It is usually supposed to be necessary to go far into the country tofind wild birds and animals in sufficient numbers to be pleasantlystudied. Such was certainly my own impression till circumstances led me,for the convenience of access to London, to reside for awhile abouttwelve miles from town. There my preconceived views on the subject werequite overthrown by the presence of as much bird-life as I had beenaccustomed to in distant fields and woods.
First, as the spring began, came crowds of chiffchaffs and willow-wrens,filling the furze with ceaseless flutterings. Presently a nightingalesang in a hawthorn bush only just on the other side of the road. Onemorning, on looking out of window, there was a hen pheasant in the furzealmost underneath. Rabbits often came out into the spaces of swardbetween the bushes.
The furze itself became a broad surface of gold, beautiful to look downupon, with islands of tenderest birch green interspersed, and willows inwhich the sedge-reedling chattered. They used to say in the country thatcuckoos were getting scarce, but here the notes of the cuckoo echoed allday long, and the birds often flew over the house. Doves cooed,blackbirds whistled, thrushes sang, jays called, wood-pigeons utteredthe old[vi] familiar notes in the little copse hard by. Even a heron wentover now and then, and in the evening from the window I could hearpartridges calling each other to roost.
Along the roads and lanes the quantity and variety of life in the hedgeswas really astonishing. Magpies, jays, woodpeckers—both green andpied—kestrels hovering overhead, sparrow-hawks darting over gateways,hares by the clover, weasels on the mounds, stoats at the edge of thecorn. I missed but two birds, the corncrake and the grasshopper lark,and found these another season. Two squirrels one day ran along thepalings and up into a guelder-rose tree in the garden. As for thefinches and sparrows their number was past calculation. There wasmaterial for many years' observation, and finding myself so unexpectedlyin the midst of these things, I was led to make the following sketches,which were published in The Standard, and are now reprinted bypermission.
The question may be asked: Why have you not indicated in every case theprecise locality where you were so pleased? Why not mention the exacthedge, the particular meadow? Because no two persons look at the samething with the same eyes. To me this spot may be attractive, to youanother; a third thinks yonder gnarled oak the most artistic. Nor couldI guarantee that every one should see the same things under the sameconditions of season, time, or weather. How could I arrange for you nextautumn to see the sprays of the horse-chestnut, scarlet from frost,reflected in the dark water of the brook? There might not be any frosttill all the leaves had dropped. How could I contrive that the cuckoosshould circle round the copse, the sunlight glint[vii] upon the stream, thewarm sweet wind come breathing over the young corn just when I shouldwish you to feel it? Every one must find their own locality. I find afavo