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The Water-Ouzel, Kingfisher and Terns - their habits
CHAPTER XXV.
The Water-Ouzel: Nest; Singular Habits; Food; Song of-Kingfisher ;
Rare Visits of; Manner of Fishing-Terns: Quickness in Fishing;
Nests of.
For several years a pair of those singular little birds the water-ouzel have built their nest and reared their young on a buttress of a
bridge, across what is called the Black burn, near Dalvey. This
year I am sorry to see, that owing to some repairs in the bridge,
the birds have not returned to their former abode. The nest, when
looked at from above, had exactly the appearance of a confused
heap of rubbish, drifted by some flood to the place where it was
built, and attached to the bridge just where the buttress joins the
perpendicular part of the masonry. The old birds evidently took
6ome trouble to deceive the eye of those who passed along the
bridge, by giving the nest the look of a chance collection of
material. I do not know, among our common birds, so amusing
and interesting a little fellow as the water-ouzel, whether seen
during the time of incubation,0 , during the winter months, when
he generally betakes himself to some burn near the sea, less
likely to be frozen over than those more inland. In the burn
near this place there are certain stones, each of which is always
occupied by one particular water-ouzel: there he sits all day,
with his snow-white breast turned towards you, jerking his
apology for a tail, and occasionally darting off for a hundred
yards or so, with a quick, rapid, but straightforward flight; then
down he plumps into the water, remains under for perhaps a
minute or two ; and then flies back to his usual station. At other
times the water-ouzel walks deliberately off his stone down into
the water, and, despite of Mr. Waterton's strong opinion of the
impossibility of the feat, he walks and runs about on the gravel
at the bottom of the water, scratching with his feet among the
small stones, and picking away at ail the small insects and animalcula which he can dislodge. On two or three occasions, I
have witnessed this act of the water-ouzel, and have most distinctly seen the bird walking and feeding in this manner under
the pellucid waters of a Highland burn. It is in this way that
the water-ouzel is supposed to commit great havoc in the spawning beds of salmon and trout, uncovering the ova, and leaving
what it does not eat open to the attacks of eels and other fish, or
liable to be washed away by the current; and, notwithstanding
my regard for this little bird, I am afraid I must admit that he
is guilty of no small destruction amongst the spawn.
The water-ouzel has another very peculiar habit, which I have
never heard mentioned. In the coldest days of winter I have
seen him alight on a quiet pool, and with outstretched wings
recline for a few moments on the water, uttering a most sweet
and merry song-then rising into the air, he wheels round and
round for a minute or two, repeating his song as he flies back
to some accustomed stone. His notes are so pleasing, that he
fully deserves a place in the list of our song-birds ; though I
never found but one other person, besides myself, who would own
to having heard the water-ouzel sing. In the early spring, too,
he courts his mate with the same harmony, and pursues her from
bank to bank singing as loudly as he can-often have I stopped
to listen to him as he flew to and fro along the burn, apparently
full of business and importance-then pitching on a stone, he
would look at me with such confidence, that, notwithstanding
the bad name he has acquired with the fishermen, I never could
make up my mind to shoot him. He frequents the rocky burns
far up the mountains, building in the crevices of the rocks, and
rearing his young in peace and security, amidst the most wild
and magnificent scenery.
The nest is large, and built, like a wren's, with a roof-the
eggs are a transparent white.
The people here have an idea that the water-ouzel preys on
small fish, but this is an erroneous idea ; the bird is not adapted
in any way either for catching fish or for swallowing them.
During a severe frost last year, I watched for some time a
common kingfisher, who, by some strange chance, and quite
against its usual habits, had strayed into this northern latitude.
He first caught my eye while darting like a living emerald along
the course of a small unfrozen stream between my house and the
river; he then suddenly alighted on a post, and remained a short
time motionless in the peculiar strange attitude of his kind, as if
intent on gazing at the sky. All at once a new idea comes into
his head, and he follows the course of the ditch, hovering here
and there like a hawk, at the height of a yard or so above the
water: suddenly down he drops into it, disappears for a moment, and then rises into the air with a trout of about two inches
long in his bill; this he carries quickly to the post where he had
been resting before, and having beat it in an angry and vehement
manner against the wood for a minute, he swallows it whole. I
tried to get at him, coveting the bright blue feathers on his back,
which are extremely useful in fly-dressing, but before I was
within shot, he darted away, crossed the river, and sitting on a
rail on the opposite side, seemed to wait as if expecting me to
wade after him ; this, however, I did not think it worth while
doing, as the water was full of floating ice,-so I left the kingfisher where he was, and never saw him again. Their visits to
this country are very rare, I only have seen one other, and he
was sitting on the bow of my boat watching the water below
him for a passing trout small enough to be swallowed.
The kingfisher, the terns, and the solan geese are the only birds
that fish in this way, hovering like a hawk in the air and dropping into the water to catch any passing fish that their sharp
eyesight can detect. The rapidity with which a bird must move,
to catch a fish in this manner, is one of the most extraordinary
things that I know. A tern, for instance, is flying at about
twenty yards high-suddenly he sees some small fish (generally a
sand-eel, one of the most active little animals in the world),-
down drops the bird, and before the slippery little fish (that
glances about in the water like a silver arrow) can get out of
reach, he is caught in the bill of the tern, and in a moment afterwards is either swallowed whole, or journeying rapidly through
quite a new element to feed the young of his captor. Often in
the summer have I watched flocks of terns fishing in this manner
at a short distance from the shore, and never did I see one
emerge after his plunge into the water without a sand-eel.
When I have shot at the bird as he flew away with his prey, I
3iave picked up the sand-eel, and there are always the marks of
his bill in one place, just behind the head, where it seems to be
invariably caught.
The terns which breed in the islands on a loch in the woods
of Altyre, fully five miles in a straight line from where they
fish, fly up to their young with every sand-eel they catch. I
have seen them fly backwards and forwards in this way for hours
together, apparently bringing the whole of their food from the
sea, notwithstanding the distance ; their light body and long
swallow-like wings make this long flight to and fro less fatiguing to the tern than it would be to almost any other bird.
Great numbers of terns breed every year on the sandhills.
Their eggs, three in number, are laid in a small hole scraped
amongst the shingle, or on the bare sand. Generally, however,
they choose a place abounding in small stones ; and their eggs
being very nearly of the same colour as the pebbles, it is very
difficult to distinguish them. The nests being frequently at so
considerable a distance from the water, it has often been a matter
of surprise to me how the young birds can live till they have
strength to journey to the seashore. I never yet could find any
of the newly-hatched terns near the nests, and am of opinion that
the old birds in some way or other carry off their young, as soon
as they are out of the egg, to some place more congenial to so
essentially a water-bird than the arid ground on which they are
hatched. During fine weather the terns never sit on their eggs
in the daytime, but, uttering unceasing cries, hover and fly about
over the spot where their nests are. All day long have I seen
them hovering in this manner, with a flight more like that of a
butterfly than of a bird. If a man approaches their eggs, they
dash about his head with a loud angry clamour; and all the
other terns, who have eggs, for miles around, on hearing the cry
of alarm, fly to see what it is all about, and having satisfied their
curiosity, return to the neighbourhood of their own domicile,
ready to attack any intruder. If a crow in search of eggs happens
to wander near the terns' building-places, she is immediately attacked by the whole community, every bird joining in the chace,
and striking furiously at their common enemy, who is glad to
make off as quickly as she can. The terns, having pursued her
to some distance, return seemingly well satisfied with their feat
of arms. I have also detected the fox by the rapid swoops of
the terns as they dash at him if he happens to pass near their
nests.
There is one kind of tern that breeds on the sandhills, which
is peculiarly beautiful, the lesser tern, or Terna minuta. This
little bird, scarcely bigger than a swift, and of a pale blue in the
upper part of her plumage, is of the most satin-like and dazzling
whiteness in all the lower portions. It is a most delicate-looking
creature, but has a stronger and more rapid flight than the larger
kinds, and when he joins in their clamorous attacks on any
enemy, utters a louder and shriller cry than one could expect to
hear from so small a body. Its eggs are similar in colour to
those of the common tern, but much smaller.
The roseate tern also visits us. I do not know that I have
ever found the eggs of this kind, but I have distinguished the
bird by its pale bluish coloured breast, as it hovered over my head
amongst the other terns.
A favourite position of the tern is on the stakes of the salmon-fishers' nets. Frequently every stake has a tern on it, where, if
unmolested, they sit quietly watching the operations of the fishermen. Indeed, they are rather a tame and familiar bird, not
much afraid of man, and seeming to trust (and, as far as I am
concerned, not in vain) to their beauty and harmlessness as a
safeguard against the wandering sportsman. Excepting when
wanting a specimen for any particular purpose, I make a rule
never to molest any bird that is of no use when dead, and which,
like the tern, is both an interesting and beautiful object when
living.
These birds make but a short sojourn with us, arriving in
April in great numbers, and collecting in flocks on the sands of
the bay for a few days. They then betake themselves to their
breeding-places, and, having reared their young, leave us before
the beginning of winter.
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