The Zoologist/4th series, vol 4 (1900)/Issue 712/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.

(Continued from p. 277.)

 

September 24th.—Left house at 3.20 a.m. It was bright moonlight, with a strong wind. Walked to the amphitheatre, and sat down on the edge of it at another place which I thought better suited for observation. Whilst on my way heard the cry of a Great Plover (the ground-note) quite near to the road. I must have been only a few paces from it when it went up, which would never have occurred in the daytime.

Whilst still moonlight, and before the dawn had broken, heard cry of Peewits in the air, and afterwards, in first grey of the dawning, that of the Great Plovers, and shortly afterwards these birds commenced to fly; first some half dozen, singly, or one following another irregularly, and with more or less gap between them. They flew from the direction of the river over the amphitheatre and, without alighting on it, continued, just topping the bracken, till I lost them over the crest of a rise. Have no doubt they went to their gathering-place amongst the heather. A rabbit, when just light enough to see, jumped extraordinarily high, several times in succession, shooting up from amongst the bracken in a wonderful way. Soon after sunrise a great number of Peewits flew together low over the ground on outer margin of amphitheatre, and then circled around and over it, high in the air, and getting gradually higher. Amongst them I now observed a Kestrel-Hawk. It was flying with them, the Peewits being close together (in a flock) at the time, and, shortly after, he had separated a bird from the body (at least the bird became separated), and the two were some time flying together; but I saw no active attack on the part of the Hawk. The latter I shortly missed, whilst getting them through the glasses, and the Peewit soon after rejoined the flock. Here, again, and in a higher degree, it did not seem as if a serious attack was made, or even meditated, by the Hawk, for surely he could have struck one out of so many birds all around and close to him if he had intended to. Was it sport, therefore, or bullying, or affecting to do something beyond his strength? Afterwards, when the Peewits were walking about, I observed amongst them a Hawk (which I have no doubt was the same one, a Kestrel) springing about over the ground in an awkward and encumbered manner, which I at first attributed to injury, but soon saw that it had something in its claws which, I suppose, it was overpowering. Unfortunately, where it last settled down with its prey, a slight sandy ridge hid it from my view. The Peewits, both those which happened to be nearest to the Hawk and the flock generally, seemed not in the least alarmed, but wholly indifferent. I waited till near ten. Quite a small band of Plovers, not rising from the amphitheatre, but coming from some other place (not noted), flew over the bracken in the direction of the heath, but no further flight took place—no grand one, such as I had seen yesterday, and had hoped to see again from the moment of rising.

September 25th.—Rose early, and walked to same place as yesterday.

Small flight of Peewits (i.e. for Peewits—forty or fifty perhaps) observed flying, amongst which was a small bird, I think a Starling. It flew with them from one part of the flock to another, making, or appearing to make, little dives at particular birds. After a minute or so this bird flew back towards where the Peewits had risen from, and where a good many Starlings and other small birds were also feeding. Midway it was joined by another bird (either its own species or one somewhat smaller), which made wide, curving swoops or flights at it, sheering off on point of meeting, and again approaching. It is not easy to say what was the feeling—the mental attitude of the Starling (for I am pretty sure it was one)—towards the Peewits. Was it one of hostility? Was it sympathy? Or was it a joyous or a kind of fussy participation in the affairs of the latter? I incline to one of the latter explanations, or, as I think probable, to that of a mixture of the two. The attitude of the Peewits seemed one of mere indifference.

Compare, now, the two instances, observed by me, of a Hawk first flying with Great Plovers, then with Peewits. The Hawk being a bird of prey, an evil intention is, of course, the first and most natural hypothesis. He is a "suspect," and must take the consequences (which, here, will not be very serious for him). Yet I recall that, even with the Plovers, where this theory seemed most tenable, it did not impress me in that way at the time, though, on reflection, it seemed more and more likely. There (I believe) it was a Sparrow-Hawk, but in the other instance it was a Kestrel—and who can credit a Kestrel with having any serious designs upon Peewits? Afterwards, when it was on the ground, tearing prey, the Peewits all round and about did not betray the smallest apprehension. In the case of the Sparrow-Hawk with the Plovers, it may have been different; but with regard to their actions afterwards, these may have been due to myself, for though I lay as flat as I could, yet I was no doubt visible, the bank at that part not being clothed with bracken. Also, an incident, which I did not trouble to record, had just before occurred—viz. that some men with carts on the road, seeing me crawling flat in the heather, had thought I had broken a leg or otherwise hurt myself, and one of them (a delicious rustic) had walked up to me to make sure. This had put the birds up. The Hawk incident occurred later, after they had gone down again, with a small band of birds that had flown up to join them. But being put up once, and seeing me on the bank all the time, assuming that they did, may have caused the general disquietude I noted, and the Hawk may not have produced it. At any rate, here is one instance, as it appears to me, of a Hawk flying with a flock of birds for pleasure merely, and without a serious design upon them.

About 7.30 or 8 a small group of the Plovers rose from one part of the amphitheatre, and flew to another. In a few minutes they again rose, and, after circling about a little, flew away towards the heather, going straight towards the accustomed place. They numbered twenty-six, for, as they stretched out into a long irregular line, I was able to count them. They were followed shortly by another flight of thirty-three. But it soon appeared that they had not left the one gathering-ground to go to the other spontaneously (as I thought had been the case), but that they had been put up, for, shortly after the last flight had gone, a large drove of cattle, driven by a boy, passed right over where they had been. As the time corresponds with that at which the flights came up whilst I was watching at the bank, I have no doubt that this is the accustomed cause—that the birds, having fed during the night, assemble at early dawn in some chosen place, where, if not disturbed, they would probably remain till the evening; but, if put up, fly to join their fellows at another such place, probably the nearest.

Yesterday, being Sunday, the cattle were not driven across, and on the stormy morning they may also not have been. Possibly it is a not quite regular occurrence.

I should note that there had been no "dancing" amongst the birds whilst at the amphitheatre.

At 5.30 p.m. (raining, and continued so more or less all the time) walked to the bank, and found the birds assembled in the heather as before. I wished to see if they performed the same antics here, before taking flight, as I had been witness of at the amphitheatre. Unfortunately, there are no facilities here for a close view, and it was, even from the beginning, difficult to make the birds out through the glasses. I assured myself, however, that precisely the same thing was going on, and, as I think, rather more so than usual,^[1] so that I regretted much not being able to see better. I should not, however, speak positively, unless I had unmistakably seen some birds dancing in a very vigorous manner, and caught the "dreary gleams"—now more than ever so—very frequently. As the gloom darkened, they were difficult to distinguish from the white tails of the rabbits, but I do not think I ever confounded them. I now feel sure that these antics give expression to the anticipation of going and desire to be gone, which begin to possess these birds as evening falls. They are the prelude to, and they end in, flight. The two, in fact, merge into each other, for short flights, between the antics over the ground, are a part of the display (as I have described), and it is impossible to say which one of them will be continued into the full flight of departure. I also noted that the usual long-drawn wailing note which ordinarily precedes both dance and flight was, this evening, ushered in by a short, one-syllabled note of similar tone, several times repeated, but with well-marked intervals sufficiently long to take away its wailing character. I have not remarked this before.

September 26th.—Missed my way over moor, and did not get to bank till close on 4. With one doubtful exception, did not put up any Plovers during this wandering, though, as I got far beyond the bank and can only have passed it, as far as I can see, through the broad gap, I must have gone either right over or very near the place where they assemble. At 4.45 the first Great Plover flew over the bank (flying silently), and, a minute or two afterwards, I began to hear the cry. Another followed shortly afterwards. It was the very earliest twilight of the morning, the moon and stars quite bright, except in the eastern sky, where the latter were fading into dawn.

At 4.55 two more flew over. Then came in the following order and number:—1, 1, 2, 1, 1, 1, 2, 4, 1, 3, 1, 5, 2, 1, 2. One of the last two uttered a short single note of different tone to the usual one. It had a scrappiness in it, and was without the wailing character. One other bird—flying a little before these, the other way, and which, I think, was a Great Plover—uttered a short single note, repeated, which was again different, nor was it the "tir-whi-whi-whi-whi-whi." Otherwise, all flew silently; but the ground-note was now frequent. I had noted a small flock flying (and, I think, going down) on the other side of the bank, and the cries which I had before heard I attribute to these or other birds on the ground.

It is 5.10, and some five minutes since the last bird flew by. Now come 1, 1, 1, the last making the full characteristic wail, but without the wailing trills and twitters which, I believe, are only uttered on the ground. Getting lighter and lighter, and birds beginning to avoid me as they fly over the bank, but one of last three went quite close by me, without seeming to notice me. Then come eleven flying together in a flock, quite silently. Then two more. Time 5.17. Forty-nine birds, therefore, as a minimum, have flown up to this resort between 4.45 and 5.17 a.m. I cannot at all say how many may have come invisibly from an opposite direction, or how many flying over me I may not have observed (though I do not think any).

5.30.—Is now clear daylight, stars invisible, though moon still luminous. After a little, thinking the early morning flight home of the birds was now over, I rose to go. As I walked off the Plovers all rose from the heath, and I was astonished at their numbers. They flew round several times in a wide circle, and as they gradually, from the great cloud they had at first formed, spread out into something more resembling a line, I was enabled to count a considerable number of them. I counted 117, irrespective of a large section which separated itself from the rest and flew off to the amphitheatre, so grouped that I was unable to count them. The number of these last must, I should say, at least, have made up the balance of another hundred, which would make, as a minimum, 200 of them. But, I believe, they were more numerous—perhaps from 250 to 300 in all. I must have missed a great many in this rough counting, and the number that went off looked very great. At any rate, counting those that were certainly on the amphitheatre at this time, the whole flock cannot, I think, be much below 300.

On getting to my post at the amphitheatre I found, as I expected, that the birds had gone down there, for they rose again in another great flock, and again went down. At this same time (6) a small flock of Peewits swept over the barren ground between here and the river, and went down upon it.

At 6.35 a larger flock appeared, and began to sweep, circling around at a great height, uttering their cry. Noticed two of them chasing each other, apparently in sport.

7 o'clock.—Numbers of Peewits sailing about high up, and mingled with them a flock of Starlings. Two Peewits often chase each other, and there is, sometimes, in a sudden dip down and curve up again, a trace of the aërial evolutions of the spring. They "faintly imitate" them, as Gibbon might say. Peewits and Starlings spread over the open space, searching about (apparently) for food, though it is difficult to think what, exactly, they get on such arid, barren ground. One Peewit will often rise from the ground and fly at another one near, who will then also rise, and the two will pursue each other a little, when, as if by mutual consent, both will desist, and go on feeding as before. The Starlings seem to enjoy the company of the Peewits. When these fly off, they go with them; and I have noted the flock of Starlings mingled and flying with the flock of Peewits (each almost, if not quite, as numerous as the other), as also the single one flying with them. I do not think it is the other way. The Peewits, I believe, are quite indifferent to the Starlings. They may, however, have a complacent feeling in being thus followed, and, as it were, fussed about, which does not show itself in any action. The constant motion and activity of the Peewits offers a salient contrast to the stillness of the Great Plovers, who stand or sit almost motionless.

At 7.30 cattle driven over, and all birds rise and fly away, the Plovers, no doubt, to their companions amongst the heather. After a time, Peewits back over the amphitheatre, and Starlings with them.

At 8.30 leave.

September 27th.—Fine morning, clear sky, rather windy.

Got to last place at 5.15. Dawn, at 5 o'clock, was only just breaking.

5.35.—First note of Great Green Woodpecker in distance. Ditto Pheasants.

5.40.—Note of Woodpecker nearer.

6.—First Lark heard.

6.10.—Just as sun breaks for first time through a cloud-bank, seven Peewits rise from amphitheatre as if to salute him, and are at once joined by two others who rise farther off.

6.30.—First see Peewits circling high in air, as though enjoying the sunshine.

A few more Peewits rise, and are at once followed by Starlings. I note carefully that the Peewits rise first.

6.45.—Two Plovers fly up and come down on clear space in front of me scarcely a dozen paces off, giving me a good view, except that the sun is a little blinding, and, in any case, it seems hardly ever possible to get the defined outline of these birds, especially the beak, which one might think would stand out sharply, but it is quite otherwise, and, generally, the outlines seems to blend with, or fade into, the air.

These two birds made a few little inquisitive runs about, after which they stood a little, and one ruffled out its feathers very loosely, becoming quite a different bird—a sort of limp, round, feathery mop on two little stilts, something like Tenniel's representation of the "borogoves," in 'Through the Looking-Glass' ("Mimsy," therefore), if the legs had been longer. After a little, both the birds crouched and lay flat along the ground (a desert scene, one had the Sahara), one in the sun, another in slight shade. The latter, though in full view, became at once almost invisible, so that, when I took my eyes off him, I found it difficult to find him again. In a minute or two this one got up, and, making two or three short little runs forward, picked up something from the ground and swallowed it—what, I could not see. Both were now on their legs, and very shortly flew back to where they had come from.

Peewits circling about in the sky singly, or, if they can be called "together," yet very widely spread out, and occupying a great area.

Peewits not nearly so much en évidence this morning.

One Peewit makes a little run forward up to another, and stands by, or rather over him, with both wings lifted above back to fullest height—brandished, as it were.

7.25.—Most of the Peewits rise and fly away (going in direction of the fens), but it is two or three minutes before the cattle appear, driven slowly towards the plateau, and then across it.

As they get nearer a few other Peewits fly after the first. Finally all the birds arise, the rest of the Peewits following their companions, the Plovers flying over bracken to the moor. Of these latter I count thirty-seven.

September 29th, 1899.—Leaving home, when crescent moon and stars were brightly shining (calm and still, sky clear, but slight mist over earth), walked to the bank, and, before taking up my station, purposely went all over just that part of the heath where the birds assemble (to the number of two hundred or three hundred). I did not put up any bird. At 4.10 took my place on the bracken-covered part of the bank, having now several times heard the ground-note of the Plovers. Probably on the arable land around; I had put up none whilst walking over the heath to the bank.

4.15.—Trumpet of a Pheasant.

4.30.— Several Pheasants trumpet.

4.50.—Cry of Great Plover close, on ground, and first one flies over bank. I hear it only—the wings. It makes no cry. Now keep hearing ground-cry of Plovers close, as if they were walking to their place.

4.55.—Hear another bird fly by. No cry. Think it was a Plover.

Then come 1, 3 (it is now 5 o'clock), 3, 2 (peculiar cry close by me. I think a Great Plover. If so it is a new note—at least, newly noted. Like cry of Moor-hen, but tone of Plover. Sudden, trumpety), 2, 3, 2.

5.10.— 1, 1. (Great noise of Partridges.)

Very cold as the morning breaks; a hoar-frost on fern and heather. A mist hanging over the earth.

5.25.—There has been since 5.15, and still continues to be, a great noise of Partridges all about, and now great trumpeting of Pheasants.

5.35.—No more Great Plovers up till now, and yet the morning flight home must have ceased. Only twenty birds, therefore, as against forty-nine on September 26th. Yet I now command all points, and find it difficult to imagine that any great number can have flown up without my seeing them, or at least hearing the wings. A search with the glasses, however, reveals twenty-eight birds amongst the heather—as many, or more, as I could count one morning when there were a great number concealed in it. As I heard the ground-note of the birds, first some way off, and then much nearer, probably in the place itself, it seems as if some of them had walked, or rather run, home.

Wren hopping cheerfully about the frosty bracken.

Pheasants making a great noise and seem very active, which has not been the case on previous mornings. May have relation to the frost and mist.

Have now walked to my other post by the plateau.

A mist lies over everything, obscuring the sun. This seems to affect the Peewits (probably birds generally). No Peewits seen till 6.40. Then only two, flying, who soon go down. Later a small flock go past, but, from then till returning home about 8, I see no more. An entire absence of the joyous circling in the higher air which on the previous fine bright mornings I had seen.

No Starlings (I think).

Song of the Lark not heard till 7.

Note of Great Green Woodpecker at 6.45, but had heard it, I think, a little before.

September 30th.—About 3 p.m. walked to the bank and noted Plovers assembled in heather as usual. Could count thirty-three. In the evening, walking along road skirting moor, many flew over it and on over the fields and cultivated lands. These—and perhaps the immediate shores of the river, mud, &c.—are, I have no doubt, their feeding-grounds during the night.

October 1st.—6.50 a.m.—Pigeon comes down on plateau and soon flies away.

One Peewit flew by at 6.55 a.m.

Some Great Plovers standing about on outer edge amongst the black (withered or burnt) heather, but no Peewits.

7 a.m.—Hawk flies by, pursued, or accompanied for a little, by a Starling.

First hear cooing of Wood-Pigeons.

Left house at 5 a.m., but am too late for the Great Plovers, who have evidently all returned. I did not see one flying, but noted them in the heather through glasses as soon as light enough to use them.

7.5.—Flock of Peewits go by flying fast and high.

6 p.m.—Great Plovers fly over road skirting moor, the greater number crossing river and keeping right on towards the higher lands on the other side. These are cultivated to some extent. Some few birds did not fly in this direction, but kept over the fields on this side of the river, and some must have come down in a ploughed field adjoining the road, as I heard their note there from behind the hedge. I was this evening nearer to the river when the birds began to fly, so probably met those that flew across it. Yesterday, when further from it, and nearer to the birds' resort, those I saw seemed to fly over the fields, keeping parallel to and on this side of the river. Probably, therefore, they fly off in all directions, like the spokes of a wheel from the nave to the circumference, and return in the same way, only reversed—which might account for my seeing so few from any one point—for both at morning and evening there is the gloom to contend with. These birds seemed like wild spirits flying out on a stormy sky, and their wailing note was all in unison. They flew high and strongly, and made one wish to be one of them, and have done with human pettinesses.

October 4th.—Going out at 4.30, when it was still dark, walked to the crests of low hills forming boundary of one side of river valley. I soon heard the ground-note of the Great Plovers, who appeared to be spread about over the ploughed and stubble fields in all directions, where, no doubt, they had been feeding during the night. They must have flown back soon after my arrival. I heard the short wail, the latter part of the note divested of its preliminary trills and twitterings, which are uttered, as I think, only on the ground, and by 5.30, when it was only just daylight, all must have gone, for there was complete silence. I had seen none flying, so must have missed them in the gloom. None flew later, which would have been quite contrary to their custom.

October 5th.—Wishing to see the Plovers fly off for the night, I walked along the road skirting the heath a good deal further than I had done before, so that I was now on the other (not the river) side of their assembly ground. I sat down against a fir-tree. Did not note exact time, but heard their note, and they were soon in full cry. As dusk came on they began to fly, and in greater numbers than I have yet seen, not towards the river, as those I had hitherto seen had done, but towards me, and away from it (south, that is). I noticed, however, a tendency to curve gradually round, which may have brought them in time to the river. Forty-four flew away together (this was the greatest number); I could count them easily, as they were between me and that part of the sky which had the sunset glow in it. The flock of forty-four soon spread out into a long irregular line.

By 6.15 p.m. one hundred and fifty-seven had flown (or, more properly, I had counted this number), after which the cry ceased. Though I did not look at my watch, the probable time when I arrived was 5.40 or 5.45. So that the birds had taken half an hour to forty minutes to get off.

It would appear, therefore, that the majority of the birds fly not towards and across, but away from the river (south, more or less). I saw none fly in the former direction, but there I had not the light in the sky, and they would have been flying away from instead of towards me. These reasons would be fully sufficient, and I have no doubt that as many flew that way as upon other evenings.

October 6th.—Towards evening walked to the bracken-covered bank, where I concealed myself as on former occasions. The birds that would now pass by me would be flying towards the river (north), and it would be as difficult for me to see those flying in an opposite direction (as yesterday) as it would, yesterday, to have seen these. The birds were never, now, between me and the light of the sky.

5.40.—First cry of the birds—faint and undecided.

5.45.—Note again heard, and soon swelled into the full wailing chorus, repeated from one part of the heath to another.

5.50.—Birds began to pass me, flying towards the river.

6.10.—Last note heard from the assembly-place, though heard it twice later from other parts (at 6.13 and 6.15).

I counted twenty-nine birds fly past me, but no doubt missed many in the gloom. The birds therefore got off this evening in about twenty minutes.

October 8th.—Walked up the road again this evening, and sat down just as before, but a little higher up (more to the landward side of the birds, and farther from the river) at 5.45.

On account perhaps of the fineness of the day—it was, I think, a little lighter than on previous evenings—there was no cry of the birds at this time, or at 5.50 (but, being a little farther off, I might not have heard a very slight cry).

5.53.—Heard the first note (I think) slightly uttered.

5.54.—First full decided cry.

5.58.—Note becoming constant, rising and sinking (nothing, however, compared to the evening of Oct. 5th).

6.3.— Two birds fly by me to the left, away from river (south). Hear note of others (or one other) flying on my right (riverside) hand, but quite near (north).

Then came three (right hand, near, north), and at 6.8 three, and then one on left hand (south).

Cry always continuing, but not very marked this evening.

6.12.—Cry has ceased. Recommences in few seconds, but soon subsides, and shortly recommences again, and again subsides.

6.15.—Silence.

6.16.—One bird flies by, left hand leaving river (north). I now left, and whilst walking down the road did not again hear the cry of the birds.

Compare above with evening of Oct. 5th. There was not, I should think, one hundred yards distance between the two places where I sat, and I commanded just the same view. I had walked up and sat down equally quietly in both instances, and, as the birds are some way off the road, and accustomed to people walking along it at intervals during the day, it is not likely that I disturbed them, and caused them to go off in a flock of forty-four on the prior occasion. Something else may, however, have done so, and it certainly differed from their usual habits as observed by me. I have, however, before seen them go off in smaller flocks at evening from the amphitheatre. I do not know how to account for seeing so few birds to-night as compared with the 5th. Possibly a certain number of them may have migrated in the interval.

Close on 6 p.m. walked up the road, and sat down at nearly same place as Oct. 8th. I heard the note of the Great Plovers as I came, but only a little, and after six it had quite ceased at the accustomed place amongst the heather, though once or twice it sounded again in the distance. Seven birds only flew by me after I sat down (i.e. I only noted seven). They were between me and the western sky, just as were those which flew by me to the number of 157 on Oct. 5th. I now think that on that night that number—being the greater body—migrated. All or most of the flying birds uttered the characteristic wail in the air.

October 10th.—Arrived at bank at 5.35, and sat down in a small pit on side of it commanding assembly-place. It was the very early dawn, some stars still visible, the very time when the birds ought, I think, to be in full flight back from their feeding-grounds. Heard the note once or twice as I walked (the ground-note, I think).

5.40.—One bird flies from the heather, and goes over the bank in direction of amphitheatre and river. It flies silently.

5.50.—Four or five birds fly over the moor, and come down in the heather.

6.0.—See first Rabbit, and great trumpeting of Pheasants, which continues. There has been before a considerable noise of Partridges.

It is now, of course, perfectly light, and long past the time for the Plovers' flying back, which should have been when I arrived. No other bird has passed me. Beginning of a splendidly fine autumn day. Cloudless sky, but slight mist and hoar-frost. No Rabbits, though their burrows are all about me. Searching the heather very carefully with glasses, can make out with certainty four Great Plovers, and, I think, a fifth.

6.15.—A few Rabbits about now, but very little en évidence. Those that are, sitting quietly.

6.35.—Flock of twenty-eight Peewits, flying high.

6.45.—Wood-Pigeons flying high. I count twenty-three. Sun now just cresting the fir-trees, and beginning to make itself felt. Looking again, cannot make out the Great Plovers, or see anything but Rabbits.

At 6.50 (an hour at least after the latest period at which the birds would have flown back to assembly-ground) walked towards where I had noted the four or five, and soon put up nine. I then walked all about over the ground usually covered by them, but put no more up. Compare this with the large numbers on previous mornings, and on the evening of the 5th.

Walking immediately afterwards to the amphitheatre, put up two flocks of eleven birds, making, with the nine at the heath, a total of thirty-one birds. This is assuming that these nine birds had not flown to the amphitheatre. They had started in the opposite direction, and I did not see any flying towards it as I walked. Twenty-two birds on the amphitheatre, though a very much less number than that which flew up from it on some mornings in September, is not much, if at all, less than what it has been on some other mornings when I watched there. I now feel assured, however, that the great body of the birds (to the number, probably, of from 170 to 250) have migrated.

October 11th.—5.45 p.m. Along road by moor. Counted fifteen Great Plovers fly off. Saw some near road dancing. Note ceased shortly after 6 p.m. Was never very loud or continuous.

October 14th.—By moor for the Plovers.

5.50 p.m.—A flock of twenty-one birds flew off over the moor, but they did not, I think, rise from heath, but from the amphitheatre. A moment after they had flown by, six others rose from heath, and flew after them.

At 5.55.—Another flock of thirty-four (as I counted them) flew by, and these again seemed to come from amphitheatre. This makes sixty-seven, and I still hear their cry over the moor.

At 6 come three more, also from amphitheatre. Still hear the note near on moor. It sounds like a single note. All these birds were flying south.

At 6.2 leave.

October 15th.—Between 5 and 5.30 p.m. walked to the amphitheatre, and, searching it well with the glasses, could see no birds. Leaving at 5.30, and taking no precautions to conceal myself, I did not put up any, and conclude there were none there, or only some few at a distance. I then walked to the bank, where I arrived at about 5.35 or 5.40. Searching the heather, I could see no birds there; but now very dark for the glasses.

Until a minute or two before 6 there was no cry, but it then began, though to a much less extent even than latterly. Half a dozen birds or less would have been quite sufficient for what I heard.

At 6.10 one bird flew by me over the bank (north, that is; I had seen none before) uttering its note, and from then I heard no more cries till 6.14, when I thought I heard one very faint one, but cannot be sure. From then till 6.20, when I left, I heard nothing more. (The last, I think, was a mistake.) I believe the notes for some time had been those of the solitary bird that flew by me.

October 16th.—Walked up road by moor, and arrived at usual place at 5.50 p.m.

In a moment or two three birds flew by, and shortly after a fourth. I heard the cry of a fifth bird flying farther off.

At 5.57 heard the note of another, and again a moment afterwards.

6.0.—A note from a bird, I think, flying.

Saw or heard no others up to 6.10, when I left.

October 17th.—Same place as yesterday at 5.40 p.m., and at 5.49 heard first notes of the Plovers.

5.45.—One bird flies by silently. Hear others in heath, but there do not appear to be many.

5.51.—Eleven birds fly off in silence. Still hear note in heather.

5.58.—Eight more, silently. Cry still from the heather.

6.2.—One more in silence. Still hear the ground-note. Cry ceases shortly after 6.5, and at 6.10, when I leave. Have heard it no more.

October 23rd.—No Great Plovers on amphitheatre in middle of afternoon, as I walked all over it without putting any up. Afterwards walked to bank, and could see none, with glasses, in the heather. Waiting by the road, however, from a little after 5, heard their note amongst the heather till about 5.20. There was a mist, and I saw none fly.

October 28th.—5.10 p.m. At the old place on the road by moor.

I watched till 5.40, and during that time thought I heard once or twice the note of the Great Plover; but, if so, it was very low and subdued. Saw no bird fly off.

October 29th.—5.15 p.m. At same place. Quite dusk. Should have come a little earlier. Stayed till 5.30, by which time any bird there should have flown off. I saw none fly, and did not hear the note. Once or twice I had a suspicion that I did, faintly, and in the distance, but I do not think this was really the case. Neither, whilst walking up (when it was lighter) nor returning, did I see or hear a bird.

October 30th.—At 10.40 a.m. walked to the bank, and from it searched with the glasses that portion of the heather which, three weeks ago, had been the daily resort of some hundred or so of the Great Plovers. I could not see a bird, and upon walking right down upon and all over it, I failed to put up a single one.

Returning, I walked to the nearer part of the amphitheatre, and searched it with the glasses without discovering any of the birds. Being in a hurry, I had not time to walk over it, but had any been there I should certainly have put them up at this distance. At least, I have always done so before.

It would appear, therefore, that all the Great Plovers that were here have now gone—migrated in all probability.

4.55 p.m.—On road by moor, same place as yesterday.

At 5.20 thought I heard note of the Great Plover. It was the tone, but only a single note, not repeated, and very subdued.

At 5.30 left, having heard it no more.

Do not now think that what I heard was the Great Plover. Believe they are all gone.

October 31st.—(Fine bright day. Sky almost cloudless.)

5.10 p.m.—On road by moor again; same place.

Saw no Great Plovers flying, neither had I seen any whilst walking up, nor did I when returning (though it would have been too dark to, unless they had come very near). I, however, again heard several times distinctly that note which, on previous evenings lately, I had thought might proceed from these birds. Whether it does or not I cannot feel sure. It is merely a short single note, but in tone and character resembling, or at least recalling, the Great Plover's. It may possibly be a less usually heard note of a Pheasant or Partridge. If not, then (unless to the Great Plover) I do not know to what bird to attribute it. But, as for nearly a week now I have seen none of these birds flying, nor put any up whilst walking over their former assembly-grounds, I think they must be all gone.

November 1st.—At 5 p.m. I was at the bank, and walked all about that part of the moor near it where the Great Plovers had been wont to assemble. It was quite deserted. I did not put a bird up or hear the cry of one. Daylight was only just ceasing, and I should have seen any bird that I had disturbed.

 

Short résumé of the birds' habits during September and October,
as observed in the foregoing.

The Great Plovers have regular places of assembly, where they sit or stand during the day in more or less close proximity to one another.

They prefer a place with some cover to one quite bare.^[2] As evening falls they indulge in curious and excited motions, which may be called dances, or dance-antics. These are accompanied with their wild wailing note, which is of a peculiar character. It ends in a wail, but there is a prelude—often a long one—which begins with some high-pitched plaintive cries, and then passes into wild, wailing trills and twitterings that seem part of the deepening gloom and sad sky; for Nature's own sadness seems to speak in the voice of these birds. These melancholy sounds swell and subside and swell again as they are caught up and repeated in different places, from one bird to another, and often swell into a full chorus of several together. This note in its entirety is only uttered by the bird whilst on the ground. That uttered during flight is a simple wail like the ending of the above. It is difficult to judge of the whereabouts of the birds by their cry, and they often seem to be much nearer than they really are.

The dance-antics are varied with little flights over the ground, if these may not rather be said to be a part of them. In one of these the bird takes its departure, thus dancing off, as it were.

Rain would seem, sometimes at least, to have an exhilarating effect, causing the bird to come out from its cover into it,^[3] and begin the dance-antics earlier than it would otherwise have done.

When thus leaving for the night, they rarely or never fly silently, but utter the simple, short wail (short, that is, by comparison). This is more particularly as they leave the assembly-place, or are still near it.

During the night they feed over the general surface of the country, preferring, probably, the "fat," or cultivated lands.

In the very early dawn they fly back to their assembly grounds, and this morning-flight is mostly in silence. Only rarely is a wail uttered, but the ground-note is now sometimes heard, though it is much less full and striking than in the evening. The birds may very likely feed towards home, and fly to it when at a certain distance. Some possibly may arrive on foot.^[4]

Besides these two notes (the ground one and that of flight) the Great Plover has a few others, the most pronounced of which ("tir-whi-whi-whi-whi-whi") may express distress, or, at least, perturbation.

The Great Plover pursues and catches moths certainly, and other insects probably, whilst they are flying, with great eagerness and dexterity, sometimes making jumps into the air after them, in doing which it aids itself, if necessary, with its wings. Possibly it sometimes flies after a moth, &c, that rises beyond its reach.

An abundance of insects about produces, in these birds, more diurnal activity than would otherwise be the case.

If the one word is to exclude the sense of the other, then the Great Plover cannot strictly be called either diurnal or nocturnal. It would seem to be more the latter than the former, but di-nocturnal would be a more fitting word (did it exist).

Migration begins early in October, but it is not till between the middle and end of the month that all the birds are gone.

The whole flock does not depart together, but in two or more bodies (the larger first), with an interval of several days between them. But stragglers (or rather laggards) are left, and these may go singly, or in small groups.

The Great Plover is an eminently social bird.^[5]

 

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1. Possibly on account of the rain.
2. By far the greatest number of the birds passed the day amongst the heather near the bank. I have not specially noted it, but it was the skirts of the amphitheatre which had more or less cover (grass, withered heather, &c.) where they rested, and there were generally some in the bracken itself, where this was thin. They spread over the open space as evening came on, or earlier if moths or other insects attracted them.
3. The birds when thus seen by me stretched (once or twice, I think) the wing up for the under part to get the rain, as does a Pigeon. I forgot to note this down, and also that on another occasion rain seemed to have no effect on them. But I was not there when it first came on, and could stay only a short time.
4. My having heard the ground-note at early dawn, when the birds were flying back, very near to (as far as I could judge), but not quite at, the place of assembly, suggests this.
5. This does not apply merely to their congregating in the autumn. They show, generally, a liking for each other's society. The breeding season modifies this to some extent, but they begin to come together again as soon as it is over.