growing on the turrets, waft their fragrance over the desolate courtyard. Here, for ages, amid changes of royal dynasties, the rooks have held their homes, faithful to their ancient trees. Oft at fall of evening their melancholy cawings sound in peculiar unison with the plaintive and never-ending voice of the distant waterfall. Such sounds suit such places, and produce in feeling minds all the effects of rich and tender poetry. The writer has often felt the power of those melancholy rook-notes, in the solemnly beautiful churchyard of St. P—; there, in the calm days of May, the voice of the bird sounds mournfully soft over the numerous hillocks and tombs which mark the undisturbed homes of many generations. It is marvellous that persons can be found to destroy rookeries beautifully placed on an estate, and furnishing, throughout all seasons of the year, innumerable matters to delight and interest the owner. Still it is not easy to destroy a rookkingdom; the birds will submit, age after age, to constant attack, and annual slaughterings of their young, preferring their ancient homes with perpetual dangers, to a new settlement with peace. The rooks are certainly fond of noises, either produced by themselves or human beings; they appear also to take pleasure in the operations and busy works of man, and frequently establish themselves in the heart of a crowded city, where, from their high places, they observe, with an amusing gravity, the pomp and circumstance of earth, the triumphal march and funeral procession. Many rookeries are found in and about London, though its vast extension, and the destruction of many clumps of old trees, have diminished the corvine colonies. Rooks cannot, it is presumed, have any particular sympathy with legal pursuits; the customs of common law comprehend no privilege for them, nor do statutes recognise their rights; but these birds did formerly honour the lawyers in the Temple with their company, and amused by their tricks many a pupil of Themis. Probably those who have described what they facetiously, and with a sly reference to Westminster Hall, called "Rook Courts," (a jabbering assemblage of quarrelsome rooks,) in which we are gravely told a thievish bird is formally tried, condemned, and punished, by its fellowrooks, may find a good reason for the existence of rooks in the Temple. Such solemn proceedings must have required some little acquaintance with Temple studies, if not with the practice of the Old Bailey Court or Westminster Hall! Whether the moral notions of the rooks received a shock from their intimacy with gentlemen learned in the law, or they suffered persecution from the templars, is a nice question, into which the reader must not be drawn. These birds are no longer heard in the Temple, and the future Attorney-general, or Chancellor, must be contented with the occasional view of some passing over the spot which all must regret to see abandoned by such companionable bipeds. The desire for nearness to human habitations is sometimes singularly manifested by the rook. Some have been known to build on the tops of weather-cocks, as was the case in Newcastle, in Welborne, and other places. Many of those who read these accounts have perhaps seen an engraving representing a rook's nest built on the vane of the Exchange in Newcastle. The print brings before the eye a spire surmounted by a tall weather-cock; on the vane is a nest, on the nest a rook is sitting, and round it a flock of young rooks are circling in sportive flight. The construction of a nest on such an ever-moving foundation may be represented as a proof of the perfection of bird instinct; into this metaphysical sea we are not about to sail; the fact is only adduced to illustrate the rook's determination to be at times a very near neighbour to man. Vast numbers of rooks made their dwellings in the ancient walls of Windsor Castle, trusting to the immunities secured by the vicinity of royalty, and laying under contribution the wide domain of that rich part of Berkshire. In the early dawn, on a still summer's morning, were their countless cawings heard by the sentinel pacing the ramparts, and thousands of dark wings swept over the keep, long before the royal standard of England opened its rich folds to the rising sun. The extensive repairs undertaken by George IV. led to the expulsion of the rooks from their castellated homes, though large rookeries are yet abundant in the vicinity of the Castle. These rookeries are not increased by the influx of birds from other settlements, the laws of these republics being most rigid in the exclusion of foreigners. No sooner does a stranger attempt to settle in an old colony, than he is furiously attacked and beaten off by the natives. A rook wishing to change his home, must, therefore, retire into solitude, construct a lonely nest, and become the founder of a new colony. No opposition is ever made to the settlement of the young broods in the rookery, but these frequently depart in flocks to form small rook-states in the neighbouring trees. The fondness shewn by the rooks for their nests does not keep the birds to their lofty homes through the year; after the young have flown, the rookery is for a time deserted, both old and young preferring the freedom of the fields and woods to the limits of their settlement. In this respect we may liken the rooks to those wild Indian tribes who pass one period of the year in their wigwams, and the remainder in the huntinggrounds. During the bright flush of summer's beauteousness the rooks range hills, plains, and woodlands, giving themselves up to the gladsome spirit of that happy time. The first cry of the autumnal storms sends the rooks to the shelter of the forest; but when primroses steal softly out on the sunny banks, and the violet peeps from her leafy nooks, then the birds return to their wintershaken nests, which are quickly put into a habitable condition. Notwithstanding the preference evinced by the rook for the neighbourhood of human beings, it has an unmistakeable objection to come very near to men themselves. Those who attempt to shoot these birds know the extreme difficulty of getting within gun-shot distance. The sight of a stick carried over the shoulder is sufficient to send an immense flock from the most prized feeding-ground. A passenger going along the road suffices to set a thousand wings in motion. This wariness arises from the constant attacks made upon the young birds, which naturally retain some dread for any thing in the shape of a gun. The rook is a migratory bird in high northern latitudes, where he does not object to pass the summer, but departs on the approach of the winter storms. This bird visits Siberia on the approach of summer, soothing the Russian exile with its long drawn note, and sweeping with busy wing over the extended northern plains. When winter sounds his approach in whirlwinds and snow, the rooks gather in vast flocks, and sail towards more temperate regions. With us the bird remains the whole year, enjoying the luxuriance of our summer, and sustaining the severity of winter with little harm. Sometimes a hot summer destroys a great many, as no insects can then be obtained except at the earliest dawn, when the freshening dew sparkles on millions of light green blades, and attracts to the surface numerous worms. But such a time is too short for a satisfactory meal, and the rook is unable to procure nourishment from the parched soil. It is at these times that the rook becomes injurious to the farmer. He will then dig up young potatoes and turnips, and also steal grain from the stacks. Thus, when we are delighting in the gorgeous splendours of rich landscapes, and the summer-tinted foliage of ancient forests, the rook is starving in the midst of all this beauty, which is to him a desolation. The There is one peculiarity in the rook which has caused numerous disputes amongst naturalists. The lower part of the beak in young birds is covered with feathers, which fall off in August. question which has been raised is, whether the feathers fall off naturally, or in consequence of the friction caused by the beak entering the earth in search of food. The latter supposition does not seem worthy of much credit, as the same effect is not produced in birds which thrust their beaks into the ground quite as deep as the rook. The carrion-crows, magpies, and jays, use their beaks for spades in a most effective manner, without depriving themselves of their feathers. If friction produces such a bareness in the rook, how do those birds retain their plumage? The feathers have been found to fall out at the proper time in tamed rooks, which had not used their beaks to dig for food. In this case the featherdropping cannot be ascribed to friction. If the loss of the feathers arose from friction, they would appear again after moulting, A A which is not the case. The bared part is covered by a whitish and rough skin, indicating a complete alteration in the bird's system. The reason of this peculiar organisation is not known, though some important end must be answered by such a change. THE JACKDAW (Corvus monēdula). This bird has a great resemblance to his brother the rook in habits and voice, and Cowper might not improperly say of it, "There is a bird, who, by his coat, And by the hoarseness of his note, In size, the jackdaw yields, of course, to the crow or rook, being seldom above thirteen or fourteen inches long; but in activity and cunning is surpassed by no member of the feathered tribes. If the reader has ever crept into a turret inhabited by these birds, he may have seen something of the manners of these loquacious strutting Corvida. The appearance alone entitles it to some little attention. It has not certainly the brilliantly coloured coat of the parrot; but its grave colours partake of the sprightliness pertaining to the bird's air and habits. His coat may be called black, but pleasing bluish tints give richness to this black, which is further relieved by a greyish colouring on the neck and breast. This is the general dress of the jackdaw; sometimes a member of the family wears a garb wholly black, whilst others appear in grey apparel. It is pleasant to see a flock darting about some time-worn tower on a sunny day, when their bright bodies flash out many brilliant hues as they dart to and fro. Most birds shew a preference for certain localities, away from which they are not happy. Some delight in the deep solitudes and gloom of pathless woods, others choose the caverns of seabeaten cliffs, where the surges ever beat and foam. The jackdaws have also their favourite dwelling-places, in the choice of which they evince a disposition to become the companions of man. Where cathedral-pinnacles point heavenwards, there may these birds be found; where college-towers rise from ancient homes of learning, the gowned student hears their incessant converse. Gothic spires and castellated ramparts afford many a retreat for the jackdaw, which sometimes, however, will stoop to inhabit chimneys and such-like places of refuge. At Cambridge the jackdaws are nobly lodged, having appropriated the towers of that glorious pile, the chapel of King's College, for their homes. There, in the silence of the "long vacation," they enliven the place; often, when the stranger is hastening to attend the chapel service, his attention is arrested by flocks of jackdaws darting from those regal' towers. However interesting such a spectacle may be to the student or townsmen, it cannot be said that the keepers of the neighbouring botanical gardens have much reason to like the proximity of these jackdaws. The birds have found the pieces of wood on which the genus and species of each plant are marked, well suited for the construction of their nests, and have drawn them from the ground in such numbers, that the most phlegmatic gardener might be excused for wishing "death to the jackdaws." The extent of this annoyance may be judged from the fact, that eighteen dozen of these label-sticks were at one time taken from a chimney in the neighbourhood of the garden. They had been collected there by a pair which, from some jackdaw whim, or perhaps from quarrels with their fellows, preferred a nest in the sooty receptacle to a more elevated home in the chapel-turrets. The quantity of materials sometimes used for a nest, and the skill shewn in its construction, were demonstrated by one raised in the bell-tower of Eton College Chapel by a pair of jackdaws. They had built their house on the ledge of a narrow opening left in the turretwall for the admission of light. A flight of stone steps leads to the top of the tower; one of these steps was under the nest, and upon this a large pile of sticks had been raised, until the summit touched the base of the nest, which was rather wider than the ledge. The birds did not require this cartload of sticks for the nest, but for the construction of the column of support. The process by which the jackdaws were led to raise such a pile may thus be exhibited. The birds having finished the nest, found the ledge on which it had been built too narrow for a safe support. The nest required a prop; this was quickly supplied by the stack of twigs and sticks raised on one of the turret stairs, and continued upwards against the wall until it reached the bottom of the nest, which was then securely fixed. This supporting column was ten feet high, and occupied the laborious birds seventeen days in the spring of 1842. The jackdaws did not long enjoy the fruit of their labours; their curious bit of architecture attracted so many visitors that the little constructors became frightened, and abandoned the place. Cowper has humorously alluded to the love of the jackdaw for church-towers, steeples, and similar places, in the lines translated from the Latin of Vincent Bourne, whose piece beginning"Nigras inter aves avis est," is thus modified by the English poet "There is a bird, who, by his coat, 1 Perhaps it is needless to inform the reader that Henry VI. founded this college. |