When Hawks Nest
In March the hawks pair—and the pairs visit and examine all sorts of old nests. The nest of a kestrel is usually found in the heart of a wood—though it may be recognised as a kestrel's only by the sight of the birds flying off, for they rear their young in old sparrow-hawks' nests, or in a magpie's, a crow's, or in a squirrel's abandoned drey. The sparrow-hawk builds its own nest, as a rule, of rough sticks, with twigs as lining, usually placed near the tree's trunk. It will return to the same nest year after year. But at times the nest of a wood-pigeon is adopted, or of a carrion crow. The cock sparrow-hawk is a polite mate, perhaps of necessity, being so inferior to the hen bird in size and strength. He is energetic in inspecting nest-sites, in advance of his mate. This habit has proved fatal to many, for it is a favourite plan with some keepers to place a circular gin in likely nests—a cruel trick, and illegal, for the law which prohibits the use of the pole-traps forbids also that traps shall be set in nests. Faithful as are hawks and magpies to each other, it is strange how swiftly a new mate is secured should an old one suffer a fatal accident. In the earlier part of the breeding season, a hen sparrow-hawk may lose her mate time after time; yet a new mate is quickly at her side, though no other hawks are to be seen about the country, except those in pairs.
Love-Dances
The little blue pigeons, the stock-doves, call "Coo-oop, coo-oop, coo-oop," all day, in the old elms in the meadow, or high among the massed twigs of the lime. Pigeons and doves are fantastical love-makers like several other birds—the blackcock and cock grouse hold regular love-levees, going through ridiculous antics and gestures; ducks skim absurdly about the water, bobbing their heads up and down as if bowing compliments to each other; and even the sober rook will perform a kind of love-dance. At courting times, the wood-pigeons assume a wonderful lustre of plumage, and the white of the neck-ring is very striking, like the edging of a woodcock's tail. The cock wood-pigeon is a laughable sight as he goes sidling down some bare branch to greet his prospective bride; nearer and nearer he works his way, bowing incessantly with a sideways motion of the body, until at last, with neck bent low, bill meets bill in some kind of bird-kiss.
Names that Puzzle Cockneys
The Cockney in the country is perplexed by the countryman's names for birds and beasts; especially by names denoting gender. The countryman seems to the townsman to be particular in drawing his distinctions, and his precise way of referring to an ox or a steer, a bull-calf or a heifer, is found very puzzling, particularly to ladies—who hold all cows to be bulls. And when the countryman speaks of a wether-sheep, a barrow-hog, of a hummel-stag, he is speaking in mysteries. Even the terms of the poultry-yard—cock, cockerel, pullet, fowl, hen, or capon—are not always understood.
Custom grants some creatures only one sex. A cat is usually a she, and a hare nearly always. To be precise, as to hares, one should refer to the male as a jack and a female as a jill, the terms buck and doe being more properly applied to rabbits and to fallow deer; red deer are distinguished by the terms stag and hind. Ferrets in some parts are known as hobbs and gills. Rats, like badgers and hedgehogs, may be boars and sows. The males of otters, stoats, weasels and foxes are dogs, but only the female fox is a vixen. Rams are sometimes "tups." The terms bulls and cows are applied to many kinds of animals, such as elands, moose, whales, elephants, and the seals; but the young seals are pups, and gather in rookeries. The terms for birds offer some difficulties; all common wild duck are mallards, to distinguish them from widgeon, teal and so on; but while the male may be called either the mallard or the drake, the female is always a duck. Grouse are cock and hen; blackcock, blackcock and greyhen; and all woodcock are 'cock.
No less confusing to the Cockney in the country are the terms for quantities of game. He speaks of a "brace of rabbits," and the gamekeeper's eyebrows rise at the term. Two rabbits are a "couple"—when they are not a pair. Two pheasants, two partridges, or two grouse are a "brace," three forming a "brace and a half" or a "leash"; but we speak of a "couple" of woodcock, snipe, duck, or pigeons.
When the gamekeeper speaks of "pairs" of birds he is referring to birds that have paired; but a cock and a hen pheasant remain a cock and a hen. Some confusion arises from the terms applied to gatherings of birds or beasts. Young families of birds are usually "broods," and families of animals "litters." One speaks of a brood (or pack) of grouse, a covey (or pack) of partridges, a bevy of quail, a nid of pheasants (meaning a young family), a wing of plover, a wisp of snipe, a team of duck, a company of widgeon, a flock of sparrows, rooks, or pigeons, a skein or gaggle of geese, a herd of swans or deer, and a sounder of wild pigs. The gamekeeper knows better than any one else just what is meant by a litter of cubs. There is a distinction between a big "rise" of pheasants and a good "flush." If a thousand pheasants fly up at the same time it is a big rise, but not a good one, because few can be shot. A good flush does not mean necessarily that there are many birds, but that they rose, or were flushed, so that most of them offered shots—a few at a time.
Hares and their Young
A wet, cold spring means death to the majority of early leverets. They are given a good chance of life, coming into the world as perfect little hares, with complete fur coat and open eyes; and, like partridge chicks, they can run on the day they are born. But they are not always strong enough to withstand the English spring. A leveret, no larger than a man's fist, runs with extraordinary speed, and often escapes from a dog, while a man must be sound in wind and limb to overtake it in the open. Rabbits, born naked, develop a very fair turn of speed so soon as they come above ground, but they quickly give up in despair if pursued.
There is a widespread idea that hares breed only once in a year, and produce only one leveret. The gamekeeper knows well that puss may produce several leverets at a birth, and will have family after family from as early as January to the end of September. As with rabbits, the leverets born early one year themselves may breed in the late summer of the same year. No doubt the hare is credited with only one or two young ones because only one or two are found together. Occasionally, it is true, several very young leverets may be found in one place; but they are usually cradled in separate seats, not far from each other. We once found a family of eight little leverets crouching in a bunch under a heap of hedge-trimmings. Evidently we discovered them within a few moments of their entry into the world.
The mother hare is wise to separate her family. Many dangers threaten the leveret's life; but if families were kept together the young ones would be even more open to attack from rooks and crows, and scent-hunting vermin in fur. The leveret with its eyes pecked out by a rook, yet still living, is a sight which pleads for the mercy of a swift death at the gamekeeper's hands. The mother hare is keenly alive to the dangers besetting her family. If you find a leveret one day nestling in a tuft of grass, or against a clod of earth, whether or not you handle it the mother will certainly remove it before the morrow. She will wind danger in your scent.
Starving Birds
The old name for March, "Starvation Month," is usually justified, if winter, with snow, carries on into March. Countless birds die of starvation. After a hard winter there is little food to be found; but large berries remain a long time on some of the ivy bushes, and come into favour among robins and blackbirds. There has been little green growth since September, though the larger celandine shows bigger leaves, coltsfoot is out, wild arum leaves are green in the hedges, and there is green growth on elder-bushes, woodbine, privet, and brier bushes. Insect life for food is of negligible quantity: though myriads of gnats may be hatched by the sun, they are poor eating. Of flowers there are hardly any, and the sparrow, pecking at the crocuses in his need, earns the hatred of gardeners. It is a time of hunger with many animals awakening out of sleep; with the field-voles uncurling from their beds of grass, and with the hedgehogs shaking themselves free of their balls of leaves. A new activity is stirring, birds are living at pressure, many animals have young, hundreds of birds come in daily from overseas—but supplies for all seem at the lowest ebb.
The Egg of Eggs
In the keeper's year there is no moment so delightful as when he finds his first wild pheasant's egg. The earliest egg of the season is looked on almost like a nugget of gold. You may observe a keeper turning out of his way to pass along the sunny side of a hedgerow favoured by pheasants, craning his neck to look at the far side of a tuft of withered grass, and with his stick turning over the dead leaves of a likely hollow. Day after day, in early April, he perseveres in his quest; and though he may find scores of depressions scooped out by the hens—"scrapes" he calls them—it may be a long while before his search is rewarded by the sight he yearns for. He is appeased—though he has but found something found thousands of times before, only a pheasant's egg. But it is the first of a new season, and precious beyond all others. There may have been eggs already in his pens. The penned birds are protected from wind and cold rains. They live on a well-drained plot facing the south, and they are treated so liberally to rich foods, spices, and tonic drinks that they can hardly help laying early. The first egg is a satisfaction, but nothing like the first wild-laid egg. At the earliest chance, the finder meets a brother keeper, and his story of the finding loses nothing in the telling, while it gains a good deal from the envy on the brother keeper's face.
Pheasants' Eggs
By the middle of April, the gamekeeper finds that a few of his pheasants are sitting. They are the older hens. Those that begin to lay early in April do not often lay more than ten or twelve eggs before beginning to sit. But it is not unusual for a young hen to lay fifteen, seventeen, or even more eggs. That the older hens should lay fewer eggs suggests that they have no more than they can furnish with the heat necessary for hatching. Later on, in warmer weather, a pheasant can manage half as many eggs again as in early spring. The old hens have eggs well on the way towards hatching before hens still in their first year have begun to lay. Pheasants commonly lay eggs in each other's nests. We have known a pheasant even to lay eggs in a thrush's nest, built on the ground beneath a furze-bush. Like the nest, three of the four thrush's eggs were destroyed by the intruder. The keeper well knows how to take advantage of this slovenly habit of his pheasants. About ten days before the time when he expects them to begin to lay in earnest, he makes up a number of false nests, into which he puts either imitation nest-eggs, or addled eggs saved from the last season. Having some respect for the sweetness of his pocket, he takes the precaution of boiling the addled eggs for several hours in lime-water. He makes up the false nests in places where the eggs shall be comparatively safe; his great object being to induce his birds to lay at home, and not to stray away into his neighbour's coverts. The method saves much time in searching for nests. But even when he has the best of luck, a keeper would not be a proper keeper if he did not complain that his hens are laying on his neighbour's ground. Not unusually, three or four hens lay in the same nest—we have known six to lay in one nest, and on one day. From three nests within fifty yards of each other we have counted more than one hundred eggs—and this in a place where pheasants were few. It is a great satisfaction to the keeper to find one of these co-operative nests. He knows that if he leaves the hens to themselves, their eggs will soon be piled up in the nest on top of each other, like a heap of stones. No one pheasant could hatch out such a prodigious clutch, even if left in undisputed possession. What usually happens is that some hens want to lay and others to sit, so that between them the eggs are spoiled. The keeper anticipates trouble by collecting the eggs and distributing them elsewhere for hatching. He knows that his fowls will not hatch out as high a proportion of pheasant eggs from large nests as from smaller ones, since few are given the regular turning necessary to preserve their fertility. But, in spite of this knowledge, there is a deal of friendly rivalry among keepers as to who shall find the nest with the most eggs.
Hens in Cocks' Feathers
A mule pheasant is a sterile hen who has assumed more or less the plumage of a cock. We cannot say we have ever heard one of these transformed hens give vent to a crow. But once we owned a game-bantam hen, who, without changing into cock's plumage, crowed in a way that would have done credit to any fine rooster. The keeper does not appreciate a barren hen pheasant, whether or not she wears cock's feathers. She is an unproductive loafer, and is likely to be destructive to the chicks of other hens, both to wild ones and those reared artificially. Disappointed in motherhood herself, she is jealous that others should be mothers.
About Nesting Pheasants
Pheasants' eggs vary strangely in shade: they show a much wider range of shading than partridges', from almost white through the most delicate gradations of blue-green and olive-brown to the rich, warm hue of the nightingale's egg. The keeper prefers the eggs with the deeper tones, persuading himself that they will produce the strongest chicks. He has small faith in the fertility of eggs that are very light in hue, and he holds to an idea that if a light, sky-blue egg hatches at all it will produce a pied chick. When a hen lays in another's nest, it is rather by some subtle distinction of shape than by colour that the keeper discovers the trespasser's eggs: for the eggs of one bird may vary much in shade. The nest is a simple affair, merely a shallow hollow, scratched out, ringed by dry grass or leaves or any dead material of the sort within easy reach; if dry grass is plentiful a generous supply fringes the hollow, but a pheasant is not one to trouble to fetch and carry for her nest. Cunning as she may be in the choice of a site, no instinct or reason prompts her to go a yard away to collect material, however plentiful at that short distance, for comfort and warmth. Her fabric, plentiful or scanty, is arranged in a typical fashion. Standing in the middle of her scraped-out hollow, she throws the bits of grass or the leaves over her back, so that the margin of the nest corresponds to the size of her body. Sometimes a fowl is seen going through this performance; the goose also employs this primitive instinctive manner of gauging her nest's dimensions.
All game-birds lay their eggs on the ground. Though pheasants are peculiarly fond of perching in trees, by day as well as by night, they rarely make a nest off the ground; though now and again one may see a nest placed a few feet high in a tree, resting on a mattress of ivy or on the ruins of other nests—the derelict homes of pigeons, perhaps occupied later by squirrels. Pheasants will also sometimes make use of those convenient hollows to be found on the top of underwood stumps; and doubtless would do so more often if it were not for the unyielding nature of wood, which they cannot scratch into shape as instinct prompts. In rides where the old underwood stumps have not been grubbed, pheasants love to nest on the stumps' tops. In spite of annual trimming, the stumps for years continue to throw up a mass of leafy shoots. The pheasant creeps between them, and is perfectly hidden—at least, as to her head and body. We recall a nest in such a spot within a foot of a path where many people passed daily. Not one discovered the pheasant's secret, except a keeper who saw her protruding tail. The pheasant had forgotten about her tail. Naturally the keeper was annoyed at her stupidity in thinking that because her body was hidden her tail could not be seen. Fearing lest others should discover the nest on this account, he went for a pair of his wife's scissors, and made sure that the tail would tell no more stories.
The Broody Hen
The wisest poultry-farmer does not understand broody hens better than the gamekeeper. The ways of the broody hen are at once deep, and stupid, and annoying. No power on earth will force a broody hen to sit when she is in a revolting spirit. To take a hen from the nest of her choice and expect her to sit properly on a fresh nest, where even pheasants' eggs costing a shilling apiece await her, usually means disappointment. Yet it is as risky to put the pheasants' eggs in the broody hen's chosen nest. Other hens will disturb her, rats are likely to steal the eggs, dogs may worry her, and she cannot be relied upon to return to her own nest after going off to feed. And if she may leave the nest at her own free will she is liable to sit too long without a break. Her eggs in that case do not have enough fresh air, and the heat of the hen diminishes through want of food, so that weak chicks develop, and may fail even to break their shells. So the keeper is obliged to provide a suitable nest, and to try to induce the broody hen to take to it kindly. He finds that an empty cheese-box with a lid will make a capital nesting-box for occasional use. If rats are feared, he encases the box in an armour of wire-netting. Then within he fashions a shallow nest, using firm mould, and adding a little bruised straw; if the hollow is too deep the eggs may be piled on each other, and the hen cannot plant her feet comfortably or sit evenly over the eggs. The hollow is lined with a ring or collar of twisted straw, to retain the warmth of the hen, and prevent her eggs falling out when she moves her feet to turn round. Then the keeper goes off for the broody hen, which he carries in a sack of open texture. Whether or not a hen is really broody may be determined most easily at night. A hen chosen by day, though she imitates the broody plaint, may be intent only on laying eggs—not on sitting. But the hens who are in earnest will be found in the nests after dark; and they are known by their dull combs. Into the sitting-box the keeper shuts the hen of his choice, leaving her with a nest-egg or two by way of encouragement. He is in no hurry to give her live eggs. He waits until she is well settled after the move, and has had time to round up the nest to her liking. At first she may be inclined to stand, or at least not to go down properly; but after a little while she will be found spread out in the proper fashion of the hen who intends to hatch eggs at all costs, and she will complain loudly, and peck fiercely if touched. And then she is entrusted with the precious eggs.
Once a day the keeper gently lifts each broody hen off the nest to feed, tethering her by a string tied to her leg or shutting her into a coop. On the first day she is taken from the eggs only for ten minutes; but her time off is gradually increased, as the eggs require more oxygen, to half an hour during the second week of sitting, and then to three-quarters of an hour or longer towards the end of the third week, if the weather proves genial. Plenty of air is good for the chicks in the eggs, especially during the last days of the hatching. A hen was accidentally kept from her eggs for a whole afternoon on the day before they were due to hatch; yet all the thirteen eggs hatched out, and stronger chicks were never seen.
The Frenchmen's Nests
The red-legged partridge begins to nest quite a week earlier than the English birds. The keeper expects to find his first partridge's egg about April 25: and probably it will be a Frenchman's. Great will be his satisfaction if the first egg should happen to be an English bird's. The same friendly rivalry exists between neighbouring keepers as to who shall find the first partridge egg as with the first pheasant's egg. Not until May will the partridges' laying season be in full swing. English partridges nest always on the ground, but Frenchmen sometimes nest so far aloft as on the top of a straw-rick. So they escape the fox, which tears the English birds off their nests on all sides. There is an idea in the heads of country folk that the French partridge habitually deserts her first clutch of eggs without cause. No doubt this delusion has arisen from the forsaken appearance of the birds' nests and eggs; when stained by soil, the eggs look decidedly stale. While the mother bird never deserts her nest without good cause, she is in no hurry about nesting; and there are often long intervals between the laying of the first egg, the completion of the clutch, and the beginning of sitting operations. We have heard of a case where this interval was one of six weeks. Yet a full brood was hatched.
French partridges have a good deal in common with guinea-fowls. The call which members of a covey of Frenchmen make to each other bears the strongest resemblance to the guinea-fowl's "Go-back, go-back." They are alike in making a deep "scrape" in the soil for their nest, which is complete when the hollow has been scratched to their liking. Then the dingy-white ground-colour and the rusty speckles of their eggs are similar; and the eggs of guinea-fowl and of Frenchmen are commonly found well plastered and stained with soil, through being turned over in the unlined nest. The eggs have notably thick shells.
The Last of the Hurdlers
The ancient art of making hurdles is fast dying out. In a small Hampshire village, where a score of hurdlers could have been found a quarter of a century ago, to-day but one or two old men remain who can make a hurdle of the genuine sort. The reason is not that hurdle-making is profitless, for there is a demand for good workers, and the rate of pay is higher than of old—from four to five shillings for a dozen hurdles, which represent a day's hard work. But few boys follow the old calling of the hurdler, probably because a long apprenticeship must be served. There is difficulty in finding a qualified man to take a boy in charge; and for a long while the boy would be useful only to strip the rods of knots, and would earn but a nominal wage. At other work his earnings would be enough at least to pay his share of the family expenses at home. So that few hurdlers see their way to teach even their own sons this honourable trade.
Hurdlers' Science
The first stage in making a hurdle is the splitting of the rods; and this is an art calling for years of practice before such perfect efficiency is attained that the worker can divide each rod exactly down the centre with his eyes shut. The bill-hook is inserted at the rod's smaller end, the other end is held between the knees, and the straight, clean split is made by directing the pressure of the bill-hook one way or the other—the edge of the hook being turned towards that side of the rod which threatens to splinter. When the rods are split, the "salins"—the upright stakes which form the framework of the hurdle—are fixed into the "mole"—a solid piece of wood, slightly curved, and drilled with holes. "Spurs" are the small, round, unsplit rods woven over the top and bottom to prevent slipping. The weather has much to do with the ease and speed of the work. Cold, sunless days with east winds tend to make the rods brittle, and then when a binding spur is being wound into place it will break, and part of the hurdle must be remade. Drought hardens the wood, and the rods lose elasticity. A hard frost may freeze the wood's moisture, and the rods may then snap. The most favourable weather is sunny, but not scorching, with occasional light showers. In wet weather the strongest worker is terribly handicapped, and rheumatism, sooner or later, is almost certain to take hold of him.
LONDON, EDWARD ARNOLD.
The Woodman
Not all who work in the woods are entitled to the name of woodman: a word standing for an ancient and an honourable calling. The woodman proper is an estate official, a sort of general foreman over the underwood and the timber. He ranks a grade below the gamekeeper. A man of parts, he knows his woods through and through. He can tell you the exact age of the various growths of underwood, for it is his duty to advise what shall be cut each year, to map it out in lots for sale, to undertake the marking and felling of timber, and to see to the upkeep of covert fences, and the trimming of rides. He receives a retaining weekly wage, except when he is turning underwood to account or laying a hedge, when he is paid by the piece. In time of need, the gamekeeper calls on the woodman's assistance, and he seldom goes long in want of a rabbit. The keeper is always generous with his friends and allies.
A Dying Race
Below the woodman in rank, and not rightly to be called a woodman, is the copse-worker, or copser; a piece-worker, free to work for any one who will give him a job. He is a skilled craftsman, one of a dying race, for his boys are kept too long at school ever to take kindly to his calling. This is his constant complaint: and he will air his views freely on "eddication" and the making of "scholards." He himself had only enough learning drubbed into him to allow him to make every night an entry of his day's work—so many bavins, so many bundles of pea-sticks, so many fencing-poles. His daily earnings fluctuate with the quality of the wood, which he is sure to declare is nothing like what it was in the days of his youth.
Choice Nesting-Places
It is the keeper's lot to make the best of many a bad job. If he could have his way, all underwood would be chopped and stacked in neat piles by the middle of April, so that his nesting birds might enjoy undisturbed peace in his woods. In olden days, all underwood was cut, worked up, and cleared off the ground by certain fixed dates so that the new shoots of the shorn stumps had full measure of light and air. But the dates are no longer remembered, and the work is carried on into early summer. The birds benefit in some ways. Pheasants find the long rows of felled underwood very attractive as nesting-places, and many pairs of partridges decide to give them a trial. Pheasants and partridges prefer to nest in dead material—it is warmer and drier than greenstuff, does not hold dew or rain, and cannot grow, and so possibly upset the nest. Dry leaves are driven by the wind beneath the rows of wood, so nesting material is plentiful. And there is no dense canopy of leaves to shut out the sun that is so loved by the sitting birds.
Hidden Nests
Much underwood remains in the long drifts where it was laid after cutting until well on in May, and even into June. The keeper may search carefully, but unless the rows are very narrow and thin he can hope to find only a few of the many nests they shelter. Especially difficult is it to find the partridge nests. The finding is almost as much a matter of luck as of skill, for the eggs are covered completely by the birds with a drab quilt of leaves, perfectly matching the surroundings. The eggs of pheasants, too, though the birds seldom cover them, are often hidden through the play of the leaves in the wind. Even should a bird be sitting on her nest, she is not easily found—unless the keeper catches the glint of her dark eye. Her feathers are merely one shade more in the prevailing blends of brown. The woodworker, keeping the most careful watch for nests, often does not see the sitting bird until he strips the underwood from her very back.
A Mutual Understanding
Between the gamekeeper and copsers in his woods there is an unwritten agreement, making for the good of all. The workers take heed and care of the game-nests, and the keeper sees that they are rewarded according to the care. He does not pay people to find nests, but to protect those discovered in the course of daily work—a small sum, by way of encouragement, usually a shilling for each nest. But the copser, while chopping up the rows of underwood, finds a good many small nests, with three or four eggs each, and the keeper may agree to pay him a penny for each of these odd eggs, as he calls them, and a shilling for each more respectable nest saved. The copser must leave cover for a few yards around the nests, and do nothing to disturb the tenancy. When the nest is so situated that it causes no inconvenience or delay to the copser's work, the shilling is paid only when the eggs hatch; in special cases the keeper takes the risk of safe hatching. It is a proud moment for the copser when he makes a satisfactory report of a nest. "That there old bird over agen they ash-stems," he will say delightedly, "she be hatched and gone, master."
Many Guardians
Often a keeper must give judgment as to who is entitled to the reward for a nest found and protected by two or three men. It would be easy if the spirit of justice were satisfied by handing the shilling to the man who first found the nest; or if a shilling were given to each man; but this would make up an alarming account for nest-money. So the keeper may give the first finder a shilling, and the others a couple of rabbits each. It would not be policy to foster a man's interest only in the nest which he finds himself, and is the first to find, for a nest may need the guardianship of many workers. First it may be found by a copser, working up underwood; he keeps an eye upon it for a week, finishes his job, and departs. Then a hurdler comes, or perhaps a hoop-maker, who starts work, sees the nest and guards it for awhile. And then the nest catches the eye of a carter when he comes to fetch a load of wood; he notes the position, lest it should come to harm under the hoofs of his horse or the wheels of his waggon—and after his day's work he may walk a mile or two to lay his information at the keeper's cottage.
When three men work in the same part of a wood, one may have the luck to find several nests, and the others may have no luck. So the men, if good mates, arrange to pool the nest-money; but sometimes the lucky man is avaricious. The keeper must study the vagaries of luck and character. Some men will be spoiled by too liberal rewards; but an extra shilling or two may be well spent if it prevents a sour man from thinking he has been harshly treated. The keeper knows the labourer as a man who broods much, and is slow to forgive an insult, or to forget an injustice. And he knows it makes all the difference to his own work if the men who labour in the woods for six months in the year are his friends and allies. This, in turn, is no bad thing for them—many odd jobs the keeper puts in their way when work is slack, and he puts many rabbits into their hands to the comfort of their hearts.
Mark's Day
The twenty-fifth day of April is one of the keeper's high days. A large number of the twenty or thirty thousand gamekeepers in this country then commit their first batches of pheasant eggs to the care of broody hens. Some keepers cling to this date because their fathers did so before them, in the same way that ancestral etiquette decrees that on a certain fair-day cabbage seed must be sown. No decided advantage is to be gained by very early hatching; but by April 25 the keeper usually has a goodly collection of eggs, taken from wild birds' nests, and their quality does not improve if kept, in an artificial way, longer than a fortnight. Eyes ignorant of woodcraft would pass a pheasant's nest which no keeper could fail to see; and would pass unseeingly over the brown form of the sitting bird, heedless of the bright, dark eyes that keenly watch the intruder's movements. Pheasants like a little light cover, but do not care to nest in thick and tangled undergrowth. They love sunshine, and prefer a site where falls a shaft of the morning sun; if you note the position of a sitting pheasant, you will probably find that her face is sunwards. The mother bird is very jealous of the sanctity of her nest; if disturbed she does not often return. The keeper, passing by a sitting pheasant, passes by as though he had seen nothing.
The Old, Old story
The story of pheasant-rearing begins with the collection of eggs from wild nests and from penned birds. Then comes the collection of broody hens to play the part of foster-mother. Then the lime-washing of the nest-boxes. Hundreds of wooden boxes, each compartment measuring fifteen inches square, are placed in lines in a shed or an open field; the nests are roughly fashioned in the boxes, of turf and soil, moss, meadow-hay, and straw. And on the nests are set broody hens, beneath which, when they have proved their worthiness, are placed from fifteen to twenty eggs. Heaps of soaked corn and pans of water are made ready, and once a day the hens are lifted off their nests to be fed and watered, and to allow fresh air to play on the eggs. A rope runs on the ground before the boxes, and to this the hens are tethered. The keeper lifts off and tethers his hens at the rate of three or four to the minute.
The Luck of Pheasant-rearing
Seventeen is the regulation number of pheasant eggs to be put beneath each hen, and seventeen chicks are put with each hen in the coops in the rearing-field. The most motherly hens are selected for service on the rearing-field. Less careful mothers are turned out when they have hatched the eggs, or, if they are willing, are supplied with another clutch. A hen that will hatch several clutches is too useful to be honoured with the task of bringing up a brood, and must be content to play the part of a living incubator. The keeper knows his hens through and through—and he can tell when a hen has chicks without seeing them, by the bristling of her feathers at his approach, and her instinctive clucking.
An incubator helps the keeper to cope with the whims and frailties of broody hens. It is always ready to receive those unexpected eggs which may be brought to his cottage at any moment, as when sitting birds are disturbed by sheep or cut out in the mowing grass. And it is ready to take charge of the eggs abandoned by a fowl, or the chipped eggs of a foster-mother which shows an inclination to crush the chicks as hatched. Yet it will be long before it ousts the broody barn-door hen from the rearing-field.
In the days before incubators, keepers who found themselves with more eggs than hens were forced to strange shifts. One keeper saved the situation with the help of ducks. Wild duck nested in numbers on an island in a lake, and one spring day he took six hundred pheasants' eggs to the island, exchanging them for the eggs of the sitting ducks. The ducks proved excellent sitters, but as his hens became available he would punt to the island to relieve the ducks of their charge. Pheasants were more prized in those days than wild duck. Such a sacrifice of duck for pheasants would be saved to-day by the ever-ready incubator.
While pheasant-rearing is chiefly a matter of skill, luck plays a part in success, and of course a light warm soil, a good situation, a good supply of natural food, and good weather make all the difference. If eighty eggs hatch out in a hundred this is considered good; if less than seventy hatch, this is bad. A keeper may congratulate himself if he turns a thousand pheasants into covert from fifteen hundred eggs set; anything below one bird turned into covert from two eggs is considered a poor result. Keepers believe that chicks cannot be hatched too late in May or too early in June.
After about twenty-four days the eggs hatch, and the little chicks are taken with the hens to coops placed in readiness in the rearing-field; a place so jealously guarded by the keeper as to be in his eyes sacred land. Four or five times daily the chicks must be fed—at first on eggs, to which is added later a mixture of biscuit-meal, rice, greaves, and small bird-seed, until boiled corn becomes the staple food. Every night the chicks must be shut carefully into their coops—a long and tiresome task. The danger of enteritis looms up—ten thousand chicks may be swept off in a week. When five or six weeks old, chicks, hens, and coops are carted away in waggons to the woods, where the chicks must face the dangers of vermin by night as well as by day until they learn to go to roost.
From Egg to Larder
For the keeper the days and nights spent in his rearing-fields pass in incessant anxiety. He never counts his pheasants before they are hatched. He may count them as morsels of fluff; when they begin to use their babyish wings; again when they fill the broad ride with a mass of seething brown—but not until the bracken is dead, and the trees are naked, and the game-cart has borne away its burden, does he count them as his own. Nor does his anxiety cease until the long tails hang safely in his larder.
Fine Eggs and Good Mothers
"They be a good lot of eggs," the keeper will inform you as he reveals his store, ready to be given to the quickening warmth of broody fowls. "I don't know as ever I set eyes on better," he will add, "and I don't expect you have neither." If you denied this he would not believe you. His pheasants' eggs are like the apple blossoms: each year more beautiful than ever. And the more plentiful the more beautiful. Noting the keeper, as he goes out in search of broody hens, you might mistake him for a dealer in rags and bones. He tramps all round the countryside with an old sack slung over his back—one of the light, thin kind in which dog-biscuits come; or sometimes he drives in a gig, and poultry-farmers welcome him gladly. He pays half a crown or three shillings for each hen in broody mood, and so helps to make poultry pay. His difficulty is to find broody hens at the time when he most needs them. The ideal is a healthy bird, not one with pallid comb or inclined to mope; she must be of medium size and of light weight, with short legs, small feet, and a wealth of downy feathers. Above all, she must be quiet in demeanour. The fidgety, fussy hen may have excellent intentions, but is likely to cause disaster to her eggs and chicks. A big hen with the sprawliest feet, but of gentle disposition, and slow to anger, will often prove a better foster-mother than one a model in form, feather, and feet, but in temperament a spitfire.
The Cub-stealing Shepherd
Illicit traffic in fox-cubs and partridge eggs is hard to stamp out. So long as men will buy fox-cubs and eggs there will be men to supply them. If there were no buyers there would be middlemen, and there would be fewer cubs which bear the label, "From Germany." Cubs, wherever they come from, fetch a good price, giving ample profit for an hour's hard digging—say ten shillings each. Cub-snatching is less risky than egg-stealing. So far as we know, even to kill cubs is not an offence against the law, and so there can hardly be a penalty for taking them alive. The worst that could happen to the culprit would be a prosecution for simple trespass and damage. A cunning, rascally cub-stealer of our acquaintance was employed by none other than the local M.F.H. He was a shepherd, and nothing pleased him better than to hear that foxes were plentiful when hounds came his way. He knew that in the spring he would reap many pounds by cub-snatching, and with small risk of rousing suspicion. But one spring morning he was caught in the very act of cub-snatching, and then he ceased to be that Master's shepherd.
Lures and Charms
The old-fashioned professional rat-catcher is seen as rarely as the mole-catcher, with his rude traps of wood, wire and string, actuated by a spring of green wood from the hedgerow. And with the rat-catcher have passed the secrets of his calling—how, when and where to use oils and essences to attract rats to their doom. He knew how to handle rats alive with his naked hands, and the trick of squeezing the life from their bodies. The experienced take rats by the back of the throat, but unless the grip is made in just the right way a dangerous bite may be received. The safest plan for the inexperienced is to take live rats by the tip end of their tails; then they are helpless, since their own weight keeps their heads down. Mice, treated in this way, would curl up and nip their captor's fingers in a twinkling. He was a deep character, the old rat-catcher. If there were many rats he would destroy many—but if few he would take good care to leave behind him some fine specimens for stock. No doubt the oils and preparations invented by himself, or handed down to him by his ancestors, would not only attract rats for his catching, but would attract others after he had gone, so that his trade was kept alive. Thus, perhaps, arose the old saying that if you kill one rat twelve friends will come to its funeral. Oils are still used as lures by the fish-poacher, and also by the gamekeeper. To draw rats into his traps the keeper sprinkles them with the sweet-scented oil of rhodium-wood and oil of aniseed. To attract cats he uses tincture of valerian; the essences in the root of that plant having so great a charm for cats that it will draw them from far and near. To attract stoats and weasels he uses oil of musk. To entice a fox, a dead cat is one of the best lures: many a fox, to our knowledge, has owed its death to an over-keenness in unearthing a cat that had been shot and lightly buried. We have heard that dog-stealers induce dogs to follow them by carrying a piece of wart from a horse's leg—we know a simpler plan. The keeper's woodcraft teaches him many ways to charm wild creatures to their destruction. A common trick to bring rabbits from their holes is to imitate the squeal of a rabbit in fear, by applying the lips to the back of the hand, and producing a tremulous sucking sound. Possibly the rabbits think that a brother is in distress, and come to see from curiosity.