Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $9.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Birds in Town and Village
    Birds in Town and Village
    Birds in Town and Village
    Ebook219 pages3 hours

    Birds in Town and Village

    By W. H. Hudson

    ()

    Switch to audiobook
    Read preview

    About this ebook

    According to Wikipedia: "William Henry Hudson (4 August 1841 – 18 August 1922) was an author, naturalist, and ornithologist. Hudson was born in the Quilmes, a borough (partido) of the greater Buenos Aires, in Buenos Aires Province, Argentina, the son of Daniel Hudson and his wife Catherine née Kemble, U.S. settlers of English and Irish origin. He spent his youth studying the local flora and fauna and observing both natural and human dramas on what was then a lawless frontier, publishing his ornithological work in Proceedings of the Royal Zoological Society, initially in an English mingled with Spanish idioms.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSeltzer Books
    Release dateMar 1, 2018
    ISBN9781455429554
    Author

    W. H. Hudson

    William Henry Hudson (1841–1922) was an author and naturalist. Hudson was born in Argentina, the son of English and American parents. There, he studied local plants and animals as a young man, publishing his findings in Proceedings of the Royal Zoological Society, in a mixture of English and Spanish. Hudson’s familiarity with nature was readily evident in later novels such as A Crystal Age and Green Mansions. He later aided the founding of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds.

    Read more from W. H. Hudson

    Related to Birds in Town and Village

    Related ebooks

    Nature For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      Hit Me With Your Best Shot

      Jun 26, 2024

      Hit Me With Your Best Shot
      4 min read

    • Article

      Give Us A Clue

      Oct 13, 2021

      Give Us A Clue
      4 min read

    • Article

      On The Wings Of Love

      Jul 28, 2021

      On The Wings Of Love
      5 min read

    • Article

      Jan Morris

      Jun 15, 2018

      I have always rather envied the poet Ovid, who was banished from Rome by the emperor Augustus, you may remember, to a remote place called Tomis on the shores of the Black Sea. There he died, ten years later, and his exile has gone into legend and int

      17 min read

    • Article

      Pigeons On Your Tod

      Oct 6, 2021

      Pigeons On Your Tod
      3 min read

    • Article

      Commonplace Book

      Sep 1, 2021

      If any question why we died, Tell them, because our fathers lied. —Rudyard Kipling, “Epitaphs of the War,” The Years Between, 1919 She consulted me, a glance, and said: “I think not anything off the wagon. It arrives too quickly. Let’s have somethi

      4 min read

    • Article

      Commonplace Book

      Jun 1, 2022

      Try to praise the mutilated world. Remember June’s long days, and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine. The nettles that methodically overgrow the abandoned homesteads of exiles. —Adam Zagajewski, “Try to Praise the Mutilated World,” tr. by Clare C

      4 min read

    • Article

      The Fenland redoubt

      Oct 5, 2022

      The Fenland redoubt
      4 min read

    • Article

      On Galloway shores

      Apr 29, 2020

      On Galloway shores
      7 min read

    • Article

      Fantastic Mr Fox

      Feb 26, 2020

      Fantastic Mr Fox
      4 min read

    • Article

      Commonplace Book

      Jun 4, 2018

      I like long walks, especially when they are taken by people who annoy me. —Fred Allen I have always wondered, in reading travels, at the childish joy travellers felt at meeting people they knew, and their sense of loneliness when they did not, in

      4 min read

    • Article

      Wanderlust In The Park

      Jan 26, 2024

      Wanderlust In The Park
      4 min read

    • Article

      Down The Decades: The 1910s

      May 18, 2022

      NOT so elegantly attired as his near relations the red-backed or woodchat shrikes, the great grey is by no means a sombre-looking bird. Unlike our spring visitors, this winter migrant cannot claim to possess great vocal abilities, as he has practical

      5 min read

    • Article

      Two Poems

      Nov 1, 2018

      Our house in the 100-year flood plainflooded. They say thatfor another 800 years a hurricanelike this will not come. My internetis down and my smart phone hurts my thumbsarthritic. I’m running out of data.All my books are in boxes. Please referto my

      3 min read

    • Article

      No Good Thing Ever Dies

      Jan 28, 2021

      During the Christmas break, I decided it was time to sort through the organised chaos that I call my study. Despite its haphazard appearance, I pride myself on my ability to find things in an instant. However, hidden away in one corner draw I discove

      3 min read

    • Article

      Commonplace Book

      Mar 4, 2024

      To Err Is Human; to Forgive, Supine —S. J. Perelman, Baby, It’s Cold Inside, 1970 You must know the bees have come early this year too: I see them visit aster, sweet Williams, bleeding hearts, and azalea blossoms hardy enough to not have crisped with

      3 min read

    • Article

      Walking Back To Life

      Sep 21, 2022

      Walking Back To Life
      5 min read

    • Article

      Wheatears Not Walkers

      Mar 8, 2023

      ELEVEN years ago to the day, our village twitchers were whipped into a state of frenzy by the presence of a red-flanked bluetail where no red-flanked bluetail should be, viz. a couple of miles up the road in a Galley Head garden. These tiny birds (li

      2 min read

    • Article

      ‘So Noble And So Bare’

      Jul 13, 2022

      ‘So Noble And So Bare’
      5 min read

    • Article

      Apparition

      Mar 26, 2020

      Apparition
      8 min read

    • Article

      A Day To Remember

      May 24, 2023

      A Day To Remember
      4 min read

    • Article

      On Refuge

      Jan 11, 2018

      When I was 18, I left home and moved to the big city. There’s nothing unusual in that. For me, though, there was no going back. That same year my father changed jobs. The whole family moved. It was four decades before I would see my childhood home ag

      6 min read

    • Article

      A Bird’s-Eye View

      Mar 6, 2023

      A Bird’s-Eye View
      5 min read

    • Article

      A Win For Arwen, Geese And Wigeon

      Dec 22, 2021

      Of every sort of adventure requiring a shotgun, nothing evokes a sense of history and place in quite the same way as wildfowling. This most ancient and noble shooting sport is rooted firmly in mankind’s hunter-gatherer past, when a longshore gunner b

      5 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Birds in Town and Village

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Birds in Town and Village - W. H. Hudson

      BIRDS IN TOWN AND VILLAGE, BY W. H. HUDSON

      ________________

      Published by Seltzer Books. seltzerbooks.com

      established in 1974, as B&R Samizdat Express

      offering over 14,000 books

      feedback welcome: [email protected]

      ________________

      PREFACE

      BIRDS IN A VILLAGE: I

      II

      III

      IV

      V

      VI

      VII

      VIII

      IX

      X

      XI

      EXOTIC BIRDS FOR BRITAIN

      MOOR-HENS IN HYDE PARK

      THE EAGLE AND THE CANARY

      CHANTICLEER

      IN AN OLD GARDEN

      BIRDS IN A CORNISH VILLAGE:

      I. TAKING STOCK OF THE BIRDS

      II. DO STARLINGS PAIR FOR LIFE?

      III. VILLAGE BIRDS IN WINTER

      IV. INCREASING BIRDS IN BRITAIN

      V. THE DAW SENTIMENT

      VI. STORY OF A JACKDAW

      PREFACE

      This book is more than a mere reprint of _Birds in a Village_ first published in 1893. That was my first book about bird life, with some impressions of rural scenes, in England; and, as is often the case with a first book, its author has continued to cherish a certain affection for it. On this account it pleased me when its turn came to be reissued, since this gave me the opportunity of mending some faults in the portions retained and of throwing out a good deal of matter which appeared to me not worth keeping.

      The first portion, Birds in a Village, has been mostly rewritten with some fresh matter added, mainly later observations and incidents introduced in illustration of the various subjects discussed. For the concluding portion of the old book, which has been discarded, I have substituted entirely new matter-the part entitled Birds in a Cornish Village.

      Between these two long parts there are five shorter essays which I have retained with little alteration, and these in one or two instances are consequently out of date, especially in what was said with bitterness in the essay on Exotic Birds for Britain anent the feather-wearing fashion and of the London trade in dead birds and the refusal of women at that time to help us in trying to save the beautiful wild bird life of this country and of the world generally from extermination. Happily, the last twenty years of the life and work of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds have changed all that, and it would not now be too much to say that all right-thinking persons in this country, men and women, are anxious to see the end of this iniquitous traffic.

      W. H. H.

      September, 1919.

           BIRDS IN TOWN & VILLAGE

      BIRDS IN A VILLAGE I

      About the middle of last May, after a rough and cold period, there came a spell of brilliant weather, reviving in me the old spring feeling, the passion for wild nature, the desire for the companionship of birds; and I betook myself to St. James's Park for the sake of such satisfaction as may be had from watching and feeding the fowls, wild and semi-wild, found gathered at that favored spot.

      I was glad to observe a couple of those new colonists of the ornamental water, the dabchicks, and to renew my acquaintance with the familiar, long-established moorhens. One of them was engaged in building its nest in an elm-tree growing at the water's edge. I saw it make two journeys with large wisps of dry grass in its beak, running up the rough, slanting trunk to a height of sixteen to seventeen feet, and disappearing within the brushwood sheaf that springs from the bole at that distance from the roots. The wood-pigeons were much more numerous, also more eager to be fed.  They seemed to understand very quickly that my bread and grain was for them and not the sparrows; but although they stationed themselves close to me, the little robbers we were jointly trying to outwit managed to get some pieces of bread by flying up and catching them before they touched the sward. This little comedy over, I visited the water-fowl, ducks of many kinds, sheldrakes, geese from many lands, swans black, and swans white. To see birds in prison during the spring mood of which I have spoken is not only no satisfaction but a positive pain; here--albeit without that large liberty that nature gives, they are free in a measure; and swimming and diving or dozing in the sunshine, with the blue sky above them, they are perhaps unconscious of any restraint.  Walking along the margin I noticed three children some yards ahead of me; two were quite small, but the third, in whose charge the others were, was a robust-looking girl, aged about ten or eleven years. From their dress and appearance I took them to be the children of a respectable artisan or small tradesman; but what chiefly attracted my attention was the very great pleasure the elder girl appeared to take in the birds. She had come well provided with stale bread to feed them, and after giving moderately of her store to the wood-pigeons and sparrows, she went on to the others, native and exotic, that were disporting themselves in the water, or sunning themselves on the green bank. She did not cast her bread on the water in the manner usual with visitors, but was anxious to feed all the different species, or as many as she could attract to her, and appeared satisfied when any one individual of a particular kind got a fragment of her bread. Meanwhile she talked eagerly to the little ones, calling their attention to the different birds. Drawing near, I also became an interested listener; and then, in answer to my questions, she began telling me what all these strange fowls were. This, she said, glad to give information, is the Canadian goose, and there is the Egyptian goose; and here is the king-duck coming towards us; and do you see that large, beautiful bird standing by itself, that will not come to be fed? That is the golden duck. But that is not its real name; I don't know them all, and so I name some for myself. I call that one the golden duck because in the sun its feathers sometimes shine like gold. It was a rare pleasure to listen to her, and seeing what sort of a girl she was, and how much in love with her subject, I in my turn told her a great deal about the birds before us, also of other birds she had never seen nor heard of, in other and distant lands that have a nobler bird life than ours; and after she had listened eagerly for some minutes, and had then been silent a little while, she all at once pressed her two hands together, and exclaimed rapturously, Oh, I do so love the birds!

      I replied that that was not strange, since it is impossible for us not to love whatever is lovely, and of all living things birds were made most beautiful.

      Then I walked away, but could not forget the words she had exclaimed, her whole appearance, the face flushed with color, the eloquent brown eyes sparkling, the pressed palms, the sudden spontaneous passion of delight and desire in her tone. The picture was in my mind all that day, and lived through the next, and so wrought on me that I could not longer keep away from the birds, which I, too, loved; for now all at once it seemed to me that life was not life without them; that I was grown sick, and all my senses dim; that only the wished sight of wild birds could medicine my vision; that only by drenching it in their wild melody could my tired brain recover its lost vigour.

       II

       After wandering somewhat aimlessly about the country for a couple of days, I stumbled by chance on just such a spot as I had been wishing to find--a rustic village not too far away. It was not more than twenty-five minutes' walk from a small station, less than one hour by rail from London.

      The way to the village was through cornfields, bordered by hedges and rows of majestic elms. Beyond it, but quite near, there was a wood, principally of beech, over a mile in length, with a public path running through it. On the right hand, ten minutes' walk from the village, there was a long green hill, the ascent to which was gentle; but on the further side it sloped abruptly down to the Thames.

      On the left hand there was another hill, with cottages and orchards, with small fields interspersed on the slope and summit, so that the middle part, where I lodged, was in a pretty deep hollow. There was no sound of traffic there, and few farmers' carts came that way, as it was well away from the roads, and the deep, narrow, winding lanes were exceedingly rough, like the stony beds of dried-up streams.

      In the deepest part of the coombe, in the middle of the village, there was a well where the cottagers drew their water; and in the summer evenings the youths and maidens came there, with or without jugs and buckets, to indulge in conversation, which was mostly of the rustic, bantering kind, mixed with a good deal of loud laughter. Close by was the inn, where the men sat on benches in the tap-room in grave discourse over their pipes and beer.

      Wishing to make their acquaintance, I went in and sat down among them, and found them a little shy--not to say stand-offish, at first. Rustics are often suspicious of the stranger within their gates; but after paying for beer all round, the frost melted and we were soon deep in talk about the wild life of the place; always a safe and pleasant subject in a village. One rough-looking, brown-faced man, with iron-grey hair, became a sort of spokesman for the company, and replied to most of my questions.

      And what about badgers? I asked. In such a rough-looking spot with woods and all, it strikes me as just the sort of place where one would find that animal.

      A long dead silence followed. I caught the eye of the man nearest me and repeated the question, Are there no badgers here? His eyes fell, then he exchanged glances with some of the others, all very serious; and at length my man, addressing the person who had acted as spokesman before, said, Perhaps you'll tell the gentleman if there are any badgers here.

      At that the rough man looked at me very sharply, and answered stiffly, Not as I know of.

      A few weeks later, at a small town in the neighbourhood, I got into conversation with a hotel keeper, an intelligent man, who gave me a good deal of information about the country. He asked me where I was staying, and, on my telling him, said Ah, I know it well--that village in a hole; and a very nasty hole to get in, too--at any rate it was so, formerly. They are getting a bit civilized now, but I remember the time when a stranger couldn't show himself in the place without being jeered at and insulted. Yes, they were a rough lot down in that hole--the Badgers, they were called, and that's what they are called still.

      The pity of it was that I didn't know this before I went among them! But it was not remembered against me that I had wounded their susceptibilities; they soon found that I was nothing but a harmless field naturalist, and I had friendly relations with many of them.

      At the extremity of the straggling village was the beginning of an extensive common, where it was always possible to spend an hour or two without seeing a human creature. A few sheep grazed and browsed there, roaming about in twos and threes and half-dozens, tearing their fleeces for the benefit of nest-building birds, in the great tangled masses of mingled furze and bramble and briar. Birds were abundant there--all those kinds that love the common's openness, and the rough, thorny vegetation that flourishes on it. But the village--or rather, the large open space occupied by it, formed the headquarters and centre of a paradise of birds (as I soon began to think it), for the cottages and houses were widely separated, the meanest having a garden and some trees, and in most cases there was an old orchard of apple, cherry, and walnut trees to each habitation, and out of this mass of greenery, which hid the houses and made the place look more like a wood than a village, towered the great elms in rows, and in groups.

      On first approaching the place I heard, mingled with many other voices, that of the nightingale; and as it was for the medicine of its pure, fresh melody that I particularly craved, I was glad to find a lodging in one of the cottages, and to remain there for several weeks.

      The small care which the nightingale took to live up to his reputation in this place surprised me a little. Here he could always be heard in the daytime--not one bird, but a dozen--in different parts of the village; but he sang not at night. This I set down to the fact that the nights were dark and the weather unsettled. But later, when the weather grew warmer, and there were brilliant moonlight nights, he was still a silent bird except by day.

      I was also a little surprised at his tameness.

      On first coming to the village, when I ran after every nightingale I heard, to get as near him as possible, I was occasionally led by the sound to a cottage, and in some instances I found the singer perched within three or four yards of an open window or door. At my own cottage, when the woman who waited on me shook the breakfast cloth at the front door, the bird that came to pick up the crumbs was the nightingale--not the robin. When by chance he met a sparrow there, he attacked and chased it away. It was a feast of nightingales. An elderly woman of the village explained to me that the nightingales and other small birds were common and tame in the village, because no person disturbed them. I smile now when recording the good old dame's words.

      On my second day at the village it happened to be raining--a warm, mizzling rain without wind--ind the nightingales were as vocal as in fine bright weather. I heard one in a narrow lane, and went towards it, treading softly, in order not to scare it away, until I got within eight or ten yards of it, as it sat on a dead projecting twig. This was a twig of a low thorn tree growing up from the hedge, projecting through the foliage, and the bird, perched near its end, sat only about five feet above the bare ground of the lane. Now, I owe my best thanks to this individual nightingale, for sharply calling to my mind a common pestilent delusion, which I have always hated, but had never yet raised my voice against--namely, that all wild creatures exist in constant fear of an attack from the numberless subtle or powerful enemies that are always waiting and watching for an opportunity to spring upon and destroy them.  The truth is, that although their enemies be legion, and that every day, and even several times on each day, they may be threatened with destruction, they are absolutely free from apprehension, except when in the immediate presence of danger. Suspicious they may be at times, and the suspicion may cause them to remove themselves to a greater distance from the object that excites it; but the emotion is so slight, the action so almost automatic, that the singing bird will fly to another bush a dozen yards away, and at once resume his interrupted song. Again, a bird will see the deadliest enemy of its kind, and unless it be so close as to actually threaten his life, he will regard it with the greatest indifference or will only be moved to anger at its presence.  Here was this nightingale singing in the rain, seeing but not heeding me; while beneath the hedge, almost directly under the twig it sat on, a black cat was watching it with luminous yellow eyes. I did not see the cat at first, but have no doubt that the nightingale had seen and knew that it was there. High up on the tops of the thorn, a couple of sparrows were silently perched. Perhaps, like myself, they had come there to listen. After I had been standing motionless, drinking in that dulcet music for at least five minutes, one of the two sparrows dropped from the perch straight down, and alighting on the bare wet ground directly under the nightingale, began busily pecking at something eatable it had discovered. No sooner had he begun pecking than out leaped the concealed cat on to him. The sparrow fluttered wildly up from beneath or between the claws, and escaped, as if by a miracle. The cat raised itself up, glared round, and, catching sight of me close by, sprang back into the hedge and was gone. But all this time the exposed nightingale, perched only five feet above the spot where the attack had been made and the sparrow had so nearly lost his life, had continued singing; and he sang on for some minutes after. I suppose that he had seen the cat before, and knew instinctively that he was beyond its reach; that it was a terrestrial, not an aerial enemy, and so feared it not at all; and he would, perhaps, have continued singing if the sparrow had been caught and instantly killed.

      Quite early in June I began to feel just a little cross with the nightingales, for they almost ceased singing; and considering that the spring had been a backward one, it seemed to me that their silence was coming too soon. I was not sufficiently regardful of the fact that their lays are solitary, as the poet has said; that they ask for no witness of their song, nor thirst for human praise. They were all nesting now. But if I heard them less, I saw much more of them, especially of one individual, the male bird of a couple that had made their nest in a hedge a stone's throw from the cottage. A favourite morning perch of this bird was on a small wooden gate four or five yards away from my window. It was an open, sunny spot, where his restless, bright eyes could sweep the lane, up and down; and he could there also give vent to his superfluous energy by lording it over a few sparrows and other small birds that visited the spot. I greatly admired the fine, alert figure of the pugnacious little creature, as he perched there so close to me, and so fearless. His striking resemblance to the robin in form, size, and in his motions, made his extreme

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1