CHAPTER IV.

ON HEATHS AND MARSHES.

The title of the present chapter, to some readers, may seem rather a misnomer, especially the first portion of it. We have already made a brief survey of bird-life among the heather, but then a moor is not exactly a heath. For the purpose of the present volume the definition of the word "heath" must be taken to be a small area of uncultivated ground, covered with bracken, brambles, gorse, and briars, with patches of heather here and there, studded with stunted trees and bushes, and in not a few cases surrounded with woods, arable lands, and pastures. There are many such delightful bits of waste ground in the northern shires, not only inland, but at no great distance from the sea. Of the bogs and marshes we may claim a fair share, although drainage and reclamation have reduced their area considerably in not a few cases, or removed others entirely. The fens of the low-lying eastern counties--of Norfolk and Suffolk--scarcely come within our limits, whilst those of Lincolnshire exist almost only in name. The bird-life of these heaths and marshes is characteristic and interesting, although perhaps there is greater similarity between the species and those of more southern localities than we have hitherto found to be the case.

Heaths have always been favourite places of ours. They are never of such barren and forbidding aspect as the moorlands, even in mid-winter; vegetation is more generous; trees, in which we delight, are not altogether absent; and most important attraction of all, bird-life in considerable variety may be found upon and near them throughout the year. Although many bits of heath known to us have been cleared and brought into cultivation, there are not a few still left where birds of various species linger unmolested. For instance (to indicate but a few), there are such areas in the Sherwood Forest district; here and there in north Lincolnshire, in north Derbyshire, and in south Yorkshire, especially in the vicinity of Wharncliffe Crags, a few miles north-west of Sheffield. One of the most interesting birds found upon these heaths is the Nightjar, or perhaps even better known by the name of Goatsucker. Like most birds possessing some peculiarity in note or appearance easily remarked by the multitude, the present species has many aliases, some of which at any rate are as undeserved as they are disastrous. Thus, that of "Night-hawk" brings the bird into evil repute with gamekeepers, and it is shot down in many localities under the firm belief that it preys upon young Pheasants and Partridges! That of "Goatsucker" is even more widely prevailing, not only in our own country, but it has an equivalent in almost every European language, in some cases dating from a very remote antiquity. Needless to say that this appellation has proved even more fatal, and has caused the poor bird needless persecution in many other countries than ours, owing to the absurd superstition it describes and fosters of the Nightjar's utterly fictitious habit of sucking the teats of cows and goats! Lastly, it has been the long-suffering possessor of the names of "Fern Owl" or "Churn Owl", one relating to its haunts, the other to its singular note, and both suggestive of birds that have been sorely persecuted by man, in most cases for purely imaginary offences. Anything flying under the name of "Owl", whether with "fern", or "wood", or "barn", or "horned" attached, is considered harmful, and fair food for powder and shot, so that the poor Nightjar has suffered with the rest. To his habits and appearance most, if not all, his misfortunes are due. He flies about at dusk and during the night-time, and has a way of flitting round the cattle in the meadows close to the heath in quest of moths and cockchafers; his plumage is soft and pencilled and Owl-like, whilst his enormous mouth, to the ignorant countryman, seems capable of swallowing anything! And yet there is no more harmless bird in the British Islands than the Nightjar. It preys upon no single creature that man might covet (if perhaps we except the entomologist, who does not like to see rare moths and beetles disappear like magic in the evening gloom), but, on the other hand, rids the fields and groves of countless numbers of injurious insect pests. Apart from any concrete injury that it may be thought to do, it also falls under the ban of the superstitious, its weird and curious notes, together with its crepuscular habits, being very apt to inspire dread in the credulous countryfolk, who are firm believers in omens, prognostics, and the like, notwithstanding the unprecedented extent to which the schoolmaster has been abroad during the past twenty years or more. We ought also to mention another name bestowed upon the Nightjar, and which, like most of the others, has caused the poor bird not a little senseless persecution. This is "Puckeridge", a term also applied to a fatal distemper which often attacks weanling calves. The Nightjar was thought by the ignorant countryman to convey this disorder to the calves whilst flitting about them. Poor little Nightjar! The wonder is that there are any of its species left to struggle under such an overwhelming burden of bad names begotten of superstition and ignorance. In some districts this bird is known as the "Eve-jar" or "Evening-jar", and in others as the "Wheel-bird"--names innocent enough, suggestive of no ill-deeds, but eminently expressive of its habits and its notes combined. In Devonshire it is known locally as the "Dor-hawk", from its habit of catching dor-beetles or cockchafers; also as the "Night-crow", possibly the least applicable in the entire series, unless we interpret it as being derived from the bird's habit of calling (crowing) at night. It is possibly a fortunate thing for the Nightjar that it only spends a few months out of the twelve in Europe, amongst such a crowd of civilized enemies of all countries and creeds, finding fewer, if any, human persecutors amidst the dusky heathen races of Africa, whither it retires after visiting us. It is one of our latest birds of passage, not even reaching the southern parts of England before the end of April or early May--a date which is not quite coincident with its arrival in the northern shires, which it does not reach much before the middle of the latter month. The life-history of this pretty and much-maligned bird is packed full of interest. Unfortunately the Nightjar is only abroad of its own choice during hours when darkness renders observation difficult; we must perforce crowd most of our scrutiny into the twilight hour, and just before the rising of the sun. The bird, like the bat and the Owl, sleeps during the daytime, either crouched flat upon the ground under the bracken or underwood, or seated lengthwise on some broad flat branch of a tree where dense foliage gives the shade and gloom it seeks, and where its beautifully mottled and vermiculated plumage harmonizes most closely with surrounding tints. It is said that the Nightjar sometimes comes abroad during mid-day, and that it even calls at that time, but such has never been our experience of this species, and we should be inclined to think that when seen out and about at such a time it had been disturbed from its diurnal resting-place. At the approach of evening, however, the sleepy bird rouses itself, and, hungry and alert and active enough, leaves its daytime haunt and commences its evening peregrinations in quest of food and enjoyment. As the sun sinks lower behind the western hills and the shadows intensify, the Nightjars become more lively. The most impressive thing about them is their curious music. It is a song that appeals to the most casual listener, compelling recognition by its very singularity. Whilst on the wing circling to and fro the note is an oft-repeated cry, resembling the syllables _co-ic_, _co-ic_, _co-ic_; but when the bird drops lightly down on to some wall or fence or gate, another and still more curious sound is produced. This is the familiar "churring" or vibrating noise, long continued, and putting one in mind of the monotonous reel of the Grasshopper Warbler, so far as its pertinacity is concerned. This latter noise is never heard unless the bird is sitting. The bird also makes another sound whilst in the air, produced by striking its wings smartly together; otherwise the flight of this species is remarkably silent and Owl-like. It is by no means shy, and will hawk for insects round our head, dart to and fro on noiseless pinions, or circle about in chasing and toying with its mate, with little show of fear. The wings of the male bird are marked with three white spots, one on each of the first three primaries, and these are very conspicuous during flight, as are also the white tips to the outermost tail-feathers. This even applies to young males in their first plumage, although the spots are buff instead of white. It is possible that these markings are sexual recognition marks, enabling the female to follow or discover the whereabouts of her mate in the gloom. The Nightjar breeds in May or June, a little later in the north than in the south. It makes no nest, but the hen bird lays her two curiously oval eggs on the bare ground, sometimes beneath a spray of bracken or a furze bush, less frequently on the flat low branch of a convenient tree. These eggs are very beautiful, and he who finds them cannot confuse them with those of any other species that breeds in our islands. They are generally white and glossy, the surface mottled, blotched, streaked and veined with various shades of brown and gray. The young are covered with down--in this respect showing affinity with the Owls--but are otherwise helpless, being fed by their parents not only during infancy, but for some time after they can fly. The old birds show great solicitude for them should they be disturbed, fluttering round the intruder's head, and seeking to attract all attention to themselves. The Nightjar leaves the northern shires in September for its winter quarters in Africa, although it is by no means uncommonly observed quite a month later in the extreme south and south-west of England. It is said, by the way, that the Nightjar captures cockchafers with its feet, and that its serrated middle claw is for this purpose. But this we have never noticed, although we have had a life's experience with the bird, and it seems more than doubtful when we bear in mind the extremely short legs and comparatively weak feet of this species--so unlike those of the Kestrel, which we know frequently catches these insects with its feet. But we have lingered too long already with the Nightjar, and must pass on to a notice of other birds upon the heath. The unusual interest attaching to it must be our sole excuse.

Another very interesting little bird not unfrequently met with upon the heaths, especially those where the soil is sandy and trees are numerous around them, is the Wood-lark. Unfortunately the bird-catcher has literally exterminated this species in not a few localities, the bird's lovely song being the attraction. Here we have a species that becomes rarer and more local in the northern shires than it is farther south. The Wood-lark is not only a most industrious and persistent singer, but is almost a perennial one. That is to say, in the south; up here amongst the northern shires it seldom warbles during winter, unless tempted into voice by exceptionally mild weather. Its regular breeding song is not resumed so early in the year up here, and we should say there is a month or more between the nesting season in north and south respectively. We have known of Devonshire nests as early as March, of Nottingham ones as late as May. Possibly this Lark is only double-brooded in the more southern portions of its British range. The birds seem much attached to certain spots, and, like the Tree Pipit, seldom wander far from their nesting-grounds throughout the breeding season. Unlike the Sky-lark, which very exceptionally indeed perches upon a bush or a tree, the Wood-lark may be constantly seen high up the branches. Indeed, like the Tree Pipit, the cock bird selects some favourite branch, and here early and late he sits, and ever and anon flies out and upwards to warble his rich and joyous song. There are those who maintain that the song of the Wood-lark is even superior to that of the Sky-lark. It may be to some extent a matter of taste, and possibly they are right; but on the other hand the song of the Sky-lark is far better known, more popular with the multitude, and we always thinks it seems more cheerful, as it certainly is somewhat louder. The Wood-lark has more flute-like music in his voice, more melody, and even more continuity. There are not a few persons that confuse the two birds together, although the Wood-lark may be readily distinguished by its short tail, more rounded wing, and its habit of perching in trees. One has only to watch the aerial songster long enough to notice the latter peculiarity without fail. When once the bird has been surely identified, the difference between the songs of the two species will soon be impressed upon the listener, even though the species until then had been unfamiliar to him. The bird will also warble just as sweetly and just as continuously not only whilst sitting on the branches, but when standing on the ground. We may also mention that the Wood-lark is not so aerial as the commoner species, never ascending to such vast elevations during the course of its song. This Lark becomes gregarious in autumn like most, if not all, its congeners, and then wanders more or less from its native heath. It builds an unassuming little nest upon the ground, usually under the shadow of some bush or inequality of the turf, composed of dry grass and lined with hair. In this it lays four or five eggs, the markings on them being more distinct and scattered than is the case with those of the Sky-lark. The latter species is by no means an uncommon one upon the heaths, but after what we have already said there need be no confusion between the two.

There are various other Passerine birds to be found in these localities, due attention being given to the predominant vegetation. The silvery-throated Whitethroat is a regular visitor each spring-time to the thickets of briar and bramble; the Grasshopper Warbler may be heard where the vegetation is most tangled, reeling off his seemingly interminable chirping song, if in reality it is worthy of such a name in the company of so many more sweet-voiced choristers. The Stonechat, gay in his black-and-white and chestnut livery, perches on the topmost sprays of the cruel-thorned gorse and eyes us suspiciously, with a flicking tail and a harsh tac of welcome or resentment. The equally beautiful Linnet, with swollen carmine breast, bears him company amongst the gorse; whilst the Yellow Bunting may not unfrequently be noticed crying his few monotonous notes time after time, and as often answered by some rival near at hand, both of them perched as high as possible on the stunted thorns or the silver-barked birches. All through the early summer the cheery notes of the Cuckoo (not a Passere, by the way) are a familiar sound on or near these heaths, and now and then the blue-gray bird himself, looking all wings and tail, may be seen skimming across to the distant belt of trees, or his mate may be watched poking about the thickets in a suspicious sort of way seeking some unprotected nest in which to drop her alien egg. One bird, however, we miss from these northern heaths in particular, and that is the Dartford Warbler. He seldom penetrates as far north as Yorkshire, although we have taken his nest in a gorse covert within a few miles of Sheffield. But that was long ago, and, truth to tell, we failed to recognize the importance of our discovery for years afterwards, and when nest and eggs had been lost. This Warbler is said to breed in Derbyshire, but we have had no experience of it in that county. It is interesting to remark that the species appears first to have been made known to science from a pair that were shot on a Kentish heath near Dartford, a century and a quarter ago. Few other British birds have, therefore, a more unassailable right to their trivial name.

That curious bird the Stone Curlew, perhaps equally as well known as the "Thick-knee", is to be found on certain heaths as far northwards as Yorkshire. It becomes more numerous possibly in Lincolnshire, and thence it is generally dispersed over Norfolk and Suffolk and most of the "home counties". Owing to drainage, the haunts of this bird have become much more restricted than formerly, and in not a few localities it has been exterminated completely. It loves the more open and bare heath-lands, especially such as are interspersed with stony and chalky ground and free from trees and brushwood, for cover is in no way essential to its requirements. It derives safety in another way. Its plumage of mottled brown is eminently protective on these chalky heaths, and when alarmed, if it does not take wing, it quietly crouches flat to the ground, extending its neck and head, which are also pressed close to the soil, and there, perfectly motionless, it awaits until danger is past, or until it is almost trodden under foot, when it is reluctantly compelled to disclose itself. The Stone Curlew is known by various local names, all more or less expressive of some of its characteristics or relating to the haunts it affects. That of Stone Curlew probably refers to the stony haunt and the very Curlew-like appearance of the bird itself; whilst those of Norfolk Plover and Stone Plover are indicative of a favourite resort of the species in England and a more correct determination of its affinities, for there can be no doubt that the bird is more closely allied to the Charadriinæ than to the Scolopacinæ. Less happily the bird has been called the "Thick-knee" because of the peculiar enlargement of the tibio-tarsal joint, but this is not the "knee" in an anatomical sense, but analogous to the ankle-joint in man. With more propriety, therefore, if with less euphony the bird should be termed a "Think-ankle", or a "Thick-heel". Lastly, it is known to some as the "Thick-kneed Plover" or "Thick-kneed Bustard". In this latter case popular judgment is to some extent supported by anatomical facts, for the Stone Curlew is by no means distantly related to the Bustards, certainly more nearly than to the Curlews. It is rather a remarkable fact that the Stone Curlew is a migratory bird, when we bear in mind that on both shores of the Mediterranean it is a sedentary species, and that its food--worms, snails, beetles, frogs, and mice--might be obtained in sufficient abundance in England throughout the winter. In fact, there are many instances on record of this bird passing the winter in England, although we should scarcely feel disposed to class these individuals as indigenous to our country, but rather as lost and wandering birds from continental localities. Be all this as it may, the Stone Curlew visits us in spring to breed, arriving in April, and returns south in autumn, leaving in October. Its large eyes (bright yellow in colour) betoken it to be a nocturnal bird, and during the night it obtains most of its food. It then often wanders far from its dry parched native heath, and visits more marshy spots, especially arable lands and wet meadows; sometimes lingering, both in going and returning, to fly about the air uttering its loud and plaintive cry. The Stone Curlew seems to be fully alive to the fact that the safest hiding-place is often the most conspicuous and open one. In this matter it resembles the Missel-thrush, which often builds in safety its bulky nest in such an exposed spot that we marvel afterwards (when the young are fledged and gone) how it could have escaped notice. Acting on this principle the Stone Curlew, in May or June, lays its two eggs side by side upon the barest of ground, and where their tints and markings so closely resemble the yellow stones and pebbles scattered around them that discovery is extremely difficult. The sitting bird renders the deception more complete by running from the eggs at the least alarm and leaving them to that almost perfect safety that their protective colours ensure. These eggs are buff in ground colour, blotched, spotted, or streaked with brown and gray of various shades. We ought also to mention, by the way, that the artful bird selects, as a rule, some little eminence for its breeding-place, where it can command a good view of approaching danger and slip quietly away. We have heard countrymen insist that the Stone Curlew will remove its eggs if it becomes aware that they have been discovered, but we cannot vouch for the accuracy of the statement.

We occasionally meet with three of our most familiar Game Birds upon the heaths; perhaps we might add a fourth, as we include Lincolnshire in our area of the northern shires, for there is some evidence to suggest that the alien Red-legged Partridge is invading the latter county. On many heaths the English Partridge lives at the present time, and the harsh crow of the Pheasant is by no means an unfamiliar sound in these localities, especially when they adjoin covers. This latter bird is a confirmed wanderer, given to straying far from its usual haunts. We have repeatedly noticed fine old cock birds on the moors, miles from coverts. Whether these wanderers ever interbreed with the Grouse we cannot say, and we are not aware that hybrids between these species have ever been obtained or recorded. Lastly, the Black Grouse has a weakness for the heaths, especially in localities where a belt of timber adjoins them. Strange as it may seem, we must include the Mallard as a heath bird. To mention one locality only where this bird breeds regularly upon heaths we may name the Sherwood Forest area. We have taken nests here far from water or wet ground of any description, made amongst dead bracken; and what is also worthy of remark, these nests were by far the handsomest we have ever seen of this Duck. They were composed principally of down from the female's body, intermixed with fronds of bracken, and were raised from eight to ten inches above the surrounding ground. Here again we had another instance of nests being most difficult to see in the barest localities. Some were made where the bracken had been cut, amongst scattered green stems of the new growth and upon green turf; and yet we can remember how we had to look long and closely before we saw them, as they were actually pointed out to us by a keeper acquaintance. In one instance--and that where the nest was the most exposed of all--we could not see the nest, and did not, until the big brown duck went lumbering off. Of course when the nests were discovered they seemed conspicuous in the highest degree, and we could do nothing but wonder how ever it was possible to overlook them.

One more bird deserves notice ere we bring our survey of avine life upon the heaths to a conclusion, and that is the Short-eared Owl. This bird is quite cosmopolitan in its choice of a haunt. It is as much a fen or a marsh, a gorse covert or a moor bird as it is a heath one, apparently as much at home in one locality as another. We shall have more to say about this species, especially its migrations, when we come to deal with bird-life on the coast. But as this Owl breeds upon the heaths, amongst other places, we may as well take this opportunity of a peep at its domestic arrangements, and one or two other characteristics, distinct from its migrational movements. Owls are popularly supposed to be exclusive birds of darkness--crepuscular and nocturnal; but the Short-eared Owl is a regular day-flier, and may often be seen beating about in its own peculiar unsteady erratic way during bright sunshine without any visible sign of inconvenience. Neither does it seem ever dazed by the brilliant gleam of lighthouses, but takes advantage of the glare to catch birds more susceptible to the artificial light. During the autumn months especially we may meet with this species in the most unlikely spots, amongst the sand dunes, in turnip-fields, in wet meadows and saltings. The birds that breed on the heaths, however--especially in the English shires--seem to be sedentary. Although this Owl unquestionably feeds upon birds, say up to the size of a Missel-thrush, as its diurnal habits apparently suggest, there can be no doubt of its great usefulness to man in killing off voles, mice, reptiles, beetles, and such-like destructive pests. We need only point to the extraordinary numbers of this Owl that congregated in Scotland some few years ago during the plague of voles, and the way in which they preyed upon them, for an object-lesson of this bird's usefulness to man. In the matter of its nesting the Short-eared Owl presents us with another anomaly. Fully in keeping with its love for open country and its partiality for daylight, it nests upon the bare ground, and in this respect differs from all the other British species. We say "nests", but in reality there is little or no provision made for the eggs, beyond a mere hollow in which a few scraps of withered herbage are strewn. The half-dozen creamy-white eggs are, therefore, conspicuous enough in many places, though better concealed in others when they are laid under bracken or amongst heath. The sitting bird, however, crouches close over them, and shields them from observation by her own protective-coloured plumage. These eggs are usually laid in May in the northern shires, several weeks earlier in more southern localities.

With a passing glimpse at some of the more interesting phases of bird-life in the northern marshes we will bring the present chapter to a close. The Bittern, formerly a dweller in them, has long been banished from the bogs and mires not only of the northern shires, but everywhere else in our islands, and exists now as a tradition only--that is to say, as a breeding species. The Marsh Harrier--a name sufficiently suggestive of the haunts it formerly affected--has similarly disappeared from the two northern shires (Yorkshire and Lancashire), where it formerly bred. One of the most widely-dispersed birds in these marshy situations is the Water Rail--a species that is, perhaps, more overlooked, owing to its secretive habits, than any other found in our islands. It is astonishing what a small bit of marsh or bog will content a Water Rail, provided there is a sufficiency of cover. Like our old friend the Moorhen, it may also often be met with wandering from its usual boggy retreats into such unlikely places as gardens and farmyards. Although it is flushed with difficulty, it is by no means uncommonly seen on open spots or even in the branches of trees. In not a few heaths it is an almost unknown and unsuspected dweller in the marshy drains and round the rushes that fringe the shallow pools where peat or turf has been cut; indeed, we have met with it almost within hail of some of our busiest towns. Its rather bulky nest, made of a varied collection of dead and decaying herbage and aquatic plants, is always placed upon the ground in some quiet nook in its haunts, and its half-dozen or so eggs are buff in ground colour, spotted with reddish-brown and gray. Though far more local than the preceding, the Spotted Crake must also be included in our review of northern bird-life. Unlike the Water Rail, however, it is a summer migrant to the British Islands. Some individuals, however, appear to winter with us in the southern counties. The migrants appear in April in the south, several weeks later in the north. The habits of the two species are similar in many respects. The Lapwing, the Redshank, and the Common Snipe may also be met with in these situations, the Redshank in summer only, when it retires to them to breed, seeking the coasts in autumn; the others at all seasons. Amongst the Passerine birds of the marshes we may instance the Sedge Warbler--one of the most widely distributed of British species--the varied chattering music of which is a very characteristic marsh sound during the summer. At a few localities in Yorkshire and Lancashire the Reed Warbler may be met with, a migratory species like the last, but not penetrating to Scotland. Then the Reed Bunting is a familiar bird on many a marshy waste, so too is the Sky-lark and the Meadow Pipit; whilst in winter-time these places are often made lively by large congregations of Lapwings, Starlings, Rooks and Redwings, and scattered Jack Snipes from far northern haunts.

We may conclude our brief notice of marsh bird-life by a glimpse at the Black-headed Gull. This charming bird visits many a swampy piece of ground far from the sea during spring and summer to rear its young. In Lincolnshire there is an extensive gullery near Brigg--at Twigmoor--from which we have had many eggs during our long residence in South Yorkshire. There is another in South Yorkshire near Thorne; a third at Cockerham Moss in Lancashire. As we proceed northwards the colonies of this Gull increase in number, and in Scotland they are still more frequent. Many of these gulleries are situated on islands in pools in the marshes and on the heaths. Not a few of them are almost surrounded by trees of various kinds, and at the North Lincolnshire settlement nests are not unfrequently made in the branches. We have already described the colonies of the Black-headed Gull in previous works, so that but few details are needed here. In Lincolnshire the birds wander far and wide from their station near Brigg, and parties of them may be met with on the fields many miles from home. The Gulls are as regular in their habits as Rooks, with which we have often seen them fraternizing, flying out to feed on the wet meadows, and following the plough until evening, returning home in straggling streams just like their sable companions. As we get near Brigg the birds become more abundant in the fields; we remember, on one occasion, to have seen a ploughed field black and white with Rooks and Gulls, many of which when disturbed flew up from the furrows into the nearest trees; and very curious the white Gulls looked--birds that we associate with the water so closely--as they sat in the branches side by side with cawing Rooks. Early in the year, and before the birds leave the coast, the sooty-brown hood characteristic of the breeding season and of both sexes begins to be assumed. In Devonshire this takes place nearly a month earlier than in the north. In March they congregate at the old familiar stations which have been in use from time immemorial, and nest-building commences almost at once. The nests are ready for eggs by the first or second week in April. These are generally made upon the spongy ground of the marshy islands or on the marshes themselves, and in many cases are little more than hollows lined with a little dry grass. Other nests are bulkier, and these, we have often remarked, are nearest to the water, or even in the shallow pools. The three eggs are subject to much variation, but the ordinary type is brown or olive-green in ground colour, spotted and blotched with darker brown and gray. In many localities the eggs of the first laying are gathered by the tenant or proprietor of the gullery, as they are sold in vast numbers for food. Many, we know, are passed off as Plovers' eggs, but the fraud we should say would never be successful with anyone acquainted with the latter delicacy. The scene at the nests when the place is invaded by man is a very charming one, the Gulls rising in clouds into the air and wheeling about in bewildering confusion, uttering their noisy cries of remonstrance. Even more animated does the scene become when the young are hatched, for then the old birds show much greater solicitude. An inland gullery always seems to strike us as a trifle incongruous, for we are always apt to associate a Gull with the sea; yet here, miles away from the salt water, often surrounded by rural scenes, are Gulls in thousands as happy and contented as though they had never been near a coast in their lives. When the young are able to fly, however, the instinct of the sea apparently returns to them, and back they go to the salt water to wander far and wide, and lead a life of errantry until love brings them inland again in the following spring.