Chapter XVIII · THE LOCAL ORNITHOLOGY.

’Twas then we heard the cuckoo’s note Sound sweetly through the air, And everything around us looked Most beautiful and fair.

OLD SONG.

ALL lovers of the woods and fields are interested in our native birds. Many of their sincerest pleasures are associated with birds; they listen for the song of the thrush in early spring; for the note of the cuckoo, inestimable herald of the summer, voiceful when all else is voiceless, magnet of the heart in quiet evenings as we tread the rising grass or scent the new–cut hay;—and when the corn is awaiting the sickle, for the crec crec of the land–rail. So with the sweet spectacle of the little nests, hidden away in the hawthorn or ancient ivy–bush. So again with the graceful movements of very many,

The thin–winged swallow skating on the air;

the lengthened undulations of the yellow wagtail; the flutter of the goldfinch about the thistle–stems; the rich and massive sailing of the rooks when homeward bound, so grand, in particular, as they descend to their night covert in the trees. “Who was it,” asks Mr. Bright, who so happily applied to rooks the lines in the sixth Æneid, where Virgil, speaking of the descent of Æneas and his guide upon the Elysian plains, says,

Devenere locos lætos, et amœna vireta Fortunatorum nemorum, sedesque beatas?

And down they came upon the happy haunts, The pleasant greenery of the favoured groves, Their blissful resting–place.[30]

We propose, accordingly, now to add a brief account of the ornithology of the district these Rambles cover, so far, at all events, as regards the immediate neighbourhood of Manchester. The detailed observations upon the habits of the various species as originally given in the “Walks and Wild flowers” were, as stated in that work, supplied to a considerable extent by two old friends, both long since deceased, Samuel Carter and Edward Jacques. Many others will now be found, and for these we have chiefly to thank Mr. Charles E. Reade.

When Dr. Latham published his famous history of birds, exactly a hundred years ago, the number of ascertained species, in all countries, was about four thousand. It is now beyond question that the number is not less than eleven thousand, and many others no doubt exist in remote corners of which little or nothing has yet been learned. Europe contains a fair proportion of the great total. So does old England individually. The Rev. F. O. Morris, in his six well–known volumes, the first of which is dated 1863, describes and figures no fewer than three hundred and fifty–eight, or about a thirtieth of the whole number, which, very curiously, is just about the same proportion as that of the inhabitants of the British Islands to the aggregate of the world in general. In this list are included the genuine Ancient Britons, the aborigines, the birds that never go away, hence called “Permanent Residents;” the migratory birds, or such as come for awhile in summer or winter, hence called “Periodical Visitors;” and, thirdly, the vagrants, the lost, and the adventurous, collectively called “Casuals.” The introduction of the last–named, though legitimate, gives, it must be confessed, a certain deceptiveness to the figures. In the whole range of natural history there is no fact more interesting than that birds, in their airy voyages, often wander inconceivably far from home, so that in all countries solitary examples of different kinds are met with in turn, not one of them perhaps ever revisiting that particular spot. Well may the poets, that is to say, the philosophers, find in birds the representatives and emblems of human thought, which, as we all know, travels illimitably. To give these casuals, however, a place in the catalogue commensurate with that of the aborigines, the birds residing in the country all the year round, or even with that of the established visitors, which, like the cuckoo, never forget their appointed season, is manifestly to introduce confusion. At least fifty out of Mr. Morris’s three hundred and fifty–eight have not occurred more than once or twice in any part of Great Britain; and another hundred are particularised as “extremely rare.” To say that there are about two hundred British species is thus nearer the truth as regards the established denizens of our island—the birds we are familiar with, or with which we may become so by steady watching; and of these, proper to our own neighbourhood, there would seem to occur within a few miles of Manchester about ninety. The number of permanent residents mentioned in the “Walks” is fifty–nine, and of regular summer and winter visitors between twenty–five and thirty; if there is any difference at the present moment, the changes of twenty–four years will certainly not indicate increase. Why we have no more than about one–half of the proper ornithology of the country is that Lancashire is too far to the north, and its climate too damp and chilly, for many of the summer immigrants from beyond the channel, though some of these have no objection to visit the adjacent county of York; while in respect of the winter visitors from the colder parts of the Continent and the Baltic regions, we are rather too far to the west. If few in comparison with the possessions of more favoured districts, the ninety or a hundred are still enough to be proud of and to rejoice in. It is with birds as with wild–flowers: we do not want lengthy catalogues, but that which shall gladden the heart. A single life–history, followed up in every little particular, supplies, exactly as in botany, more real and lasting enjoyment than acquaintance, however sounding, with a score of mere shapes and measurements, and resting therein.

The parts most abounding in birds are naturally those which supply food in the greatest abundance. The peat–mosses, the cold and treeless hills have their inhabitants. Still, it is where fruit abounds, and where the insects depending on vegetation are most numerous, that birds must always be expected to gather in largest numbers. Trees and substantial hedgerows are also inviting, so that, all things considered, the southern and south–western parts of the neighbourhood are probably the richest both in number of species and of individuals.

The simple fact of so many as ninety of the prettiest and most interesting of the birds accounted British being denizens of our own district should operate as a strong inducement, especially with young people, to commence earnest study of ornithology. If the gathering and examination of ferns and wild–flowers be a perennial pastime, quite as hearty is the enjoyment that comes of observing the forms of birds, always so elegant, the diversities of their vestures, their odd and entertaining manners and customs, their ingenuity, characters, and tempers, their almost human instincts, and their incessant prefiguration of human character. This last is, in truth, not simply one of the most curious and amusing parts of ornithology, but literally the inexhaustible part. The best and most precious lessons in natural history, whatever may be the department, are those which enable us to trace the harmonies between the lower forms of life and our own, seeing that man is not so much contained in nature, as the continent of it, the summary, compend, and epitome of all that is outside of him, and of all that has gone before. It is not necessary, as some seem to suppose, that we should shoot every unlucky bird we may desire to be acquainted with. The museums are now so amply stocked with good stuffed specimens, that there is no need for further slaughter, unless under peculiar circumstances; all that we may want to know about form and colour is procurable indoors, and the best part of the subject is always that which is followed up with our eyes and ears in the fields. There is no harm in killing birds, any more than in the insecticide of the entomologist, so long as necessary for the genuine purposes of science; but to make a point of bringing down every poor wayfarer that may come within range is wanton cruelty. Instead of glorying in the destruction of a rare bird, or of a brilliant butterfly that an instant before had been waving its painted fans like an animated flower, it should rather be matter of regret that it has now been prevented from any longer brightening the earth and air, and that the beauty of the world has been thus much defaced. If a bird in the hand be worth two in the bush, a bird in the woods, rejoicing in the freedom of nature, is worth twenty in a museum or a glass case.

Assuredly, too, it is a great mistake to shoot down birds because of the damage they do in orchards and corn–fields. Caterpillars, grubs, and flies of various kinds multiply in precisely the degree that pains are taken to protect the fruit by destroying the birds disposed to attack it. The prudent man, instead of killing all he can, knows that his best policy is so to alarm the invaders that they shall go away of their own accord. Birds of a feather not only flock together, but, as every ornithologist knows full well, can confabulate. Warned by the discharge of small shot such as will do them no harm, they soon discern that mischief is brewing, and though, like boys, they will “try it on” again, by and by they take their departure, and conscience is not smitten with the reflection that, after all, the poor creature was more of a friend than an adversary. By killing off birds systematically, not to say malevolently and vindictively, those who do so strive their best to exterminate a leading section of the sanitary police of nature. No policy is more short–sighted; it is the opprobrium of the present day, and if persisted in will induce results that, when too late, will be deplored.

While speaking thus of the wanton destruction of birds, let it be added that the words apply with equal force to the wanton destruction of flowers and ferns. Gather what can be applied to good and useful purposes, but no more; and as regards roots, never dig up anything that cannot be relied upon as quite sure to take kindly to the garden or the rockery it is destined for. All true naturalists love to contemplate Life, and living things, and no one deserves the name who wilfully and wantonly or even heedlessly puts things to death, or who treats them in such a way that they will presently be sure to die.

Let us proceed, however, with our list, adding only that the original localities of 1858 have all been allowed to stand, so that it may be seen what Manchester possessed then, if not to–day. The scientific appellations are those which lead off the lists of synonyms given by Morris. To facilitate reference to his useful work, the volume and the number of the plate are cited after every name, the plates being counted as No. 1 and thence onwards up to 358.

I. PERMANENT RESIDENTS.

The Kestrel, or Windhover (Falco Tinnunculus), Morris, vol. i., pl. 17.

Common, building in woods, especially where little disturbed by visitors. One of the most beautiful and harmless of its race, and remarkable for hovering over its prey, which is often a field–mouse. It may be seen suspended in the air by quick, short flapping of the wings, sometimes for five minutes, then dropping down upon its victim with wonderful speed and force.

The Sparrow–hawk (Accipiter Fringillarius), i., 19.

Common, a bird of great daring, and a very general and successful destroyer of smaller ones, pouncing at once upon its prey. Usually builds in a tree which commands a good view in every direction.

The Short–eared Owl (Strix brachyotus), i., 23.

Frequently found on the mosses. Two upon Trafford Moss in the winter of 1858–9.

The White or Barn Owl (Strix flammea), i., 29.

Common. The most frequent, familiar, and useful of the British owls, being a great destroyer of mice and young rats, therefore especially valuable to farmers who have granaries. Often laughed at because of its “stupid” look, the owl is a bird of consummate interest. The great size of the eyes is adapted to the small amount of light in which they are usually to be employed. In the broad light of day the poor creature is dazzled, and may well look irrational. Mark also the beautiful fringe around the eyes. This prevents the interference of lateral light, and the bird can concentrate the whole of its power upon what lies immediately before it, just as we ourselves shade the eye with the hand, and curve the fingers, when we want to examine some distant object more particularly.

The Song Thrush (Turdus musicus), iii., 127.

Everywhere in the district, and its sweet voice known to every one. In congenial seasons it begins to sing in February. The nests, with the eggs, are brought every year to the market for sale. In the work of no creatures more than of birds, as in higher circles of life, is there more of “love’s labour lost.” But to balance extreme lack of wisdom, so great in the present instance is the perseverance, that if in endeavouring to raise a brood it is foiled by one of its many enemies, the thrush almost invariably follows that good old rule, “try again.”

The Missel Thrush (Turdus viscivorus), iii., 124.

Common, breeding freely and very early, and building a nest similar to that of the song–thrush, but in rather slovenly fashion, and usually very conspicuous, being placed in the forks of the branches of trees. Any odd stuff is used for it, as pieces of torn–up newspaper, bits of old flannel, stray cotton–wool, old ribbon, &c.

The Blackbird (Turdus merula), iii., 131.

Common everywhere, restless and vigilant, breeding freely, known to every one, and a great plague to gardeners. Blackbirds, however, consume so many snails, that in the matter of spoiled fruit we can quite afford to be lenient.

The Hedge Sparrow, or Dunnock (Accentor modularis), iii., 135.

Common, and especially attached to gardens. Begins to sing towards dusk, never any sooner; then mounts to the highest twig it can find near its nest, and is tuneful to the highest degree, saying, as well as a bird can, “Home, home, sweet, sweet home, my day’s work is done, like yours; good night, all’s well.” A more exquisitely beautiful and immaculate shade of blue than that of the eggs it is scarcely possible to discover.

The Robin, or Redbreast (Sylvia rubecula), iii., 136.

Universally known and beloved; very fond of visiting timber–yards in the town during the winter, where it sings freely; and in the country an excellent prophet of the weather, for if the next day is to be fine, the robin mounts to the top of the tallest tree; if the contrary, it warbles softly underneath. The young birds are nearly the colour of throstles, the distinctive hue not appearing till after the first moult. At this period the bird seems patched with red, presenting a most comical appearance.

The Stonechat (Sylvia rubicola), iii., 140.

Seen every winter in the neighbourhood of Withington, haunting the Swedish turnip fields. In the summer it lodges elsewhere.

The Golden–crested Wren (Regulus cristatus), iii., 162.

This bird builds annually in the yews in the grounds at Dunham Hall, and is common on the outskirts of the town generally. The note resembles that of a weak cricket, and is often repeated, as if the little creatures, like children, were afraid of losing one another. The male and female are never seen apart, and usually there are three or four couples together.

The Great Titmouse (Parus major), i., 36.

Common, haunting woods and gardens, and busy most of its time in looking for insects and spiders. Imitating other birds, and making all sorts of queer noises, the reward it often gets is to be shot for its pains, the wonder being what droll creature can it be.

The Blue Titmouse (Parus cœruleus), i., 39.

Very beautiful in plumage, usually a sweet light blue or dark blue and yellow, common in woods and gardens, and building its nest in holes of trees, in letter–boxes, old pumps, and anything else that has a cavity in it and it takes a fancy to. In late autumn and winter there is no prettier sight than to watch one of these elegant little creatures pecking away at one of the two or three apples that a kind–hearted man always leaves for it.

The Cole Titmouse (Parus ater), i., 37.

Common, but chiefly found in winter, usually going northwards to breed.

The Marsh Titmouse. (Parus palustris), i., 40.

Similar to the last both in habits and note, but building more frequently.

The Long–tailed Titmouse (Parus caudatus), i., 41.

The nest, which is usually suspended from the ends of branches in the thick of the hedge, is most beautifully formed, and resembles a little bee–hive. It is constructed of moss, lichens, and spiders’ webs, and lined with feathers, as many, when pulled out and scattered abroad, as would fill a couple of hats. In autumn, parties of about half–a–dozen usually go about together, scampering through the orchards, generally from east to west, examining every tree with remarkable rapidity, always moving, never resting; after which they are not seen again perhaps for months.

The Pied Wag–tail, or Dish–washer (Motacilla Yarrellii), ii., 80.

A common and very elegant bird, building under bridges, and near the water, but always in some rough or stony place, such as a hole where a brick has fallen out. Haunting stream and pond–sides in quest of food, it is quite as particular as a lady is over her dress, flirting its little tail so as to preserve it from getting soiled.

The Gray Wag–tail, (Motacilla sulphurea), ii., 82.

Similar to the last in habits, and very beautiful in its breeding plumage, showing yellow, blue, black, white, green, and many other tints. Near Manchester rather rare.

The Meadow Pipit, or Titling (Anthus pratensis), ii., 86.

Common in meadows and upon the mosses, as Chat Moss and White Moss, on which it breeds abundantly. This bird has most young cuckoos to rear of any of the feathered tribe that build on the ground, and a good deal of work to do, for the young cuckoos are both big and hungry. It is one also of many which, if they think their young are in danger, feign to be wounded, so as to draw attention away from the nest.

The Skylark, or Lavrock (Alauda arvensis), ii., 93.

Common everywhere, building on the ground. The male bird seems to collect the materials, while the female employs herself in arranging them. Seldom alighting upon either tree or bush, the lark, rather singular to say, is, except when soaring, in its habits almost wholly terrestrial.

The Common Bunting (Emberiza miliaria), ii., 97.

Not infrequent, singing, in a shrill note, in March, on the tops of trees near cultivated fields. The nest is built on the ground, near the sides of ditches.

The Black–headed Bunting, or Black–cap (Emberiza schœniculus), ii., 98.

Common about pit–sides and wide ditches.

The Yellow–ammer (Emberiza citrinella), ii., 90.

Common. The song, in March and April, is very peculiar, and sounds like the words, “A little bit of bread and no ch–e–e–se,” the first part of the sentence uttered rapidly, and the latter long drawn out. (This name, often mis–written yellow–hammer, represents the German goldammer, literally “yellow–bunting.”)

The Chaffinch (Fringilla cælebs), ii., 102.

Common. A very early harbinger of spring, in woods, fields, and gardens, and very fond of orchards, building a beautiful nest of all sorts of materials within reach. One has been found constructed entirely of raw cotton. The eggs are sometimes blue, sometimes white with pale spots, or pinky, or red, as if pencil–marked. Named cælebs by Linnæus, because in winter, especially when the season is severe, in many parts the sexes say good–bye to one another, and live asunder till spring, when they re–unite. One of the neatest in habits of all English birds. Even in the depth of winter the chaffinch seeks a lavatory every day.

The Tree Sparrow (Passer montanus), ii., 104.

A sharp little bird, not uncommon, and usually building in hollow oak–trees. If the tree be approached during incubation it flies off like a shot.

The House Sparrow (Passer domesticus), ii., 105.

The bold, pert, quarrelsome bird, indifferent alike to our kindness and our enmity, which nevertheless one is glad to see feeding on the crumbs considerately thrown to it from the parlour breakfast–table.

The Greenfinch (Coccothraustes chloris), ii., 106.

Common in cultivated fields and gardens. Song sweet but monotonous.

The Common Linnet (Linaria cannabina), ii., 110.

Abundant everywhere on heaths and in hedgerows. Many are kept in cages for the beauty of the song. Not only among mankind, it would seem, does a fine voice sometimes prove the road to ruin.

The Less Red–pole (Linaria minor), ii., 111.

This bird breeds in Marple Wood, Cotterill Clough, and similar places. The nest, rather hard to discover, is round, the size of a racket–ball, and composed of fibrous roots and the hemp–like bark of the dead nettle–stalks of the previous year, with which the little architect ties them together, the inside being lined with the pappus or down of the coltsfoot seed. It is generally placed in high hedges or in the boughs of fir–trees.

The Bullfinch (Loxia Pyrrhula), ii., 114.

Rare. Remarkable for the beauty of its nest, which is constructed of the withered ends of the slenderest woodbine twigs the bird can find, laid crosswise like a woven fabric. Generally found in a bush, and about a yard from the ground.

The Starling, or Shepster (Sturnus vulgaris), iii., 121.

A bird well–known as stopping up waterspouts with its nest, and never going to bed till after a prolonged chatter. Common everywhere.

The Carrion Crow (Corvus corone), i., 52.

Formerly common in Hough–end Clough, but now extinct, and fast disappearing from the neighbourhood in general.

The Rook (Corvus frugilegus), i., 54.

Common everywhere. Their clamour one of the most familiar of rural sounds, and their great feathers, of the only shade of black that is lively, constantly seen lying upon the ground.

The Jackdaw (Corvus monedula), i., 55.

Formerly an inhabitant of the steeples of St. John’s, St. Anne’s, St. Matthew’s, and St. Mary’s churches. Plentiful wherever there is an old ruin.

The Magpie (Pica caudata), i., 56.

Formerly very abundant about Urmston, but has become scarce with the disappearance of the tall trees, especially poplars, once so plentiful there. It suffers sadly, also, from sportsmen and gamekeepers.

The Jay (Garrulus glandarius), i., 58.

Frequent about Withington, Didsbury, Northen, and in that part of the neighbourhood.

The Green Woodpecker (Picus viridis), ii., 64.

This bird used to breed in Dunham Park. One was seen there in January, 1859.

The Great Spotted Woodpecker (Picus major), ii., 65.

Rare. Dunham Park; Barlow Moor.

The Common Creeper (Certhia familiaris), ii., 62.

Abundant, but, in consequence of its retired habits, little known. At a short distance it looks like a mouse, running up the tree from the very bottom, and clearing it all round of every insect that may happen to be in the way. Plentiful at Gatley Carrs.

The Common Wren (Sylvia Troglodytes), iii., 160.

Well–known, and common everywhere in gardens, woods, and hedgerows. Often found with a few scattered white feathers, and sometimes with white wings. The large and pretty nest reminds one of what women do for the world. The hen commences one and completes it. Meantime the male bird begins two or three in succession, a short distance from his mate’s, but never completes one of them. The materials are moss, feathers, hair, dead leaves, and dead fern.

The Peewit, or Lapwing (Vanellus cristatus), iv., 192.

Common everywhere in marshy grounds, and known to most people by the peculiar cry represented in the name. The young ones are particularly fond of being in the bottom of deep ditches and drains, squatting down close to the ground.

The King–fisher (Alcedo ispida), i., 46.

Cheadle, Urmston, Flixton, and elsewhere in those directions, by all the tributaries of the Mersey. A beautiful but very timid bird, darting with great speed, its glossy green back glancing quick as thought.—(See, in reference to the Lancashire localities, the Manchester Guardian of Feb. 4th, 1882.)

The Moor–hen, or Water–hen (Gallinula chloropus), v., 247.

Common by old pits. Many breed on the ponds in Dunham Park, where we cannot go in the summer without seeing them in companies of four or five, their little white tails cocked up, and looking as if they were swimming on their necks.

The Great Crested Grebe (Colymbus cristatus), v., 294.

On all the Cheshire meres, Tatton, Tabley, Rostherne, &c.

The Little Grebe, or Dab–chick (Colymbus Hebridicus), v., 298.

Common on the Cheshire meres.

The Nuthatch (Sitta Europæa), i., 60.

Dunham Park, but only a few.

The Ringdove, Cushat, or Wood–pigeon (Columba palumbus), iii., 164.

Breeds in the woods in Trafford Park and about Chat Moss; plentiful about Urmston, though rather rare in the district generally.

The Stockdove (Columba ænas), iii., 165.

Very scarce. Marple Wood.—(On the Lancashire localities, see Manchester Guardian, Jan. 21, 1882.)

The Red Grouse (Lagopus Scoticus), iii., 172.

On the moors.

The Common Partridge (Perdrix cinerea), iii., 174.

Upon farm–land, common.

The Wild Duck (Anas Boschas), v., 270.

This bird breeds on Carrington Moss, Chat Moss, and in many other places.

The Common Heron (Ardea cinerea), iv., 197.

In the Manchester Guardian of December 28, 1881, it is stated that there is a heronry “within about fourteen miles of the Exchange,” and that within forty miles of Manchester there are a dozen other stations for this beautiful and celebrated bird. The former is probably that one which it is further stated has existed since 1871 in Tabley Park, though the older stations, Dunham Park, Oulton Park, and the trees near the water at Arley Hall, have long since been deserted.—(Vide also the Guardian of March 18th, 1882.)

II. PERIODICAL VISITORS.

I. COMING IN SPRING AND SUMMER.

The Wheat–ear (Sylvia Œnanthe), iii., 142.

The earliest of our summer visitants, coming by the end of March, but staying in the fields not longer than two or three weeks, when it moves off to the mountainous districts to breed. Very fond of placing its nest in deserted rabbit–holes, and in cavities in old stone walls.

The Grasshopper Warbler (Sylvia locustella), iii., 143.

No one who has heard this bird can ever forget it, the note resembling the voice of the grasshopper, but prolonged into a whirr, like the noise of a spinning–wheel. Towards midnight, when all other birds are still, if approached, it will begin. Found haunting thickets and hedge–bottoms, but rather uncommon, and rarely seen, though often heard, on account of its habit of running among the low brushwood.

The Sedge Warbler (Sylvia salicaria), iii., 145.

Common by the sides of pitsteads. This is the bird so often mistaken in our neighbourhood for the nightingale. No bird takes more care to let us know of its presence; the moment it is disturbed, it begins to sing.

The Black–cap Warbler (Sylvia atricapilla), iii., 150.

A most beautiful song–bird, and common in woods. When it arrives, it is fond of mounting high into the trees; the males, like most of the warblers, coming a week or two before the females, and selecting a station, where they sing until their mates arrive.

The Garden Warbler (Sylvia hortensis), iii., 152.

Unlike the preceding, this bird never gets up high into the trees to sing, nor does it care to warble until the female arrives, when its lovely trill is heard plentifully in the low bushes. It will build in gardens among peas. Common in Hough–end Clough and about Urmston.

The Common Whitethroat (Sylvia cinerea), iii., 153.

Common everywhere, and apt to warble when on the wing, springing up out of the hedge, with its jar–jar–jar, jee–jee–jee, and in a minute or two diving down into it again.

The Less Whitethroat (Sylvia sylvicella), iii., 154.

Rare about Manchester, building in hedges a large and clumsy nest, similar to that of a greenfinch. The song is given only from the very heart of thick–foliaged trees.

The Wood Warbler, or Wood Wren (Sylvia sylvicola), iii., 155.

A very lovely little bird; its song, or trill, a repetition of two notes, and its nest very hard to find. While singing, it sits on the bough and seems to tremble, the wings being quivered elegantly.

The Whinchat (Sylvia rubetra), iii., 141.

A common little bird, breeding everywhere, usually selecting uncultivated lands, and sometimes hay–fields, but always having its nest upon the ground. About Urmston it is known as the “utic,” from its peculiar cry, “tic, tic, utic.” In habits sprightly and cheerful, popping about for ever from one spray to another.

The Willow Warbler, or Willow Wren (Sylvia Trochilus), iii., 156.

This little fellow is common in most places,—woods, gardens, hedgerows,—choosing the top of the trees to sing in. It ceases to sing after pairing, devoting itself to the construction of its large nest, which is usually protected with a lid, and built of grass, moss, and feathers. In the summer of 1858, Edward Jacques found a nest in Hough–end Clough, with a dead blackbird alongside, from which the feathers had all been plucked, and used in the construction. Nowhere is it more numerous or happy than about Urmston, arriving clean as a daisy, after its journey of a thousand miles or more.

The Chiff–chaff (Sylvia rufa), iii., 158.

This little creature, which is one of the smallest of the warblers, arrives a trifle later, or about the middle of March, when it at once begins its cry in the very highest branches it can find of the tallest poplars and fir–trees, perching itself on the topmost pinnacle. Not common about Manchester generally, though plentiful in Marple Wood. First it cries “chiff,” then “chaff,” then “chaff” and “chiff” alternately.

The White Wag–tail (Motacilla alba), ii., 81.

Arrives at the end of March or the beginning of April, but does not appear to breed in our neighbourhood.

The Yellow Wag–tail (Motacilla flava), ii., 84.

Common in open fields, building its nest among young corn, and in hay–grass. Like all the other wag–tails, a bird of very poor song, but singularly gentle and affectionate. It arrives the last week in March, apparently all the better for its journey, the plumage being often more clean and beautiful the day of arrival than at any later period.

The Redstart (Sylvia phœnicurus), iii., 138.

Formerly very common in Hulme, Chorlton, and Withington, but now become scarce, being shy in temperament, and retiring before the advance of population. Plentiful in the rural parts of Cheshire. To get a full view of a redstart is also very difficult, as it is for ever dodging behind a branch, and, as the name implies, is never still.

The Tree Pipit (Anthus arboreus), ii., 88.

A lively bird, arriving at the beginning of April, and commencing to sing immediately. Common, building its nest on the ground, and laying the most variously coloured eggs, some being blood–red and others deep black.

The Cuckoo (Cuculus canorus), ii., 71.

Arrives abundantly about the 27th of April, remaining until about August, though young birds of the year have been found in October. However disregardful of its young, the cuckoo makes ample amends in its conjugal fidelity, for when one of either sex is seen, you may be quite sure that its mate is not far off.

The Wryneck, or Cuckoo’s Mate (Yunx Torquilla), ii., 61.

Rare, coming mostly with the cuckoo, which it somewhat resembles.

The Swallow (Hirundo rustica), ii., 76.

Common and familiar everywhere. Social, harmless, and useful, and perhaps as much beloved as the robin itself, if only because of its fondness for human habitations.

The House Martin (Hirundo riparia), ii., 79.

Common and familiar, and, like the swallow, always welcome. This odd bird often takes for the foundation of its nest one constructed the previous year by the swallow. The swallow’s nest is open at the top. The house–martin likes to have a roof or lid, so goes on with the one it adopts till finished to its own fancy, keeping only an aperture for ingress.

The Sand Martin (Hirundo urbica), ii., 78.

Comes in spring from North Africa and Malta, then common everywhere in sand–banks, in which it excavates horizontal galleries. It never alights on the ground, but gathers the blades of green grass used for the nest while on the wing, and in the same way collects the feathers for lining it.

The Dotterel (Charadrius morinellus), iv., 187.

This bird visits us in the beginning of May, arriving in large flocks. It is very tame, silly, and easily approached. If a fowler once gets among them, he may shoot the whole before they take alarm. It remains only for three or four days or a week, and then moves on to its breeding stations among the mountains in the north.—(On the Lancashire localities, see Manchester Guardian, Feb. 25, 1882.)

The Spotted Fly–catcher (Muscicapa grisola), i., 44.

Common, making its appearance in the middle of May, building in gardens and woods, and generally choosing very odd situations for the nest. Remarkable for the constancy of its return to the same old dead tree or rail, or old and ivied wall. After its long aërial sail it seems well content also to stop there till the time for departure in autumn. “From morn till dewy eve” it keeps in its chosen place, though incessantly darting out to secure a fly.

The Pied Fly–catcher (Muscicapa luctuosa), i., 43.

This bird has been seen frequently between Middleton and Oldham, where also it builds its nest, choosing old trees.

The Common Sand–piper (Tringa hypoleucos), iv., 217.

Tolerably common on the banks of the Mersey at Northen, and thence down the river.

The Land–rail, or Corn–crake (Crex pratensis), v., 242.

Common everywhere in hay and corn–fields. The voice of the corn–crake has in it something so nearly akin to ventriloquism that the birds themselves are rarely where we seem to hear them, furnishing in summer much pleasant amusement.

The Spotted Crake, or Gallinew (Crex porzana), v., 243.

These birds haunt the pit–bottoms, and cannot be got without a good dog; hence they appear to be less common than they really are.

The Common Quail (Perdrix coturnix), iii., 178.

Occasionally met with, and no doubt breeds, like the partridge, which it resembles, in open fields. It may be known by its peculiar cry in summer evenings, But–me–but! But–me–but!

The Common Dipper (Cinclus aquaticus), iii., 123.

The only place in the neighbourhood known to be visited by this curious bird is Stalybridge Brushes, from which nests and eggs have several times been brought. At home only in and about brooks and streams in mountainous districts, it generally builds its nests under the ledge of a cascade on rocks perfectly wet, having to go through the curtain of water to reach it. When wishing to feed, it goes to the bottom of the water, there walking about like a diver.—(On the Lancashire localities, see the Manchester Guardian, Feb. 4, 1882.)

The Ring Ouzel (Turdus torquatus), iii., 132.

Builds every summer in Stalybridge Brushes; occasionally about Withington. Remarkable for its loud and beautiful song.

II. VISITORS COMING IN AUTUMN AND WINTER.

The Field–fare (Turdus pilaris), iii., 125.

A common winter visitor, breeding in Norway and Sweden, and one of the eminently social birds, always travelling in large companies. Comes about the end of October, and leaves again not later than the beginning of April.

The Redwing (Turdus iliacus), iii., 126.

The habits of this bird are the same as those of the field–fare, with which it comes and goes.

The Siskin (Carduelis spinus), ii., 109.

The siskin visits us in November and December, but sometimes not for seven or eight years together, though coming plentifully when it chooses to make its appearance.

The Mealy Red–pole (Linaria canescens), ii., 112.

Comes and goes in flocks with the siskins, and at equally long and uncertain intervals.

The Common Snipe (Scolopax Gallinago), iv., 227.

Abundant, haunting old brick–pits and unfrozen brooks; plentiful about Gorton, Belle Vue, and Cheetham Hill.

The Jack Snipe (Scolopax Gallinula), iv., 228.

A smaller bird than the common snipe; not so plentiful, but often seen in company with it.

The Woodcock (Scolopax rusticola), iv., 225.

Formerly very plentiful about Hough–end, but now rare, owing to the filling up of the pits and the clearing away of the brushwood.

III. CASUAL, STRAY, AND OCCASIONAL BIRDS.

Several of the birds named below are permanent residents in the British Islands, and others are regular visitors to this country. They are put in the present place because seen near Manchester only at uncertain intervals, or as casuals, the only one that can be looked for with any degree of probability, being the sea–gull. The visits, as will be seen from the dates, have in some cases occurred at periods so far back, that except for completeness’ sake, they would scarcely be worth mention. I quote them from standard works upon ornithology, and from the late Mr. John Blackwall’s paper upon the migrations of Manchester birds in the “Transactions of the Literary and Philosophical Society for 1822,” the observations having been made during the eight years 1814–1821.

The Little Crake (Crex pusilla), v., 244.

One at Ardwick in 1807.

The Golden Oriole (Oriolus galbula), iii., 133.

One near Manchester in 1811.

The Ortolan (Emberiza hortulana), ii., 101.

One near Manchester in 1827.

The Crossbill (Loxia curvirostra), ii., 116.

About the year 1840, in the month of August, a large flock of these birds, old and young in company, visited Hough–end Clough for a few hours. Mr. Blackwall gives as its Manchester period, August 5th to November 19th.

The Chatterer (Ampelis garrulus), i., 59.

In Mr. Blackwall’s list.

The Hoopoe (Upupa epops), i., 49.

In Mr. Blackwall’s list.

The Red–backed Shrike (Lanius collurio), i., 34.

Sometimes seen in the summer.

The Great Shrike (Lanius excubitor), i., 33.

In Mr. Blackwall’s list, and was seen at Cheadle about 1850. (On the Lancashire localities of the three species of Lanius, see the Manchester Guardian for March 11th, 1882.)

The Merlin (Falco æsalon), i., 16.

In Mr. Blackwall’s list. (On the Lancashire localities, see Manchester Guardian, January 14th, 1882.)

The Dusky Grebe (Colymbus obscurus), v., 296.

Once near Manchester.

Bewick’s Swan (Cygnus Bewickii), v., 262.

A flock of twenty–nine at Crumpsall on December 10th, 1829, and another of seventy–three at the same place, February 28th, 1830.

The Little Bittern (Ardea minuta), iv., 205.

A very shy and sulky little bird, sitting all of a heap, and looking like a bit of brown stump.

The Common Bittern (Botaurus stellaris), iv., 204.

The Great or Solitary Snipe (Scolopax major), iv., 226.

Has been seen at Urmston.

The Nightingale (Sylvia Luscinia), iii., 147.

The visit of the nightingales to our neighbourhood will long be remembered by those who heard their song. It took place in 1863. The first came to Wilmslow early in May, establishing itself in the little grove near the end of Bollin Hall Park, on the Manchester side of the railway viaduct. For several weeks it sang nightly, and the crowds of people who were attracted by the fame of the bird from distances of many miles, at last became quite a trouble to that usually quiet neighbourhood. The second took up its lodging in a grove close to the Strines Printworks, where, says Mr. Joel Wainwright,[31] no greater sensation was ever caused by a little thing. It began at ten every night, and continued almost uninterruptedly until three a.m. A third is said to have visited a plantation adjacent to the railway station at Sale, but over this one there may possibly have been an error.

The Snow Bunting (Emberiza nivalis), ii., 95.

Occasionally visits us in severe winters, breeding in Norway and Sweden.

The Mountain Finch, or Brambling (Fringilla montifringilla), ii., 103.

Visits us from the north in winter time, but rarely.

The Pectoral Sand–piper (Tringa pectoralis), iv., 239.

Once by a pit near the White House, Stretford Road.

The Common Wild Goose (Anser palustris), v., 251.

A flock of these birds was once seen feeding in a field at Withington.

The Wild Swan (Cygnus ferus), v., 261.

One preserved in the Peel Park Museum was shot near Bolton. Occasionally seen at Lymm.

The Sclavonian Grebe (Podiceps cornutus), v., 296.

One shot near Oldham many years ago is now in the Peel Park Museum.

The Common Tern (Sterna Hirundo), vi., 316.

Occasionally seen upon the Mersey and the lower Irwell.

The Black Tern (Sterna nigra), vi., 323.

The Black–headed Gull (Larus ridibundus), vi., 331.

The Common Gull (Larus canus), vi., 334.

The Kittiwake (Larus tridactylus), vi., 340.

Gulls are frequently seen in the winter on the mosses and in ploughed fields, feeding, but whether they are the kittiwake or common gull cannot always be ascertained with certainty, as they are very shy birds, and fly away before they can be approached.

The Water Rail (Rallus aquaticus), v., 246.

The Curlew (Numenius arquata), iv., 211.

Occasionally breeds on Chat Moss.

The Teal (Anas crecca), v., 272.

Occasionally seen by pit–sides.

The Black–start (Sylvia Tithys), iii., 139.

Two were seen at Didsbury about 1855.

The Golden Plover (Charadrius pluvialis), iv., 186.

Occasionally seen in large flocks upon the flat fields near Stretford and thereabouts.—(On the Lancashire localities, see Manchester Guardian, January 28th, 1882.)

The Ringed Plover (Charadrius hiaticula), iv., 188.

Single birds are seen occasionally, both in summer and winter.

The Storm Petrel (Procellaria pelagica), vi., 353.

One was picked up alive near Stockport in the winter of 1856, and another, dead, at Pendleton, shortly before. A third had fallen at Withington, these birds being blown inland by tempestuous weather, and dropping when exhausted.

The Hobby (Falco subbuteo), i., 14.

Once near Brooks’ Bar, as a summer visitant. The hobby is the only British bird of prey that is migratory.

The Dunlin (Tringa variabilis), iv., 240.

This bird has been known to breed on Chat Moss, but very rarely.

The Common Swift (Hirundo apus), ii., 73.

Occasionally.

The Night–jar (Caprimulgus Europæus), ii., 72.

Chat Moss, and other out of the way moors.

IV. INTRODUCED AND NATURALIZED.

The Common Pheasant (Phasianus colchicus), iii., 169.

In “Preserves.”