The Zoologist/4th series, vol 4 (1900)/Issue 708/An Observational Diary of the Habits of the Great Plover, Selous
AN OBSERVATIONAL DIARY OF THE HABITS OF
THE GREAT PLOVER(ŒDICNEMUS CREPI-
TANS) DURING SEPTEMBER AND OCTOBER.
By Edmund Selous.
(Continued from p. 185.)
September 19th.—Arrived between 11.30 a.m. and 12 o'clock. The place seemed deserted. I could discover no birds after searching it well with the glasses. On rising to go, however, after remaining about half an hour, I put up one bird quite near on the edge of the bracken, and, later, three or four others from right amongst the bracken where it was a little thin and open. At about 4 p.m. a flight of some thirty or forty Great Plovers flew down on the scant (I think, burnt) heather bounding one portion of the amphitheatre, there having been none there before. Soon after I left.
September 20th.—Rose early, and, after some hours spent elsewhere, walked across the moor to the road that runs through it. Some little time after reaching it—it being now perhaps seven or between seven and eight—a large flock of Great Plovers flew over the moorland, and came down amongst the heather. They were followed by other flocks, all flying in a long, thin, irregular line. This made them less difficult to count, and I counted upwards of seventy in the largest flock. There must have been, I should say, near two hundred in all. A broad bank of earth runs near here, through both heather and bracken, clothed either with the one or the other, and behind the heathery part of this, and near to where a broad gap divides the two, the birds went down. Crawling up to this bank, and looking over it, I had a near and plain view of them. They were just standing and sitting about in the heather, and did not appear occupied with anything in particular. Whilst watching them another small party flew up, and, my attention being drawn by a note which I had not heard before, I observed that one of these latter birds was pursued by a Hawk—I think, a Sparrow-Hawk. The two were close together—in fact, almost touching—the Hawk just above the Plover, spread like a fan over him, following every deviation of his flight, upwards, downwards, to one or another side, but sometimes falling just a little behind, though there was never a space between them. The two, so to speak, always overlapped. The Hawk, however, did not strike, nor, apparently, attempt to, and neither the pursued Plover nor any of the others appeared to me much concerned.[1] I can hardly say why—perhaps it was the easy, parachute-like flight of the Hawk, with nothing like a swoop or pounce, and the bright clear sunshine diffusing an air of joy over everything—but somehow the whole thing did not impress me as being in earnest, but rather a sport or play. After a little while the Hawk left the Plover, and flew off to some distance over the moor, and alighted upon it. The cry made by the bird pursued (I assume it was made by that one) was so different from the note I had yet heard that I at first thought it was the Hawk, which I imagined to be mobbed by the Plovers, and in distress. I was soon satisfied that this last was not the case, and doubt on the other point was soon removed, for, the whole flock of birds shortly rising and flying off, I now heard the same note uttered by them all about. It is very different to any other one that I have yet heard. Though plaintive, it is not nearly so wailing, and more musical. It is a whistling note, with a sort of tremulous rise and fall in it ("tir-whi-whi-whi-whi-whi") very pleasant to hear, and bringing the sea and beach to one's mind. The whole troop shortly returned, and came down once more in the heather, in a little while again rose, circled about, flew off, returning again—and did this several times, giving me the idea that they are congregating previous to migration, and have the restless feelings preceding it. When the birds settled they would proceed a little through the heather, making their quick short runs with abrupt stops, and following each other, but the greater number of them would before long settle down and sit about amongst the tufts. They never ran over the tufts, but in and out amongst them as we would do. I observed no dancing, though altogether I must have had the birds under observation, I should say, at least a couple of hours. Neither did I observe them to be catching insects, or otherwise procuring food. Also I note that, except for this new note ("tir-whi-whi-whi-whi-whi"), and for far the greater part of the time, the birds flew silently. The whole flight up was in silence until the Hawk incident. No cry uttered whilst on the ground.
At about 5.30 to 6 p.m. I returned to this same bank, distant by about some thousand yards from the place where I had first seen the birds assembled, and watched them dancing. When they had flown off in the evening, they had always gone in one direction (towards where I now was), and I wished to see if they would again settle on the heather here, or fly on, as I supposed they would. Not expecting to find any birds here now, I walked up without precaution, and put a good many up from the same place as this morning. It was a pity, as I should have liked to have noted their behaviour also as the evening came on. I now sat down behind the bank, looking over it in the direction of the amphitheatre. About 7 p.m. (as I suppose), the moon being well risen and bright (full or almost full), the birds began to fly up and over me, heralded by their wailing cry. I counted some twenty odd, but most escaped me in the gloom (the moon not helping much). They showed no inclination to stop at this second place of resort (as I now think it to be), but went right away over the country, flying in twos, threes, or fours at irregular intervals. Compare this with their morning flight in a great flock, silent, or, if not, uttering a quite different note.[2]
September 21st.—Walking to the same place as yesterday, I concealed myself on one side of the bracken-covered part of the bank near the wide gap, and commanding the moor in two directions. This must have been about 5.35 or 40 a.m.
Bright and clear, but breezy and chilly. Rabbits about, but not very alert, and as I walked along the road I noticed several that sat as if asleep by their burrows.
Lightening now in the east, but sun not yet visible from behind a wooded hill.
A small flock of Starlings (first bird-life noted) fly by over the moor.
Few minutes afterwards cooing of Wood-Pigeons heard in distance (more or less) from wooded parts around.
Sun now risen over crest of hill.
Some small birds fly over the moor in same direction as Starlings (towards some wooded pieces).
A Stonechat hovers in the air quite near me (I think, examining me), the body seeming always to be in the same place, and almost motionless, the wings continually and strongly waving.
Some ten or fifteen minutes later (sun now shining through tops of row of tall fir-trees skirting road not far off) a couple of Wood-Pigeons fly over the moor, and the cooing becomes more en évidence. Then, as the sun crests the fir-trees, a Thrush (flying very high for a Thrush) flies over moor. Then seven Wood-Pigeons high in air. Small birds now fly over in numerous little parties, two often chasing each other in joy and sport, as though it were the pairing season. Their twittering is heard about, the earth becomes lightened by the rising sun (now well over firs), and life really awakes.
But no sign of the Great Plovers yet.
Sun well up (twice height of fir-trees), yet no sign of them.
Must now be getting on for seven.
Hawk sailing in air some way off, annoyed by quite a cloud of small birds. This continues for some time. They do not appear to be Swallows, but Buntings (to give a guess), and other small Passeres. Hawk makes no endeavour to catch one.
Splendid day as yet, but sharp and cold.
In about another quarter of an hour a small flight of Wild Duck fly high in air, following course of stream (up stream).
I now notice some Plovers amongst the heather on other side of bank in same place as before. They have, I think, been there all the time, but I had taken them for Rabbits, and not used the glasses. I cannot make out a dozen. They are quite quiescent, all sitting, some preening themselves a little. Searching the heather thoroughly can make out a few more, equally inactive.
Whilst thus engaged the main body of the birds came by in a great flock, flying right over me, many of them, I should think, not more than eight to twelve feet above me as I crouched on the ground (perhaps lower). I had just got back to the other side of the bank, and raised my head, as it were, into a cloud of birds. It was a charming and indescribable sensation, to be thus suddenly surrounded by these free fluttering creatures. They were all about me, and so near. The delicate "whish, whish" of their wings was in my ears, and in my spirit too. I seemed in flight myself, and felt how free and how glorious bird-life must be. They had taken me quite by surprise, coming up quite silently from the direction of the amphitheatre—upwards of one hundred at the very least, I should say; but so effectually does the heather conceal them that, now they are down with the rest, I can only count thirty through the glasses. After running a little in their characteristic way, as described, they for the most part stand and sit about in the sunny heather. I can now, though none have gone up since, only count eleven in the heather.
Another flock—this time a small one—now flies over me, and joins the rest. I am again taken by surprise, as I am lying on my face, examining the other birds, with my back (or rather my heels) turned towards where these come from. Can only tell that they fly from the same general direction as the first flight, and they also pass exactly over me at a similar height.
The birds, having now thoroughly settled down, I search the heather well with the glasses over a wide space, and out of all that great number can only make out twenty-six. The glasses discover a good many open pools and little canals of grass amongst the heather, but in none of these is a bird to be seen. They must therefore be right amongst the heather. Many of those I count are heads just protruding from it. Others are standing or sitting against the side of the tufts where it is rather thinner. A small naked patch or two may therefore be said to be occupied in this way, but where it gets more open there are no birds. I should think, indeed, that the birds generally sit close against the sides of the heather-clumps, and not right in the middle of them. Those that I can see seem to be so situated.
It must now be past eight, perhaps past nine, but there has been no flying backwards and forwards from one place to another, or circling about, as on yesterday. The birds have all remained where they went down, nor have any of those that were there when I came flown away. They are, indeed, wonderfully quiet this morning (compared, at least, with yesterday), hardly a bird running (none just now), but all sitting and sunning themselves; for one rising and running, or rising merely, becomes at once visible. It is a fine sunny day, but was fine and sunny in the morning yesterday too. It is, however, I think, somewhat less cold.
September 22nd.—Between 3 and 4 a.m. a violent storm was blowing, with, as I thought, rain, and I was anxious to see how this weather might affect the birds. At daylight, though not quite so rough, it was still blowing almost a gale. No rain was falling, nor do I think any had fallen. A west wind; the western part of the sky clear. I first went to my old watch-place on edge of amphitheatre, expecting to find the birds assembled there, as they had flown up yesterday from that direction; but, on searching with the glasses, I could not discover any. (It was quite light, probably between 5.30 and 6, but had forgotten to look at clock before starting.) I then walked to same place as yesterday, and, sitting with my face turned towards where I had come from, waited for the birds, hoping to be able both to watch their flight up and mark their point of departure. I first noted, however, that some birds (possibly a good number, though I could only make out six or seven) were sitting in the heather on other side of bank, in same place as before. This long bank, for the most part covered with bracken, dividing the moor, and approaching in one place near a patch of open wood, gives fine opportunities for patient watching. I watched, however, in vain—no birds appeared; and, when I judged it to be about nine or later, I thought it no use to stay longer. It may perhaps be on account of the very strong stormy wind inclining them to lie close, for I do not suppose they had flown up before I came, so much earlier than on the two preceding mornings.
As I am on the point of going five birds fly up, but on reaching bank they shear off, and fly right away instead of going down amongst the others; may possibly have seen me. They did not come from direction of the amphitheatre as on former occasions.
In reflecting on the incident of the Hawk and Plover, as witnessed by me on morning of 20th, I begin to think I may have misinterpreted it—undervalued it, so to speak. At the time it did not seem to me either that the Hawk was much in earnest or the Plover much alarmed; nor could I observe that the birds generally seemed particularly scared or excited. Reflecting now, however, that my attention was first called to it by a peculiar cry on the part of the Plover, which I had not heard before, and that the frequent utterance of this cry by the birds generally, their restlessness, frequent risings, circlings about, and flights backwards and forwards from one place to another, all took place subsequent to the chase; and then, contrasting this conduct with their behaviour next morning (not rising again after they had once gone down), I am inclined to think that the one may be explained by their alarm at the Hawk, and the other represent their usual habits.
September 23rd.—Must have got to the bank (same place as yesterday) about six. Sun just rising. Fine day. A fair amount of wind, but nothing compared to yesterday. Calm and still in comparison. Some birds in heather as before. Cannot tell how many, or whether any have flown up. After sitting and waiting a long time my attention was attracted by some cries of Herons in neighbouring copse, and I crept up the bank and listened, with the intention, if the Plovers should not come soon, of walking over and trying to get close enough for observation. At this moment, and whilst looking in opposite direction, a small flock of Plovers flew over me, and came down amongst those already in the heather. There were seventeen, and they flew quite silently. Vexed to have missed them again, I re-descended the bank, and had not been settled in position many minutes when a large number (evidently the main body) rose in a cloud into the air (as it seemed to me directly over the amphitheatre), and after circling a little, shining in the sun (their light under surface looking a beautiful soft silver), came straight down in my direction. I concealed myself well amongst the bracken. They passed as before, but, as I had a little shifted my position, not so directly over me. They flew silently—I did not hear a single cry—and as soon as the last had passed me I crawled again to the edge of the bank, and was in time to see most of them come down in the heather amongst the others—a very pleasing sight. They alight with wings raised above the back, and little stilt-legs stretched down, slanting a little forward, and on touching the ground give (in most cases, I am not sure if in all) a little run forward. After the descent there was a good deal of running about, and very shortly another smaller flock flew up, doubtless from same place, though this I did not see. This last may have contained some twenty to thirty birds. The main body it was impossible to count; they were more together than before, not in the long straggling line that I had noted on 20th. After they had gone down I made haste to count them before they had become more concealed by the heather, and I made out one hundred and eight, some five or ten minutes later about seventy, and again, counting them after making these entries (commencing from about the Herons, and taking, I should say, a quarter of an hour), I could still make out fifty-four. They do not therefore appear to have concealed themselves quite so effectually as on 21st. There were no birds running about. As far as I can judge without a watch, it must have been about 8 a.m. when the birds flew up. After the last batch of them had arrived I again heard, once, the whistling note I have described ("tir-whi-whi-whi-whi-whi"), otherwise there was complete silence.
(To be continued.)
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