatively early builder, an especially favourite haunt is the pollard or "sally" trees—as they are termed in some parts of Herefordshire—that form so ornamental an appendage to the banks of rivers. I am not quite sure that pollard willows do not more correctly express the type of tree I have in my mind's eye; but willow, pollard, and "sally," all, I believe, indicate its colloquial appellation in different parts of the country. In the natural holes of such trees the Redstart loves to nidificate, though suitable cavities in stone walls are equally resorted to.
With regard to its eggs, I have found the clutches varying from five to eight, but am of opinion that six, equally with seven, is the more favoured number. They are smaller, and lighter in shade than Hedge-Sparrows', and the shell is far more brittle. Touching the colouring of the same, I find myself in distinct opposition to the experience and opinion of Mr. C. Dixon, as enunciated at page 138 of his 'Nests and Eggs of British Birds.' The author writes:—"It is said that the eggs of this species are 'occasionally speckled with reddish,' but surely this must be a mistake." I have not been able to trace the statement to which the author referred to above takes exception, but I can unhesitatingly corroborate its accuracy. I have on more than one occasion possessed myself of Redstarts' eggs with rufous brown specklings on them, though others in the clutch have been without any colouration, beyond, of course, that of the uniform pale greenish-blue ground shade.
Nevertheless, it is only a few summers ago that I found in a hole in an ash-tree near to Rolleston Hall, the residence ​of Lord Churchill in this county, a clutch of six Redstarts' eggs, all more or less boldly spotted with brown. The value of my "find," however, was sadly discounted by the fact of the eggs being on the point of hatching. In Mr. C. Dixon's same work, and at the bottom of the same page, it is alleged that Hedge-Sparrows' eggs are the only ones with which those of the Redstart can be confused in our islands. In my opinion, the latter bear a far more striking resemblance to Pied Flycatchers' than to Hedge-Sparrows' eggs, compare them how you will. Not only in grain and colour, but also in size and shape, Redstarts' eggs, I contend, approximate more nearly to those of the Pied Flycatcher. The highly polished shell to which some writers so pointedly invite attention as a distinguishing feature of the egg of the Redstart, I have never been discriminating enough to notice.
The song of the Redstart I am inclined to characterize as unequal. I have frequently been astounded by the melody flowing from the throat of this little bird, but on such occasions it has almost always been perched amidst the uppermost branches of lofty poplars, and April has invariably been the month when I have heard it warbling what I deem its most fascinating notes. It is many years now since I was first attracted by its song under such circumstances; and having previously regarded it as merely a mediocre performer, and as one that usually sang from a lower level, I brought my fieldglasses to bear on the songster, to avoid any risk of blundering; and what I then observed was recorded in my note-book on the spot. Subsequent meetings with the Redstart in April in Ireland, Wales, and other wide-distant portions of these islands, have not led me to alter the opinion I formed of its carol as delivered from the upper branches of a Leicestershire poplar—long, long ago.
In support of what I have written above, it gives me satisfaction to quote from Mudie's 'British Birds,' published in 1853, as follows:—"When the males arrive, they sing from elevated perches; but after the operations of nesting are begun, they sing lower, and always within a short distance of the nest." While, somewhat curiously, in the same connection and evidently pursuing the same train of thought, Seebohm wrote exactly thirty years later:—"It may also be noticed that the Redstart, directly after its arrival in April, seeks the tree-tops for his orchestra; but as the summer ​comes on this habit is lost, and the bird warbles from a lower perch, usually in the neighbourhood of his nest."
The Redstart has a very peculiar habit of shaking the lower portion of its body at intervals when stationary, quite different from the gentle, fanning, up and down movement of the tail that is associated with the Whinchat. The former seems to be periodically shaking out its feathers, somewhat after the manner of a Peacock, though, of course, on a much less obtrusive scale. The song in a general way, as I believe has been stated in my notice of the Whinchat, bears some resemblance to that of this latter bird. It has likewise a peculiarly rich, liquid note, occasionally heard when in flight, sounding in my ears like tu-ee, tu-ee, tu-ee, tu-ee, tu-ee.
However, to revert for one moment to its nesting site: the hole chosen is invariably a natural one; there is no such thing as artificially adapting it to its requirements, as is the case with some of the Woodpeckers. The nest itself is artlessly put together, and is formed of roots, small fibres, and dry grass, and frequently a little wool, and is lined with hair and occasionally a few feathers.
I do not see that we have any means of ascertaining whether or not this species is life-paired. Redstarts are, beyond question, very conservative in their regard for old haunts, but, considering it is generally admitted that the sexes do not migrate in company—the males usually preceding the females in the spring of the year—it must be purely a matter of speculation.
One other little point I would touch on before closing this sketch; it refers to the marked similarity between the alarm-note of the Redstart and that of the Chaffinch. It may possibly take a very skilful ear to discriminate between the two utterances, but I think it will be admitted that there is a more plaintive character about the alarm-note of the Redstart than is noticeable in the case of the other species; while the former also frequently emits a sound, two or three times quickly repeated, which resembles that form of annoyance in an individual so commonly expressed by the tongue and the teeth without the aid of language.
In the summer of 1896 I found a Redstart's nest, full of young, in a kettle hung on a nail in an old tumble-down shed near to Keythorpe. I have also known the species utilize a site just previously tenanted—with success in the matter of rearing their young—by a pair of Great Tits.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
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