CHAPTER IX. OUR FEATHERED FRIENDS. "Birds, the free tenants of the land, air, and ocean, THE Tory Fox Hunter, of whom Addison has given such a racy sketch in the "Freeholder," is a right sensible old gentleman in some respects after all; and nowhere does he show to greater advantage than there in the park, "at the side of Rosamond's Pond, pulling a handful of oats out of his pocket, and with a great deal of pleasure gathering the ducks about him." It gives one an immense advantage over the crowd of mere lookers-on at such a place to be able to deal out the contents of a wellstored pocket, and with a little skill in the distribution of your favours, you may easily get up a very pretty aquatic entertainment in which feathered performers from all the "five" quarters of the globe do their best to amuse the company. The water-fowl in St. James's Park are old friends of ours, and have often beguiled us into idling away an hour under the fine old elm-trees which adorn the banks of the lake. The place itself is a very agreeable one, and seated there beside the water on a summer afternoon, with the Club Houses, the Royal Palaces, and the venerable old Abbey, all in view between the trees, the roar of the great city mingles pleasantly with the rustling of the leaves overhead, and gives one a comfortable sense of security against all interruption from the noisy world outside the park gates. It sometimes happens, indeed, that what with the comparative quiet and seclusion of the place, the heat, and the glare from the water together, we drop off into a sort of waking dream, and, all unconscious of the human accompaniments round about us, fancy ourselves far away on some distant shore or river bank, attending to one or another of our vivacious friends upon the water in their own proper homes. There is one thing, however, 190 ASSISTANCE WANTED. of which we sadly feel the want in these open-eyed excursions into dreamland, namely, some convenient ornithological “Who's Who?" to supply us with the names and the original geographical whereabouts of the different members of the feathered fraternity. With most of the party we can get along pretty well by ourselves, but the appearance of a single strange fowl is enough at times to put a stop to our musings, and to make us feel how acceptable would be a plain, practical "handy-book' of aquatic ornithology. "If this should meet the eye" of the Rt. Hon. gentleman who is charged with the care of Her Majesty's woods and forests, we would humbly submit to him that this is a matter in respect to which he might very appropriately afford us a little of his official assistance. That assistance is given in one direction, and it ought to be given in the other. The case is this:-In the park gardens every tree or shrub of any interest is carefully indicated by an iron label, duly setting forth its scientific and its English name, the family of plants to which it belongs, its native country, and the date of its introduction into Britain; and yet, from one end of the park to the other, there is not so much as a painted board to guide us to a knowledge of the splendid collection of aquatic birds which disport themselves on the ornamental water. But why should not the birds have their labels as well as the bushes? If there be any conceivable reason for providing a label specially to tell the world that yonder scrubby-looking bush is "Buxus sempervirens, The Common Evergreen Box, An Euphorbiaceous Shrub, Native of England," surely there is just as good a reason for telling us in the same fashion that the Duck making off from under the said Buxus is no other than Anas mollissima, the Eider Duck which weary heads will never fail to bless, or that those Geese sailing along under the bank there are the famous Bernicle Geese (Anser leucopsis) which, in days gone by, used to grow upon trees, like apples, and when they were ripe for the change, dropped into the water and swam away, true feathered fowl! We do not forget, of course, that our feathered friends are endowed with rather active powers of locomotion, and that unless they were made to wear the labels round their necks-which it is highly probable that neither the birds themselves, nor their owners, the Ornithological Society, would very well like—a set of A HETERODOX SUGGESTION. 191 labels would be of little service in enabling uninitiated people to indentify the different species. That is very true; but a little help is better than no help at all; and we are by no means sure but that, properly arranged along by the side of the water, in some suitable and conspicuous position, a series of labels would teach a great deal more than might at first be supposed. It will certainly do no harm to try the experiment; so, pray Mr. Woodsand-forests, be so good as give us the names of our friends, and tell us, too, whence they originally came. It would open the eyes of a good many of the habitués of the park to see it duly set forth that there are no less than four or five distinct species of those noble birds, the Swans, to be seen upon the ornamental water; but with eyes open to the fact the points of difference between the different species would soon be recognized. The tame Swan (Cygnus olor), distinguished from its congeners by the caruncle or berry on the bill, as also by the graceful carriage of its neck, which, when the spirit of the bird is up, gives it such an air of grandeur on the water: "The Swan with arched neck, Between her white wings mantling, proudly rows Her state with oary feet." It is commonly said that this graceful peculiarity in the bear ing of the Swan is owing to the fact that it has an unusual number of vertebræ in the neck; but that explanation, although a true one so far as it goes, is not of itself sufficient. All the Swans are similarly endowed in that respect, and yet none but Cygnus olor knows how to throw its neck into the elegant curve in question. How shall we account for the difference? It is very heterodox zoologically no doubt, but we are ourselves inclined to think that it is simply the result of good breeding, one of those courtly airs which the bird has caught from its long association with royal and other courtly beauties. But that it early caught the trick we have the most positive evidence; for in an ancient cameo representing Leda and the Swan, the bird has the same elegant bending carriage as is now observable. The ornithologists have revenged themselves upon the ancient and medieval writers or their fables respecting the vocal powers of the Swan, by dubbing it the mute Swan. In this, however, they have simply gone from one extreme to another. It was no doubt 192 THE MUSICAL SWAN. very absurd in Albertus Magnus to speak of the Swan as the "largest of singing birds," but it is not much wiser to call it a mute. That it is not absolutely voiceless may be ascertained without trouble; and it is well known to those acquainted with the habits of the bird, that in spring and summer, when leading about its young brood upon the water, it breathes a soft plaintive cry, which, coming from an aquatic bird, is no bad apology for a song. It is not at all improbable that the exaggerated notion which formerly obtained on this subject may have originated in part from confounding Cygnus olor with the Hooper or Whistling Swan (Cygnus ferus), and thus attributing to the former the qualities of both. Not that the Hooper can make any great pretensions to song either, though he does constantly make himself heard, "clangingly on sounding pinions," as Homer expresses it; and what is still more to the purpose, is found to this day about " Cayster's flowery side." That the loud trumpeting call of the Hooper is not an unmusical sound is vouched for by Bechstein-no mean authority on singing birds-who proposed to give it the specific name of musicus. But as priority is everything in the nomenclature of science, Linnæus's appellation of ferus is still retained in preference. The main point, however, in the ancient story, is not that the Swan was vocal, but that its vocal powers were greatest, and that it sang most melodiously, just before its death. "It never smokes but there is fire," says the proverb, and though there is no doubt a great deal of poetic dressing in this "Swan song" story, we are yet strongly inclined to suspect that there is truth at the bottom if we could only get at it. Let us try. Bechstein's Musical Swan will still help us. The Hooper is an occasional winter visitor to the British Islands, and Mr. St. John, in his "Wild Sports and Natural History of the Highlands," gives a very interesting account of its habits. Amongst other things he treats us to a spirited description of a Swan-shooting adventure, of which the following is the conclusion: "I was not above forty yards from them, so gently raising myself on my elbow, I pulled the trigger, aiming at a forest of necks. To my dismay the gun did not go off, the wet or something else having spoilt the cap. The birds-a herd of between fifty and ORIGIN OF THE STORY. 193 sixty Hoopers-were slow in rising; so without pulling the other trigger, I put on another cap, and standing up, fired right and left at two of the largest Swans as they rose from the loch. The cartridge told well on one, who fell dead into the water: the other flew off after the rest of the flock, but presently turned back, and after making two or three graceful sweeps over the body of his companion, fell headlong, perfectly dead, almost upon her body. The rest of the birds, after flying for a short distance away, also returned, and flew for a minute or two in a confused flock over the two dead Swans, uttering their bugle-like and harmonious cries; but finding that they were not joined by their companions, presently fell into their usual single rank, and went undulating off towards the sea, where I heard them for a long time trumpeting and calling." Now it strikes us that in the incidents of this adventure we have all the materials that are necessary to account for the ancient story, and we have little doubt that it really did originate in some such fashion. Eley's cartridge, swan-shot, and double barrels are all modern inventions of course, but there were wellfeathered arrows and trusty bows even in Homeric times; and sacred though the Swan was to Apollo, it no doubt often fell a victim to "crack shots" thus primitively equipped. If this be granted, and that the habits of the bird were the same then as now, there is nothing more required. For what would be more natural than that the affectionate solicitude of the birds for their slaughtered companions, prompting them, regardless of their own safety, to linger lovingly about the dead bodies, "uttering their bugle-like and harmonious cries" the while, should strike the attention, and be celebrated in song, and that the story once set going should grow and grow, as stories always do, until at length it assumed the shape in which we know it? It is thus that stories of the kind commonly arise, and we see no reason to doubt that such was the origin and history of the famous story of the dying Swan's song. The Black Swan (Cygnus atratus) is an Australian bird, and was first made known by the early navigators who visited that insular continent in the south. Although it was first introduced into England not more than sixty years ago, it has now become so thoroughly acclimatized and hardy, that it breeds with us even more freely than the common Swan. In 1858 a pair of these birds |