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In this chapter I will give a few scenes from rook life, as I have watched it from late autumn to early spring, linking them together by a remark now and again of a general nature, or, possibly, some theory which my observations may have suggested to me, and seemed to illustrate. Were I to put into general terms what I have jotted down at all times and in all places, in the darkness before morning when the rookery slept about me, in the dim dawn whilst it woke into life, to stream forth, later, on wings of joy and sound, in the long day by field and moor and waste, and at evening again, or night, when the birds swept home and sank to sleep amidst their own sinking lullaby, I might make a smoother narrative, but the picture would be gone. I think it better, therefore, to make a preliminary general apology for all roughnesses and repetitions, triviality of matter, minuteness of detail and so forth, in fact for all shortcomings, and then to go on in faith, not in myself, indeed, but in the rooks, believing that they will be interesting, however much I may stand in their way.
When I speak of the rookery I do not mean the trees where the birds build—unfortunately there are none very near me—but those where they come to roost during the autumn and winter—true rookeries indeed if numbers count for anything. Here, their chosen resting-place is a silent, lonely plantation of tall funereal firs, standing shaggily tangled together, mournful and sombre, making, when the snow has fallen but lightly—before they are covered—a blotch of very ink upon the surrounding white. Who could think, seeing them during the daytime, so sad and abandoned, so utterly still, tenanted only by a few silent-creeping tits, or some squirrel, whose pertness amidst their gloomy aisles and avenues seems almost an affectation—who could think that each night they were so clothed and mantled with life, that their sadness was all covered up in joy, their silence made a babel of sound? In every one of those dark, swaying, sighing trees, there will be a very crowd of black, noisy, joyous birds, and strange it is that there should be more poetry in all this noise and clamour and bustle than in their sad sombreness, deeply as that speaks to one. The poetry of life is beyond that of death, and when the rooks have gone the dark plantation seems to want its soul. It is Cupid and Psyche, but under dreary, northern skies. Every evening the black, rushing wings come in love and seem to kiss the dark branches, every morning they kiss and part, and, between whiles, the poor longing grove stands lifeless, dreams and waits. But how different would it seem if the rooks were a crowd of men—nice, cheery, jovial, picturesque, civilised men! Thank heaven, they are a crowd of rooks!
I will now quote from my journal:
"Walking over some arable land that rises gently into a slight hill, my attention is attracted by a number of rooks hanging in the air, just above a small clump of elm-trees on its crest. They keep alternately rising and falling as they circle over the trees, often perching amongst them, but soon gliding upwards from them again. A very common action is for two to hover, one above another, getting gradually quite close together, when both sinking, one may almost say falling, rapidly, the upper pursues the under one, striking at it—either in jest or earnest, but probably the former—both with beak and claws. The downward plunge would end in a long swoop, first to right or left, and then again upwards, during which the two would become separated and mingled with the general troop. This action, more or less defined and perfect, was continued again and again, and there were generally one or more pairs of birds engaged in it. The rest rose and fell, many together, and obviously enjoying each other's society, but without any special conjunction of two or more in a joint manoeuvre. Their descents were often of a rushing nature, and accompanied with such sudden twists and turns as, sometimes, seemed to amount to a complete somersault in the air—though as to this I will not be too certain. The whole seemed the outcome of pure enjoyment, and seen in the clear blue sky of this fine bright October morning—the last one of the month—had a charming effect.
"A fortnight later I happened to be near some woods to which rooks were flying from all directions, to roost, as I thought then, but afterwards I found it was only one of their halting places. They were in countless numbers, one great troop after another flying up from far away over the country. The air was full of their voices, which were of a great variety and modulation, the ordinary harsh (though pleasant) 'caw' being perhaps the least noticeable of all. Each troop flew high, and, on coming within a certain distance of the wood—a fair-sized field away—they suddenly began to swoop down upon it in long sweeping curves or slants, at the same time uttering a very peculiar burring note, which, though much deeper and essentially rook-like in tone, at once reminded me of the well-known sound made by the nightjar. Imagine a rook trying to 'burr' or 'churr' like a nightjar, and doing it like a rook, and you have it. Whilst making these long downward-slanting swoops the birds would often twist and turn in the air in an astonishing manner, sometimes even, as it seemed to me, turning right over as a peewit does, in fact, exhibiting powers of flight far beyond what anyone would imagine rooks to possess, who had only seen or noticed them on ordinary occasions.
"Whilst these birds sweep down into the trees others of them settle on the adjoining meadow-land, but they do not descend upon it in the same way, but more steadily, though still with many a twist and turn and whirring, whizzing evolution. Neither do they utter the strange burring note to which I have called attention, and which is a very striking sound. Starlings are mingled with these latter birds, flying amongst them, yet in their own bands, and alighting with them on the meadow, where they continue to form an imperium in imperio. Both they and the rooks descend at one point, in a black or brown patch, but soon spread out over the whole meadow, from which they often rise up in a cloud, and, after flying about over it for a little, come down upon it again. At last a vast flock of starlings—numbering, I should think, many thousands—flies up, and, being joined by all those that were on the field, the whole descend upon the woods, through which they disseminate themselves. Almost immediately afterwards, the rooks, as though taking the starlings for their guide, rise too, and fly all together to the woods. Now comes a troop of some eighty rooks, and, shortly afterwards, another much larger one—two or three hundred at the least—all flying high, and going steadily onwards in one uniform direction. They are all uttering a note which is difficult to describe, and does not at all resemble the ordinary 'caw.' It has more the character of a chirrup, loud in proportion to the size of the bird, but still a chirrup—or chirruppy. There is great flexibility in the sound, which has a curious rise at the end. It seems to express satisfaction and enjoyable social feeling, and, if so, is very expressive. One feels, indeed, that every note uttered by rooks is expressive, and if one does not always quite know what it expresses that is one's own fault, or, at any rate, not theirs.
"Twenty more now pass, then twenty-seven, and, finally, another large body of some two to three hundred—all flying in the same direction. It is the last flight, and, shortly afterwards, the loud harsh trumpeting of pheasants is heard in all the woods and coverts around, as they prepare to fly up into their own roosting trees. This dove-tailing of two accustomed things in the daily life of rooks and pheasants I have often noticed, but it must be mere coincidence, for pheasants vary in their hours of retirement, whilst the leisurely homeward journeying of rooks, with pauses longer or shorter at one place or another, occupies, in winter, most of the afternoon.
"November 27th.—By the river, this afternoon, I noticed two great assemblages of rooks down on the meadow-land, whilst others, in large numbers, were flying en route homewards. Of these, two would often act in the way I have before described—that is to say, whilst flying the one just over the other with very little space between them, both would sink suddenly and swiftly down, the upper following the under one, and both keeping for some time the same relative position. But besides this, two birds would often pursue each other downwards in a different way, descending with wide sideway sweeps through the air, from one side to another, after the manner of a parachute, the wings being all the while outstretched and motionless. In either case the pursuit was never persisted in for long, and obviously it was no more than a sport or an evolution requiring the concurrence of two birds.
"Again, two will sweep along near together, at slightly different altitudes, with the wings outspread in the same way—that is to say, not flapping. Then first one and afterwards the other gives a sharp wriggling twist, seeming to lose its balance for a moment, rights itself again, and continues to sweep on as before. Then another wriggle, a further sweep, and so on."
Since seeing the curious manner in which ravens roll over in the air—as described by me—I have watched the aerial gambols, as one may almost call them, of rooks more closely. There is a certain place, not far from where I live, where these birds make an aerial pause in their homeward flight; for, whilst many are to be seen settled in some lofty trees of a fine open park, others sail round and round in wide circles and high in the air, over a wide expanse of water in the midst of it. After wheeling thus for some time, first one and then another will descend on spread wings, very swiftly, and with all sorts of whizzes, half-turns or tumbles, and parachute-like motions. When watched closely through the glasses, however, it may be seen that, very often, these rushing descents have their origin in an action, or, rather, an attempted action, very much like that of the raven. The idea of the latter bird is to roll over, so as to be on its back in the air, and, by closing its wings, it is able to achieve this without, or with hardly, any drop from the elevation at which it has been flying. The rooks seem to try to do this too, but instead of closing the wings, they keep them spread, as open, or almost so, as before. Consequently, instead of just rolling over, their turn or roll to either side sends them skimming sideways, down through the air, like a kite—a paper one, I mean. Peewits close the wings and roll over in much the same way as does the raven, but this is generally either preceded, or followed, by a tremendous drop through the air, with wings more or less extended, so that the whole has quite a different effect.
"Of the two assemblies on the ground, one is in perpetual motion, birds constantly rising—either singly, in twos or threes, or in small parties—from where they were, flying a little way just above the heads of their fellows, and re-settling amongst them again. Thus no individual bird, as it seems to me, remains where it was for long, though those in the air, at any given moment, form but a small minority, compared with the main body on the ground.
"But the birds composing the other great assemblage keep their places, or, if some few rise to change them, these are not enough to give character to the whole, or even to attract attention. It is curious to see two such great bodies of birds close to each other, and on the same uniform pasture-land, yet behaving so differently, the one so still, the other in such constant activity.
"About 4 p.m. a great number of rooks rise from some trees in a small covert near by, and fly towards those on the ground. As they approach the first great body—which is the lively one—the birds composing it rise up, as with one accord, and fly, not to meet them, as one might have expected, but in the same direction as they are flying. So nicely timed, however, is the movement, that the rising body become, in a moment, the vanguard of the now combined troop.
"All these birds then fly together to the other assembly, and whilst about half of their number sweep down to reinforce it, the other half continue to fly on. The flying rooks, however, are not joined by any of those on the ground. How curious it is that, in the first instance, the one whole body of birds does the same thing instantaneously, and as by a common impulse, whilst in the second, half acts in one way, and half in another, each appearing to have no doubt or hesitation as to what it ought to do! Again, how different is the conduct of the two field-assemblages. One rises, as with one thought, to join the flying birds. The other, as with one thought, remains standing. Unless, in each case, some signal of command has been given, then what a strange community of feeling in opposite directions is here shown. Where is the individuality that one would expect, and what is the power that binds all the units together?
"Are rooks led by an old and experienced bird?—which is, I believe, the popular impression, as embodied in a famous line of Tennyson, for which one feels inclined to fight. At first sight, the rising of a whole body of rooks (or any other birds) simultaneously, either from the ground or a tree, might seem to be most easily explained on the theory of one bird, recognised as the chief of the band, having in some manner—either by a cry or by its own flight—given a signal, which was instantly obeyed by the rest. But how—in the case of rooks—can any one note be heard by all amidst such a babel as there often is, and how can every bird in a band of some hundreds (or even some scores) have its eyes constantly fixed on some particular one amongst them, that ought, indeed, on ordinary physical and mechanical principles, to be invisible to the greater number? If, however, to meet this latter difficulty, we suppose that only a certain number of birds, who are in close proximity to the leader, see and obey the signal, and that these are followed by those nearest to them, and so on till the whole are in motion, then two other difficulties arise, neither of which seems easy to get over. For, in the first place, the birds do not, in many cases, appear to rise in this manner, but, as in the instances here given, simultaneously, or, at least, with a nearer approach to it than any process of spreading, such as here supposed, would seem to admit of; and secondly, it is difficult to understand how, if this were the case, any bird—or, at least, any few birds—could fly up without putting all the others in motion. Yet, as I have mentioned, birds in twos or threes, or in small parties, were constantly rising and flying from one place to another in the assemblage of which they formed a part, whilst the vast majority remained where they were, on the ground. This fact offers an equal or a still greater difficulty, if, dismissing the idea of there being a recognised leader, we suppose that any bird may, for the moment, become one by taking the initiative of flight, or otherwise. And even if we assume that any of these explanations is the correct one, in the case of a whole body of rooks taking sudden flight, or directing their flight to any particular place, or with any special purpose, what are we to think when half, or a certain number of the band does one thing, and the other half another, each, apparently, with equal spontaneity? We are met here with the same difficulties—and perhaps in a still higher degree—as in the case of the flocks of small birds at the stacks in winter.
"If rooks follow and obey a leader, one might expect them to do so habitually, at least in their more important matters. The flight out from the roosting-trees in the morning, and the flight into them again at night are—when it is not the breeding-season—the two daily 'events' of a rook's life. Here, then, are two subjects for special observation.
"November 30th.—At 3 p.m. I take up my position on the edge of a little fir-plantation, a short distance from where I watched yesterday and the last few days. My object is to watch the flights of rooks as they pass, and try to settle if each band has a recognised leader or not. Of course it is obvious that no one bird can lead the various bands, for these come from over a large tract of country, whilst even those that seem most to make one general army, fly, often at considerable intervals of time, and quite out of sight of each other.
"A good many are already flying in the accustomed direction, but singly, or wide apart. Each bird seems to be entirely independent.
"The first band now approaches. One rook is much in advance for some distance. He then deviates, and is passed by the greater number of the others, who continue on their way without regard to him.
"Another great, irregular, straggling body in which I can discern no sign whatever of leadership. Then comes another, more compact. A rook that at first leads by a long interval is passed by first one and then another, so that he becomes one of the general body.
"A large band, flying very high. Two birds fly nearly parallel, at some distance ahead.
"Two large bands, also very high. In each, one bird is a good way ahead. The apparent leader of the second band increases his distance, curves a good deal out of the line originally pursued, nor do the others alter their course in accordance.
"Two other bands. In each the leader theory seems untenable. The birds have a broadly extended front, and fly at different elevations. There is nothing that suggests concerted movement, but, on the contrary, great irregularity.
"In another band the apparent leader swoops down to the ground, and, whilst only half-a-dozen or so follow him, the main body proceeds on its way.
"Hitherto there has been a good deal of the familiar cawing noise, but, now, a number of birds fly joyously up, hang floating in the air, make twists and tumbles, perform antics and evolutions, and descend upon the ground with wide parachute-like swoops from side to side, the wings outspread and without a flap. I am first made aware of their approach by the complete change of note. It is now the flexible, croodling, upturned note—rising at the end, I mean—that I know not how to describe, totally different from the 'caw,' nor do I hear a 'caw' from any of these descending birds. It is the note of joy and sport, of joyous sport in the air, of antics there as they sweep joyously down through it, that I now hear. The birds that caw are flying steadily and soberly by. The 'caw' is the steady jog-trot note of the day's daily toil and business—'Jog on, jog on, the footpath way.'
"Another great band, of such length and straggling formation that the birds in the latter part of it could not possibly see the leader if there were one—or indeed, I should think, the vanguard at all. The first bird is passed by two others, then passes one of these again, and remains the second as long as I can see them.
"Another long flight that seems leaderless. With the 'caw' comes a note like 'chug-a, chug-a, chug-a' (but the u more as in Spanish), and others that I cannot transcribe. This flight goes on almost continuously—I mean without a distinct gap dividing it from another band—for about ten minutes, when another great multitude appears, flying at an immense height and all abreast, as it were—that is to say, a hundred or so in a long line of only a few birds deep. This, perhaps, would be the formation best adapted for observing and following one bird that flew well in front, but I can see no such one. All these birds are sailing calmly and serenely along, giving only now and again an occasional stroke or two with the wings. Now comes a further great assembly, in loose order, all flying in the same direction. A characteristic of these large flights of rooks is that their van will often pause in the air and then wheel back, circling out to either side. The rearguard is thus checked in its advance, the birds of either section streaming through each other, till the whole body, after circling and hanging in the air for a little, like a black eddying snowstorm (all at a great height), wend on again in the same direction, towards their distant roosting-place. With the air full of the voice of the birds, there is no caw—only the flexible, croodling, chirruppy note that has a good deal of music in it, as well as of expression. This note, I think, is what I have put down as 'chug-a, chug-a, chug-a.'
"There is now a continuous straggling stream, forming ever so many little troops. The first bird of one troop tends to become the last of the one preceding it, and the last one the leader of the troop following. Then come numbers, flying in a very irregular and widely disseminated formation, yet together in a certain sense. There is much of rising and sinking and again floating upwards, of twists and twirls and sudden, dashing swoops downwards, from side to side, like the car of a falling balloon; two birds often pursuing each other in this way.
"And now come two great bands, one flying all abreast, as before described, the other forming a great, irregular, quasi-circular rook-storm. Leadership in the latter case would be an impossibility; in the former I see no sign of it. All these birds, though at a fair height, are flapping steadily along in the usual prosaical manner; through them, and far above—at a very great height indeed, the highest I have yet seen, and far beyond anything I should have imagined—I see another band gliding smoothly, majestically on, with scarce an occasional stroke of the eagle-spread pinions. The one black band of birds seen through the others, far, far above them, has a curious, an inspiring effect."
Rooks, when in continued progress, either fly with a constant, steady flapping of the wings, in a somewhat laboured way, though often fairly fast, or they sail along with wings outspread, and flapping only from time to time—this last, however, only when they are at a considerable height. A crowd of rooks, indeed, in the higher regions of air present a very different appearance to what they do when they fly about the fields, even though at a fair height above the trees; their powers of flight in each case seem of a very different kind. They can also soar to some extent, rising higher and higher on outspread wings as they sweep round and round in irregular circles—like gulls, but far less perfectly, and they have to flap the wings more often. Add to this their downward-rushing swoops, their twists, turns, tumbles, zig-zaggings, and all manner of erratic aerial evolutions, and it must be conceded that the powers of flight which they possess are beyond those with which we generally associate them in our mind.
Seen thus, trooping homewards, in all their many moods and veins,
"Whether they take Cervantes' serious air,
Or laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy-chair,"
their flight, combined with their multitude, is full of effects. To-day their widely extended bands were often, like so many black snowstorms filling a great part of the sky. But at no time did I see anything resembling leadership. "The many wintered crow that leads the clanging rookery home" is—a lovely line. On no other occasion could I make out that rooks obeyed or followed any recognised leader, and I came to a similar negative conclusion in regard to the question of their employment of sentinels. It is asserted in various works—for instance, in the latest edition of Chambers's "Encyclopedia"—that they do post sentinels. I will give two instances of their not doing so—as I concluded—and my experience was the same on other occasions, which I did not think it worth while to note.
"December 22nd.—To-day, I saw a number of rooks blackening a heap of straw by a stack, whilst some were on the stack itself. Many were sitting in some elms near about, but they did not appear to me to be acting the part of sentinels. When I tried to get up to the hedge in order to watch the rooks at the stack, through it, they flew off, a good deal later than their friends in the trees must have seen me, and not till I was quite near. If these had really been sentinels, they should have warned the rest, either the instant they saw me, or at any rate, when I was obviously approaching, but this they did not do. They were, therefore, either not sentinels or inefficient ones." The second case, however, is more conclusive.
"January 8th.—To-day, on my way down to the roosting-place, I pass a number of rooks feeding in a field, and not far from the road. They are all more or less together, there are no outposts, though of course there is, of necessity, an outer edge to the flock. But neither on the hedge or in any of the trees near, are there any birds to be seen. On the other side of the field, however, and a very considerable way off, a few are sitting in some trees. It hardly seems possible that these can act the part of sentinels at such a distance, and even if they were much nearer, the feeding rooks would have either to be looking at them, to see when they flew, or else, the alarm must be given by a very loud warning note. Bearing this in mind, I alight from my cycle, and walk along the road. The rooks, without any dependence on sentinels far or near, note the fact, bear a wary eye, but continue feeding. I then stop—always an alarming measure with birds. The feeding rooks fly off to a safer distance, the ones in the trees remain there as silent as ever, nor is there any special note uttered by any one bird of the flock, nor anything else whatever to suggest that any particular bird or birds is acting the part of sentinel." There is certainly no sentinel in this case, and in matters directly affecting their safety one might suppose that rooks, as well as other birds and beasts, would act in a uniform manner. This, however, we can clearly see, that when there happen to be trees, near where they are feeding, some of them will usually, and quite naturally, be perched in them, and average human observation and inference may have done the rest.
Rooks, I am inclined to think, are not birds that give their conscience into keeping. Each one of them is his own sentinel.
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