The Zoologist/4th series, vol 4 (1900)/Issue 706/An Observational Diary of the Habits of the Great Plover, Selous

by Edmund Selous

 

AN OBSERVATIONAL DIARY OF THE HABITS OF
THE GREAT PLOVER⁠(ŒDICNEMUS CREPI-
TANS) DURING SEPTEMBER AND OCTOBER.

By Edmund Selous.

 

The Great or Norfolk Plover being not yet exterminated in East Anglia, I spent some time during last September and October in observing its habits.

A thick belt of bracken fringes on one side a barren area of sand scantily clothed with lichen or moss, or with some very close dry herbage, which (if not the lichen itself) is browsed on by Rabbits. In other parts it is bounded by a tangle of very long thin wiry grass, or by some stunted and sorry-looking heather, clinging amidst sand and flints. Beyond, on one side, is the river; on the other a piece of open moorland, which the bracken also fringes on one side, whilst the road skirts it on another. I had seen the Plover on this sandy waste (which I here call the amphitheatre or plateau), and thought the bracken might give me the means of getting closer to them than I had before been able to do.

The following notes were made almost always on the spot, sometimes whilst the actions noted were proceeding, usually just after. They were copied out, and sometimes a little elaborated or added to on my return home the same evening. If occasionally I put down something after a longer interval of time, I had always kept it quite fresh in my memory.

September 1st, 1899.—Crept up through the bracken to edge of open space between 5 and 6 p.m., and found myself close to a number of the Great Plover. They, however, shortly took alarm from the moving of the fronds, and flew farther off, but to no great distance for the glasses. Some three or four birds remained quite near. The birds that had flown off were joined by others, and at last by a flock of ten. They may then have amounted to some fifty in all, and stood stretched out in a long straggling line, ganglion-like in form, swelling out into knots where the birds were grouped more thickly, with thinner spaces between. Watched them mostly through the glasses. Characteristic actions were preening feathers of the breast and wings. The latter they stretch out, and then, twisting the neck to one or the other side, passed the primary quill-feathers, as it seemed to me, through the beak. Another—one of the birds near me—laid one side of the head on the ground so that I could see the eye of the other side staring up. This I observed for the first time. The reason I do not know. Thought at time it was to rub the head, but, as I have often seen them scratch their heads with one foot most neatly and effectively—as indeed do all birds—this would seem superfluous, and moreover it kept the head still.

Whilst watching the main body of birds I observed one make several sudden little impetuous runs in different directions, beating and striking about with its wings. There was excitement, but the actions seemed to have no reference to the other birds (as of display), who seemed quite indifferent. The line was long and in general very straggling, and this particular bird was not in any close proximity to others, but rather segregated.

One of the birds that had remained after the others flew off now came very near, so that—still using the glasses—I observed, as he made one of the little quick characteristic runs forward (suggestive of a Thrush on the lawn), the object which occasioned it—a delicate white thing in the air, which I took to be a small thistle-down. This he secured and ate, and I imagined that his peckings at it after it was in his possession were to disengage the seed from the down. Almost immediately afterwards, however, a small brown moth came into the field of view, flying low over the belt of dry bushy grass where the bird was. Instantly the bird (who seemed to catch sight of the moth about the same time as I did) started in pursuit, with the same rapid run and head stretched out. He got up to the moth and essayed to catch it, pecking at it in a very peculiar way, not excitedly or wildly, but with little precise pecks, the head closely and guardedly following the moth's motions, the whole strongly suggestive of professional skill. The moth eluded him, however, and the bird stopped rigidly, having apparently lost sight of it. Shortly afterwards, when the moth had gone some way, he caught sight of it again, and made another quick run in pursuit, coming up again, and again making his quick little pecks, but unsuccessfully as before. There was then the same pause followed by the same run, then a close near chase, and finally the moth was caught and eaten. What I had taken for a small thistle-down had been probably therefore (though the other is possible) a small white moth. It was quite a distance from where the bird first sighted the moth to where he finally caught it. In another chase, the object of which I was unable to see (twilight coming on), the same bird, at the end of a run, made a straight-up jump into the air (missing it, I think). This latter action I have not observed before, but the quick eager runs with sudden start-stops between—the head thrust eagerly forward—were so exactly the habitual actions of these birds (as I have often watched them at a greater or less distance through the glasses) that I now feel sure they are usually pursuing low-flying moths or other insects at such times. I had before often connected these actions with something on the ground—imagining a fresh object for each run—and had wondered both at the eyesight of the bird and its apparent want of interest when it got to the spot. Aerial game had not occurred to me.

Later, another of the few birds near me kept running about at short intervals in an excited manner, waving or rather flinging its wings about in a tumultuous manner.

Another one, quite close (but now getting dark), seemed much occupied in probing or picking up something from the ground; but all at once it also made a run forward, throwing about its wings, and did so several times afterwards in a way which suggested a relation between this and its search for food on the ground, or whatever else the actions suggesting such search may have really been. (Query. Did it attempt to beat down a low-flying moth with its wings? But the one that caught two moths—and this was very likely the same bird—made no such attempt, nor did the action suggest that at all forcibly.) In the two other birds this excited running about and beating of the wings suggested anything rather than a part of any process of food-getting. I incline to think that the ground probing or pecking action has some other meaning. Their sad wailing cry uttered all about by the birds whilst on the ground, as also whilst flying.

September 4th.—Got to same place about 6 p.m., and counted fifty-one birds standing or sitting about within the limits of the sandy amphitheatre in a scattered proximity. Watching through the glasses, I saw one bird advance quickly towards another (combatively, as I thought), and, when just in front of it, wave and flourish with its wings. Then, however, the same bird, turning, moved a step or two away from the one it had seemed to challenge,^[1] and crouched on the ground in a manner not at all suggestive of combative inclinations.^[2] Shortly afterwards either this same or another bird (but I think the same one) ran pugnaciously at another, and both then stood with outstretched wings and heads craned forwards (the tips of the beaks seeming almost to touch each other), apparently on the point of engaging in combat. They did not do so, however, but in a moment or so paced away from each other, and stood indifferent.

As it grew towards twilight I again noticed the sudden little rushings of the birds, accompanied with wavings of the wings, and this became much more frequent as the twilight deepened. At length, by fits and starts—now one and now another, so that there were generally several at a time in different parts of the amphitheatre—the whole troop of birds were thus occupied, and it became an interesting spectacle. I watched as long as I could through the glasses, and, when no longer able to use them, very luckily two birds came quite near me, so that, although now semi-dark, I could see them well with the naked eye. Watching the whole time as closely as possible, I endeavoured to make out the meaning of this wing-waving, and it appeared to me that it was in connection with the chase of flying insects, sometimes (as I observed and feel sure about) in aid of a jump into the air after one, at other times owing, as it seemed, to excitement merely—the excitement (and I think the social excitement) of the chase. But that it occurred in and as a part of the pursuit of game (insects) I could not doubt after what I had seen three nights ago. I noted that when one bird ran and waved his wings another would often run quickly up to him, also waving them, and join in the pursuit. Had I not seen the chase of the moths alluded to I should have thought this action either bellicose or a joining or rivalry in display, though I am sure I should not have felt satisfied with either theory. Now I can have no doubt that it was simply the desire of one bird to get what another was chasing—as with fowls, ducks, &c.

To sum up what occurs to me from this and the previous day's observation.

1st. The extension, waving, beating about, &c, of the wings—whilst not in flight—is an accustomed action of these birds, indulged in on various occasions, and ready to leap out under excitement, irrespective of any more particular reason.

2nd. It is employed (with some other set forms) as a challenge to combat, and (probably) acceptation of such challenge.

3rd. The birds spread and wave their wings whilst chasing insects.

(a) Through excitement merely.

(b) Possibly to beat down a moth, &c, on to the ground (doubtful).

(c) Possibly again to catch the wind, and assist them in their swift runs when it is with them (also doubtful).

4th. They help themselves with the wings in jumping up at flying insects which they are pursuing. (Seen distinctly.)

5th. I think, but cannot be sure (and assurance is much needed), that I saw once (Sept. 4th) a bird pursue a flying insect for a short distance on the wing, and near the ground. There was no doubt as to the chase on foot, and the flight came, or seemed to come, as part of such chase.

Not only were the actions of the birds whilst running (as described) exactly like those of the one I had seen catch the moths on Sept. 1st, but it would have been difficult to reconcile them with any other hypothesis than that of the pursuit of some aerial but low-flying prey. They frequently ran the game down, pecking it down as it were, and securing it either on or just above the ground, though to-day I never once actually saw the pursued insect.

The activity becoming so general and so greatly increased at twilight is in accordance with moths beginning to fly then.

A social feeling seemed to me to be manifested in this hunting scene—a sort of "Have you got one? I have. That bird over there's caught two!" idea. But this may be quite imaginary. Isolated birds (comparatively alone) ran about in the same way. Still, the whole scene with its various little incidents gave me that idea. Gradually, as it became dark, the birds all flew away, two or three or more together. It often seemed as if a chase ended in a flight away, but this may not have been really the case. It may have now become too dark for the birds to see and chase (perhaps minute) insects, or to see them at all, though they seem fairly nocturnal, and their visual powers are no doubt in proportion to the very large eyes.

One bird to-day was sitting right in a Rabbit-burrow. Though looking down at it from where I was, I could only see its head, shoulders, and upper part of the breast. The whole amphitheatre is more or less a Rabbit-warren, and Rabbits and birds were often extremely close together. Usually they seemed unaware of each other's existence, but when a Rabbit—either pursued by or pursuing another—ran with great speed, and seemed coming right down on a bird, the latter would manifest anxiety, and run a little to get out of its way.

September 5th.—Arrived about 5.30. Fair number of birds about, but not nearly so many as yesterday. Almost from time of my arrival they were all in more or less constant motion, their actions being exactly the same as before, excepting that the waving of the wings and little jumps into the air (as described) were, though not entirely absent, yet comparatively so. Just in front of me the air was peopled with a number of minute insects—gnats, flies, or small Hymenoptera—many hovering just above the ground, upon which (on blades of grass, &c.) they often settled. I make no doubt these, together with small moths, were the game pursued.

A large flock of Starlings came down upon the plateau, spreading themselves over the greater part of it, and they behaved just as the Plovers—running excitedly about in the same manner, and evidently with the same object. What interested me especially was that they frequently rose into the air, pursuing and, as I feel sure, often catching the game there (sometimes more than one in the same rise, I believe), turning and twisting about like Flycatchers, though with less graceful movements. Often, too, whilst flying—fairly high—from one part of the plateau to another, they would deflect their course in order to catch an insect or two en passant. I observed this latter action first, and doubted the motive, though it was strongly suggested. After seeing the quite unmistakable Flycatcher actions, I felt more assured as to the other.

The very great diminution in the waving of the wings to-day as compared to yesterday, whilst engaged in the same pursuit, I do not know how to account for. It may perhaps suggest that this is more due to excitement connected with each other's presence (social) than to any other cause. If so, the birds were not so socially excited to-day as yesterday, and this may possibly be due to the fact that their numbers were not nearly so great—hardly, I should think, amounting to half. Though I was not able to make out with the glasses any insect actually the object of pursuit, I did see two small moths flying low over the grass—just as required to explain the birds' actions. I believe, however, that the staple of their food was minute flies or gnats.

As it grew towards twilight—after the Starlings had gone—large quantities of Swallows and Martins took possession of the air round about. Whether they had come wholly or chiefly or partly for the insects I do not know.

I frightened several birds this time, and as the twilight closed in not many were left. Lying just within the edge of the bracken birds in ones or twos would often walk past me within twelve paces (as I judged), presenting of course a splendid view. A sudden bob forward of the head in a very swingy manner, the tail at the same time swinging up (very suggestive of a wooden bird that performs the same actions upon one's pulling a string) is a characteristic action, and seems to have no special reference to anything—unless deportment.

Left about 7.15.

September 8th.—Arrived somewhere between 5.30 and 6 p.m. Though as cautious as I could be, and keeping well behind the bracken (always lying flat), yet several birds took alarm and flew off, though not to any great distance. Including these I counted forty-one standing scattered about the amphitheatre. They were all of them particularly dull and listless, hardly moving from where they stood, and much less occupied in preening their feathers than has hitherto been the case. This inaction continued up to twilight, and I connect it in some measure at least with an unusual absence of insects at this time. For the first time I was bothered neither with flies nor (till nearly dark) mosquitoes, nor did I see any insect in the air or on the ground in front of me. Since the 5th it had rained heavily, and yesterday almost the whole day, whilst to-day has been bright and fine. This listlessness is in marked contrast with the great activity of the birds on the afternoon of the 5th, which was certainly displayed in catching insects, then much en êvidence. Still the diminished preening of the feathers and almost moping demeanour is not accounted for in this way. The only piece of action I observed whilst it was still good daylight was when one bird pursued another in a hostile manner, a cry being uttered by one of them (I think the pursued one) as of distress or remonstrance. (This, at least I think, but the birds were at too great a distance for me to be certain that it was not another of the birds round about that called.) With twilight, however, activity began, and the running and waving of wings was now perhaps more marked than it has yet been (at least on the part of some of the birds). One bird executed what might certainly be described as a dance, making swift (and apparently aimless) rushes backwards and forwards, waving the wings all the while in an excited manner, making now and again (I think) a little leap into the air, and, as a part of all this, a short flight just over the ground. I am justified in saying "as a part," for the bird did not stop and fly, and, on alighting, recommence, but the flight arose out of the wild waving and running, and when it was over these were at once resumed. Another bird made three little runs—advancing, retiring, and again returning—all the time with wings upraised and waving, then made a short flight close above the ground (describing segment of a circle), and, on alighting, continued as before. The birds, as a body, behaved similarly. I could not of course observe each one, but kept catching the light inner plumage of the wings as they were thrown suddenly up. All about now over the plateau the plaintive wailing notes were heard, and gradually—as on former occasions—the birds flitted off. I was again lucky in the first of the birds, whose dance movements I have more particularly described, being near to me, whilst the second, though a good deal farther off, was still plain through the glasses, in spite of the increasing gloom. Soon after this I had to lay the glasses down, and then I only got "dreary gleams about the moorland" as the wings of now one and now another bird were flung up. The interest to-day lay in the fact that, as far as I could observe, this wing-waving "dance"—for so, I think, it may be called—did not take place during (much less was it incidental to or part of) a hunt for food. The birds (so it appears to me) danced it purely for its own sake, and not in connection with anything else, which I had not felt satisfied about before. With most, at any rate, I think this was the case—certainly with the two that I saw best, and have chiefly instanced. One bird only I distinctly saw running and pecking something (insects presumably) off the dry scrubby grass, but this was not waving its wings.

On the last day of observation (Sept. 5th) the birds were early occupied in chasing insects, but it was not till twilight that the wing-waving began to be at all prominent. It then alternated with the chase, and it is possible that the two, though quite distinct, may sometimes have been combined together into a dancing hunt, or hunting dance, as indeed it seemed to me at the time (though very likely I was wrong). On all four occasions it is the close of the day that has ushered in the dancing, so that it would seem that the birds relax themselves in this way before leaving their grounds, and flying off into the night. (They are active during the night, and their cry is often to be heard as they fly high in the air.) But these dance-wavings of the wings must be carefully distinguished from when a bird pursuing an insect jumps into the air after it, aiding itself with its wings—as might naturally be expected. It is also possible that they may sometimes beat down a moth with the wings, but I do not think this has been the explanation of anything I have yet seen.

September 9th.—Arrived at about 7 p.m., when it was already getting dusk. Several birds there, but not so many as the day before. They were dancing when I got there, and I noted now, without any doubt, that they often made little leaps into the air whilst waving the wings—not at all in the same way, however, as the bird that I saw jump into the air after an insect. There was no doubt whatever as to the motive of that, and I now at once appreciated the difference. Nothing further noted. Left at 7.30.

September 10th.—Arrived some time between 5 and 6 p.m. Thought at first there were no birds there, but at last located them—a fair number—far off on the outer edge of the plateau. They remained there till shortly after the arrival of a Heron, who flew down near the middle of the space. They then began to come up, several approaching very close to the Heron—to look at him, it almost seemed—and I cannot help thinking, though nothing occurred to demonstrate, that they were not indifferent to his presence. The shades of evening were now falling, and the birds began to disport themselves as before. The light seemed more than usually bad for the glasses, so that I had soon to lay them down, and I obtained, perhaps without their aid, a better general impression. The birds ran about raising and waving their wings, often leaping into the air, and often making little flights, or rather flittings, over the ground as part of the disport, all as described before, uttering at intervals their sad wailing cry. It must not be supposed that all the birds acted thus at once. It was now one and now another, and the eye never caught more than a few gleams (three or four or five) of the flung-up wings at one time over the whole space. It was a gleam here and a gleam there in the deepening shadows. "Dreary gleams about the moorland" is indeed a line that exactly describes the effect. This disporting ended in, and was the recognized preliminary to, the bird's flying off. I counted seventeen (but many had flown before I began to count) as they flew one after another at short intervals over my head, uttering their wild note. Though of the same character, this note, as uttered on the ground, is not the same as when uttered flying. On the ground it is much more drawn out, and a sort of long wailing twitter^[3] often precedes and leads up to the final wail. In the air it comes as just a wail without this preliminary.

These birds, then, stand or sit about during the afternoon (but from what hour I do not yet know) in their chosen place of assemblage, and if not occupied in catching insects or preening themselves are dull and listless. But as the evening falls, and the air cools, they cast off their lassitude, think of the joys of the night, there is dance and song for a little, and then forth they fly. Sad and wailing as are their notes to our ears, they are no doubt anything but so to the birds themselves, and, as the accompaniment of what seems best described by the word "dance," may perhaps fairly be called "song." The chants of some savages whilst dancing might sound almost as sadly to us, pitched, as they would be, in a minor key, and with little that we would call an air. Again, if one goes by the birds' probable feelings—which may not be so dissimilar to the savages', or indeed to our own on similar occasions—"song" and "dance" seems a legitimate use of words.

September 13th.—Arrived 6 p.m. or little after. Very dark day. Sky livid and covered with clouds, and close sultry feeling as of approaching thunderstorm. It was with difficulty I could distinguish some few birds. As the gloom increased I caught a gleam or two, but nothing that I could see to note. Only some half-dozen or so birds flew over my head at the usual time. Whether the birds partook of the dullness of the day, or whether the small number checked the inclination to dance (as I suspect), there seemed to be very little of this.

September 14th.—Arrived at about 6 p.m., but have nothing special to note except that, there being some fifty or eighty birds in the amphitheatre, another large flock of them, numbering, as far as I could judge, from seventy-five to one hundred, flew over it. They did not, however, settle, and later I alarmed some of the standing ones, who flew farther away. Afterwards I counted thirty-five, but this may have included the later. This shows what numbers of the Great Plover there are in this part of England. Long may they continue, and (that they may) may nobody take the smallest interest in them!

September 15th.—(Weather dull, sky overclouded.) Arrived about 5.30 p.m. There were not many birds that I could make out, and none near. A drizzling rain soon began, and this increased gradually, but not beyond a smart drizzle. Shortly after the rain commenced the birds began to come down from where I had seen them, and (evidently) from other parts on the outer edge of the amphitheatre, and to spread all over it till there were numbers of them, and dancing of a more pronounced, or at least of a more violent kind than I had yet seen, commenced. Otherwise it was quite the same, but the extra degree of excitement made it, of course, much more interesting. It was, in fact, remarkable and extraordinary. Running forward with wings extended and slightly raised, a bird would suddenly fling them high up, and then, as it were, "pitch" about over the ground, waving and tossing them, stopping short, turning, pitching forward again, leaping into the air, descending and continuing, till with another leap it would make a short eccentric flight low over the ground, and pitch suddenly down in a sharp curve. I talk of their "pitching" about because their movements seemed at times hardly under control, and each violent run or plunge ending, in fact, with a sudden pitch forward of the body, the wings straggling about (often pointed forward over the head) in an uncouth dislocated sort of way, the effect was as if the birds were being blown about over the ground in a violent wind.^[4] They seemed, in fact, to be crazy, and their sudden and abrupt return, after a few mad moments, to propriety and decorum had a curious and "bizarre" effect. Though having just seen them behave so, one seemed almost to doubt that they had. One bird in particular that had come to within a moderate distance of me made itself conspicuous in the way I have tried to describe. It was one of some half a dozen gathered together under a solitary crab-apple tree almost directly opposite me, and both with the naked eye and the glasses I observed them all thoroughly well. One would often run at or pursue another with these antics. I saw one that was standing quietly caught, and, as it were, covered up in a little storm of wings before it could run away and begin waving its own. These little chases were evidently in sport, not anger. Very different was the action and demeanour of the two birds I saw about to fight. This and the general behaviour of the group made it evident that they were stimulated in their dance-antics by each other's presence. This is by far the finest display of the sort that I have yet seen, and must certainly be due to the rain, which the birds obviously enjoyed. They had been quite dull and listless before, but as soon as it fell they spread themselves all over the plateau, and the dancing began. As far as I could observe, the birds now were very little occupied in procuring food. There was a peck or so at something now and again, but this was casual, and, as it were, an interlude. The constant quick running and stopping whilst the wings were folded appeared to me to be only a part (the less excited part) of the general emotion, out of which the sudden frenzies arose. There was also the usual vocal accompaniment. As soon as they had spread themselves out over the amphitheatre the wailing note went up, and was caught and repeated from one part of it to another at greater or less intervals. The whole ended in flight as before.

I remark a great difference in the shade of these birds' plumage. The breast and ventral surface is indeed light in all, but, whilst the back is in some so dark as to look, towards evening, almost black through the glasses, in others it is so much lighter that it looks almost white by contrast, or even of itself.

September 17th.—About 1 p.m. walked towards the amphitheatre without concealing myself, wishing merely to ascertain if birds were there at that hour. When I was still a good way off a very large number rose into the air, and I then edged off so as not to alarm them further, and to let them resettle, which after a time they did, and I retired.

At 11 p.m., it being bright moonlight, I again went to the place, and walked around and over the entire amphitheatre, noticing and picking up several feathers in the moonlight. I did not put up a single bird, nor could I hear their cry anywhere around. The place was quite deserted. Returning, I had the pleasure of liberating a poor Rabbit caught in one of those vile toothed traps, the selling or possession of which should be made a criminal offence, with punishment to "fit the crime," à la Mikado.

(To be continued.)

 

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1. The actions of the challenged bird I did not note at the time, and cannot recall, though I think they were similar. Do what one will, a certain amount will be seen and forgotten, or but dimly recalled.
2. The bird appeared to me to elevate the tail and posterior part of the body generally.
3. This no doubt is the "clamour" mentioned by Mr. Aplin in 'The Zoologist' for October, 1899 (p. 437). It is full of a wild sad beauty, and effective beyond words. I too have only heard it uttered on the ground.
4. There was little or no wind after the rain commenced, nor has this explanation been tenable as yet even in the smallest degree.