Part 3

Mr. White remarks that his Tortoise did not bury itself into the ground before November 1st, but ours are cold and torpid, and quite ready to hybernate by the first week in October. Probably the different latitude and longitude of Selborne and Norwich may account for this difference of time.

In this cellar cupboard, the Tortoises remain until the end of April, when, though still dull and stupid, the weather is getting sufficiently warm for them to enjoy the sun for a portion of the day. But the frosts and cold of this period of the year are still dangerous. And a relative of mine lost both of his old friends (who for years had taken care of themselves in the winter in his garden) during the cold weather of this spring, after they had duly survived the far greater cold of the winter in the ground places in which they had buried themselves.

From October to April—fully seven months—they rest from their labours of eating, of breathing, shall I say, of thinking? (or nearly so, for they occasionally stir a little, and are found to have moved a little from under their straw). But they neither eat nor drink, nor see light, nor (I believe) open their eyes. And when touched during this time they feel of a stony coldness, and certainly appear to have none of their faculties in operation.

But with the warmer weather, they again gradually resume the precise habits of the preceding year. Gradually, their bright little eyes resume their intelligence; their memory re-awakens; and they return to the ways, and the habits, and the places of the preceding season, as if their sleep of seven months were but a single night, and last summer verily but as yesterday.

They are in many respects both curious and remarkable animals. We find them to have enough of intelligence, enough of quaintness, and apparently enough of affection, to give them considerable interest in the eyes of their owners, and to raise them out of the level of despised reptiles. Whilst their remarkable construction, and mysterious power of hybernation, render them specially worthy of study and contemplation.

These specialities and peculiarities must be my much-needed excuse for having troubled you so long with these few details of their personally observed habits and ways.

IV. A FURTHER NOTE UPON TORTOISES. {38}

In the year 1886 I read before this Society a paper in which I recorded some of the observed habits and peculiarities of a pair of Tortoises which I had then kept in my garden for three and four years respectively. This paper was afterwards published in our Society’s “Transactions” (Vol. iv. p. 316), and will probably be remembered by some of our members.

I would like this evening to say a few further words upon these creatures, which are still living and in my possession—more particularly with reference to their _rate of growth and increase_.

The two Tortoises have now been in my possession ten and nine years respectively. Six years ago I reported to this Society that _they measured_, the one 7½ and the other 7 inches in _length_. Now at the end of six further years their antero-posterior measurements are 9½ and 9 inches respectively—the measurements being made from before backwards over the convex surface of the carapace. They have, therefore, each of them, thus measured, increased exactly two inches in length in the last six years, or at the rate of exactly one-third of an inch per year.

(The under flat surface of the shell now measures 6½ and 6¼ inches from before backwards. These Tortoises are said not usually to exceed 10 inches in entire length.)

Then as to their _weight_. I have now kept an exact record of their respective weights in the spring and autumn of each of the past seven years, _i.e._ their weight on commencing to hybernate in October or November, and again their weight on returning afresh to light and more active existence in April or May of the following spring. And it is interesting to notice how almost continuously they have increased both in size and weight; and also how corresponding are the alterations, or otherwise, in the consecutive years, both of spring and autumn, of the two animals.

In my former paper, I mentioned that during the summer months of 1886, when I first weighed them, _i.e._ from May to September, my Tortoises had gained in weight, the one 2½ ounces, and the other 1½ ounces; whilst each of them became lighter in the following winter by 2½ ounces. Since that time the spring and autumn weighings have been regularly continued, and the result is shown in the following table.

WEIGHT OF LARGER TORTOISE. OF SMALLER TORTOISE. APRIL. OCTOBER. APRIL. OCTOBER. YEAR. lbs. ozs. lbs. ozs. lbs. ozs. lbs. ozs. 1886 2 7½ 2 10 2 3½ 2 5 1887 2 7½ 2 10 2 2½ 2 5 1888 2 10 2 13½ 2 5 2 8¼ 1889 2 13 2 14 2 8 2 8½ 1890 2 12½ 3 0½ 2 7½ 2 12 1891 2 15½ 3 2 2 10 2 12½ 1892 3 1 3 3½ 2 12 2 14½

In the seven years, therefore, 1886 to 1892, the larger Tortoise has increased in weight from 2 lbs. 10 ozs. to 3 lbs. 3½ ozs.; and the smaller Tortoise from 2 lbs. 5 ozs. to 2 lbs. 14½ ozs., giving a total increase of weight in this period of exactly 9 ounces for each animal, or an average annual increase of about 1 ounce and 5½ drachms (avoirdupois).

The general result also of the above weighings is to show that, in average seasons in England, these creatures gain from 2 to 2½ ounces in each summer, and lose again a varying but considerable portion of this increase during the ensuing six or seven months of hybernation; but, on the whole, showing an average gain of a little more than one ounce in the year—the average gain of weight per month in summer working out at about 6 or 7 drachms, with an average loss in the winter months of about 4 or 5 drachms per month. This last fact scarcely agrees with Cuvier’s statement that “during winter . . . their loss of substance amounts almost to nothing.”

It will be noted that the foregoing table shows certain variations in the increases and decreases of weight in the several years; also that in two of the years there was but little change between the autumn and spring weights—this period of stagnation occurring in both animals simultaneously. Probably several causes for this were at work, but I have little doubt that the variability of our English seasons is by far the largest factor in the case; and that the variations in the gainings and losings of the different summers and winters depend very largely upon the special character of these seasons. Thus, when the summer months are hot the Tortoises eat much more abundantly and constantly, and consequently put on (or rather put inside their skeletons) much more flesh than in colder seasons. On the contrary, a warm autumn, with the temperature not sufficiently cold to make them go early and thoroughly to sleep, must conduce to greater loss, or rather waste, of their flesh, for it is well known that these animals cease to eat many weeks before they finally retire to rest for the winter; and necessarily during this period, especially on sunny days in which (even at this season) they are often moderately lively and active, they are doubtless breathing and consuming some of the material which has been stored up for winter consumption. Whilst again, in a very mild winter or spring they will, as is well known, frequently wake up from their dormancy, and of course, on each such occasion will make further inroads upon their reservoir of nutrient material.

It is therefore pretty certain that hot summers and cold winters are most conducive to their rapid increase in size and weight; whilst of course the contrary conditions would have an exactly opposite result.

Cetti says that the common Greek Tortoise seldom weighs above 3 lbs. My larger one now weighs 3 lbs. 3½ ozs., and is still growing. But there is a Tortoise now in this city which weighs as much as 6 lbs. 5 ozs. I judge, however, from its size and form, that it may be a variety of the common Tortoise. This creature must be not only “an old inhabitant of this city,” but thoroughly naturalised into a British subject, as it is known to have lived in Norwich for at least thirty years.

I have little to add to what I previously said (and to what White has said) as to Tortoise habits and manners. These appear to be very uniform, and to be guided by a most definite instinct; and it is very noticeable and very remarkable how the two Tortoises will constantly both do the very same thing at the very same time, often almost at the same moment of time. For example, when feeding, even when apart from each other, they will constantly suddenly leave off eating almost at the same instant; or they will in like manner, when basking in the sun, both at once get up and walk off to some other place; or they will both all at once suddenly get up and march off to their evening place of shelter and rest—and this without any definite atmospheric or other cause that is appreciable.

Cuvier has well called the Tortoise “_un animal retournèe_,” an animal inverted, or “turned inside out, or rather outside in.” And it is said that the large Land Tortoise, when withdrawn into its shell, “can defy the whole animal world except man, from whom nothing is safe.” And with reference to this point I have observed that our Tortoises, when retiring to rest, always take the greatest care to protect their noses and the anterior opening of their shells. When they burrow, their head is of course covered up by the earth. But when, as is often the case in the warmer weather, they simply go to sleep in some sheltered place, they habitually place their heads close against the wall, or under the projecting roots of a tree or shrub, so as not to leave this part exposed. I presume, therefore, that they are conscious of some insecurity, and it would certainly appear that their heads would otherwise be open to the attack of rats or other predaceous animals.

Professor Forbes describes the peculiar way in which he has in Greece observed the Tortoises to do their courting, _i.e._ the method by which the male Tortoise seeks to attract the attention of his lady-love, namely, by repeatedly knocking his shell violently against hers. I have noticed the same process in my own garden. Both my animals are, I believe, males. But I have observed one of them, when in an amorous humour, to strike the other several times in succession a sounding blow on its shell; and this he does by suddenly withdrawing his head into his shell, so as to be out of harm’s way, and then as suddenly throwing his body forward by a sort of butting process against the shell of his fellow. This proceeding causes a very considerable, and indeed, comparatively speaking, quite a loud and resounding noise; and at first sight these sudden and severe blows would appear to be more calculated to cause corporeal discomfort or injury than to excite affection. These very marked attentions are usually followed by the utterance of a quick and soft, or almost whining cry.

I will only add that my Tortoises show an increasing familiarity and sense of being at home as years roll on.

* * * * *

ADDENDUM.—On November 2nd, 1905, after a further interval of thirteen years, these Tortoises had respectively attained to a weight of 4 lbs. and half an ounce, and 3 lbs. 13½ ozs. as compared with weights of 2 lbs. 10 ozs. and 2 lbs. 5 ozs. in 1886. They are therefore still growing in size and weight. In October of last year (1907) they weighed respectively 4 lbs. 2½ ozs. and 4 lbs.

V. MY CHRISTMAS GARDEN PARTY. {44}

Norwich is proverbially a City of Gardens, and many of the houses in St. Giles’s Street, including my own, are fortunate enough to share in the advantage of possessing one of these valuable urban appendages.

As regards the birds that frequent these gardens, the neighbourhood of Chapel Field, with its trees and shrubs, is, or should be, an additional attraction to them; but I am bound to say that I have not observed so great a congregation, or so large a variety of birds, in Chapel Field Gardens as might have been expected.

My own garden consists of a plot of grass of fair size, with one large apple tree in its centre, a double laburnum tree close by, and with several other trees of good size on its confines. Some of the boundary walls are covered with ivy. In my neighbours’ gardens are also both trees and shrubs, whilst Chapel Field is in the immediate vicinity, just beyond my stable yard.

There is thus a considerable variety of shelter for the birds, and, doubtless, a proportionate variety of food for them at the proper seasons.

In ordinary years, and in average seasons, the following birds come into my garden:—

1. Our constant town friends, the Sparrows.

2. Blackbirds and Thrushes (a pair of each of which usually build and hatch with me, though I am sorry to say that their labour and pains are usually devoid of result, as the young birds are got by the Cats, either in the nest, or as soon as they leave it).

3. Starlings.

4. Robins.

5. Jackdaws (occasionally—from the neighbouring church steeple).

6. At rare intervals I see a little Wren, or Tom-tit, busily engaged on the above-mentioned laburnum tree, evidently getting a good meal from what it finds in the bark.

7. In the prolonged frosty or snowy weather the garden is occasionally visited by the Missel-thrush, and now and then also by

8. A Rook.

In the ordinary way, and in open weather, the _number_ of my bird visitors is not large, but in the cold winter weather, and in response to my invitation, this number very considerably increases, so that at times I must have had as many as thirty-five or forty feeding in my garden at the same time. The increase of numbers is chiefly made up of extra Sparrows and Starlings; and when it occurs the scene is often a very lively one; the whole of the thirty or forty birds being often assembled very closely together in active movement; and the grass or garden path on which they collect is sometimes quite black with their feathered life.

The prolonged frost of the past winter is fresh in all our memories.

On January 6th, when I specially noted the assemblage of my bird friends, we had had intermitting frost and snow for about five weeks, almost continuous snow (with occasional yieldings of the frost) for a fortnight, and a complete snowy covering up of the garden ground for a week, with sharp frosts, and often low temperatures at night. There had been no sun, and, therefore, no melting of the snow by the wall, or by the hedge edges, and, consequently, doubtless the natural animal food of the birds was very scarce and difficult to obtain. Some food had been thrown to them daily during the greater portion of this severe weather; but for the preceding week they had been fed pretty regularly twice daily.

My usual _times for feeding_ had been about 9.30 (after my breakfast), and about 2 p.m. (after luncheon).

When first fed, the birds—beginning with the Sparrows—seem only to find the food thrown out by accident, and would drop down by ones and twos, as their instinct or sense of far-sight appeared to show them that there was food to be had. But very soon they seemed to remember these fixed hours, and many of them, especially Starlings, would then be seen collected on neighbouring trees, or elsewhere, before these times, evidently ready and waiting for what they were expecting.

The Sparrows would be chirping in the ivy. The Starlings would be seen sitting on the watch on a neighbouring tree or trees, and as soon as the food was thrown down they would immediately begin to descend upon it.

Yet not all at once, or without due and proper precaution and inspection. First, the Sparrows—as the boldest—would drop down singly, but in rapid succession. Then the Starlings would draw nearer one by one, and carefully look down and inspect the ground. And when one had summoned courage to descend, the rest would quickly follow. But, of course, the slightest noise would make the whole flock suddenly flutter up again into the trees, or into the next garden, as quickly to return when the alarm was found to be groundless.

After a little further time, a Thrush or a Blackbird or two would join the group. Later still, always late, a little Robin—quiet, silent, and pathetic—with its half timid and half confiding manner, would come into view. Again, after a further interval, occasionally one of the Jackdaws would appear upon the scene. And now and then, last of all, a huge Rook would suddenly descend and carry off some large crust which the smaller birds had left uneaten—reserved for more deliberate pecking at when the crumbs and smaller portions of food were disposed of.

The manners of these various birds differed strikingly. The Sparrows, of course, would be first and boldest, and everywhere.

The Starlings would often form a compact group around the outspread food, one of them occasionally darting off with a big morsel or savoury bone.

The Thrushes and Blackbirds would arrive quietly from over the wall; they would hop about usually on the furthermost outskirts of the crowd, and as near as possible to their habitual corner. And the Blackbirds would waggle their tails in their own quaint manner, and perhaps give their peculiar cry, whilst both Thrushes and Blackbirds would evidently indicate their consciousness of superior manners and their greater dignity, if not their actually more retiring dispositions.

The little Robin, solitary and observant, would come nearer to the house than the other birds; but his advent was usually too late for anything but the bare dry remains of the feast left by the rapacious Sparrows and Starlings.

The Jackdaw would fly straight to the apple tree, perch upon it, then suddenly descend and seize upon the biggest remaining morsel; then as quickly fly up again into the tree and try to eat it there. In this respect, in marked contrast to the Rook, which in the worst weather would occasionally suddenly arrive and help himself to the biggest crust left, but he would always at once fly away with it in his capacious maw.

I am sorry to say that my garden party friends have displayed a very considerable amount of selfishness. Each kind of bird, of course, selects first the kind of food most appropriate to it. But there is clear indication that the law of force prevails amongst them, and that might carries the day against fairness and right. And it is most clear that neither Communism, nor Socialism, nor Equality with Fraternity, is a doctrine in favour with them—at least in practice. As long as there is a good supply of the best eatables, my friends are most communistically amiable to each other. But as soon as the available supply begins to run short, then the most barefaced selfishness is the order of the day. The strong sparrows drive away the weaker ones, or pursue them and steal from them any dainty little morsel they may have secured and flown away with. The Starlings dart at each other and scream, or go through continual “fluttering duels” in their efforts to steal their neighbours’ goods; whilst the Jackdaws and Rooks have no reserve in displaying their views as to their practical agreement with Rob Roy’s well-known maxim.

I have not observed either the Blackbirds or Thrushes to fight for their food as the Sparrows and Starlings do.

The Starlings exhibit some other very peculiar ways. Before descending to feed they will sit upon neighbouring trees in an attitude of pensive watchfulness—one irresistibly reminding one of an old man leaning his head upon one side and resting it upon his hand. Their peculiar waddling walk or run and extreme liveliness of manner are well known; but when all the food is gone, and they return for a short season to their trees, they will often resume their philosophic or contemplative attitude—very soon, however, to disappear to “other fields and pastures new,” or in plain English, to some neighbouring and equally hospitable garden. And their capacity for food appears to be very great.

The _kinds of food_ which I have thrown to my feathered friends have been bread and large crusts, oats, the refuse of meals, scraps of meat, bones of fish or fowls, herring skins, cheese rinds, portions of fat; and I have found that the animal matters are very greedily seized upon by nearly all of them, scarcely excepting the Sparrows. And it is remarkable what large bones of fish or fowl are rapidly and entirely disposed of; whilst still larger bones from a joint are picked and cleaned to the last available particle. Like bird-cannibals that they are, I observed that some bones from my Christmas Turkey thrown out to them, appeared to be very specially and particularly relished by them. When very hungry, not only will Sparrows eat some kinds of animal food; but Robins, Starlings, and Jackdaws will all eat bread crumbs and bread crusts.

It is sad to think what a mixed world this is even for birds; and that even such a happy and interesting town gathering as I have described is not without its drawback, and this a very serious one.

Whilst the birds are making the most of their opportunities, gratifying their natural tastes, and exhibiting their peculiarities, a Nemesis, or vengeful fate, is constantly hanging over them, ever ready to overtake them in case of any relaxation of their habitual watchfulness, in the case of our own or neighbours’ Cats. For these fat and feline creatures seem to be on the watch for their own good Christmas bird cheer; and with crouching, stealthy steps, and wagging tails, they actually do now and again succeed in stealing upon their unsuspecting victims, and in illustrating the inexorable law, as to food, of animal-feeding creatures.

It is pitiful to see a Sparrow or a Blackbird thus hopelessly engaged in the clutches of a Cat; and it is a sad interruption or ending of the scene of joy, if not always of harmony, I have just described.

Our own pet Cat, though over fed, cannot resist the temptation of thus stealing upon these birds when the chance occurs, and its excited movements when watching them through a window, but unable to get out, are a study in themselves.

To a certain extent the Starlings have now and then a sort of sentimental revenge; for when very hungry these bold birds will descend into the kitchen yard close to the house, and carry off bones and scraps placed there for the use of the said Cat, who has been seen to watch their theft of its food through the kitchen window in a state of trembling but helpless excitement, and evidently of intense disgust.

During all the time of my feedings I could but notice the wonderful instinct which the birds exhibit, of discovering the presence of food. Sparrows are everywhere, and therefore it is not surprising that our home friends should be on the alert, and should quickly descend upon the feast prepared for them. But how do their neighbours and more distant friends so quickly know of it? How do the Starlings, who are not usually so near at hand, discover the good things available for them? How does the Jackdaw in the steeple learn of the meat or bones thrown upon the garden path? Or the Rook in the distant tree or field of the large crust which the lesser birds have been unable to dispose of?

It is clear that neither sight nor sound, as we understand them, would be sufficient to inform and direct them; and that the most delicate sense of such perception would be insufficient to enable them to perceive food placed, say, behind a garden wall.