Page:Hardwicke's Science-Gossip - Volume 1.pdf/168

Properly, I ought not to call them dabchicks—not at least in capitals, and at the head of my paper—for the true distinctive English name of the bird is "The Little Grebe." But "dabchick" is so happily expressive of the habits and appearance of the animal, that it recalls in a moment its nervous jerky motion on the water, and its sudden disappearance with a "flip," as if, instead of diving, it had unexpectedly jumped down its own throat.

Wriggling about everywhere, all over the pond, in a state of chronic fuss, as if they had only five minutes left to get through the work of a day, now popping up à propos to nothing at all, and then turning head over heels, as if to catch their tails between their legs, these birds fidgeted through life in a ceaseless bustle. Was it sheer idleness which made me love to watch them by the hour together, lying in my punt, while the rushes grated pleasantly against its sides as I moved? There is a reception of nature's truth in these seasons of seeming laziness, which, though one is not conscious of the strain of observation, stores the mind with healthy useful memories.

The family of grebes, to which the dabchick belongs, represent the freshwater divers. They remain during nearly the whole of the year in the same mere, spending a large proportion of their time under water, whence they drag the material which their nests are composed of. The grebe seldom takes to the wing, and makes a very bad hand of walking, its legs being placed so far astern as to render it difficult for the body to be supported when on dry land. It has not the sense to hold its chin up and jump along like a kangaroo.

The dabchick swims at a great pace under water, and when disturbed will remain for some time with its head alone above the surface—sometimes sticking up only bill enough to breathe with. The bird, which is reddish black, with ash-colour below the water-line, weighs about six ounces, i.e., to provide a more intelligible idea, say about as much as a rook. The young ones dive from the cradle; indeed, unlike the mother of many little folks, its anxious parent takes care to keep its feet wet during the whole course of its youth. Master Dabchick is never obliged to put on dry stockings when he comes home, for the nest is always dripping wet through. The eggs, about five in number, are laid in a squashy heap of weeds; the mother, defying the danger of a damp bed, incubates in a puddle, and when she leaves the eggs even for a short time, drags a few soaking weeds over them, so that they are not dried even by the mid-day sun. The effect of this upon the eggs is remarkable; when laid they are quite white, but before they are hatched become of a dull blotchy reddish brown—exactly as if they had been smeared all over by bloody fingers and then put back. This is caused by the juices of the decaying materials of the nest. The eggs of coots and waterhens, on the contrary, are hatched dry, never change their colour, and are always left exposed when the parent quits its nest. But the dabchick's egg might set would-be zoologists together by the ears, as much as the chameleon did the opinionated travellers. 'Tis white! 'tis mottled! no, 'tis red. The dabchick flies but seldom, but when he does, he pegs away at it furiously, working his stumpy stiff-looking wings with all his might. The rapidity with which he dives enabled him to duck at the flash of the old flint guns; before the priming had fired the charge, he was off, and the sportsman saw a bubble instead of a bird on the water. It is wanton work, however, to kill these cheerful little creatures. No skill can be developed in the practice, i.e., when the percussion gun is used; and when obtained they are worthless, the flavour of the dabchick being, I should think, easily realized by putting some rank fishy weeds into a wholesome dish of some other small fowl. No, leave the merry fellows alone; but if you care to watch the capricious frolics of a waterbird, you cannot choose a better than the common, but most interesting dabchick.

I cannot help making an apology to the great crested grebe for thus dwelling on the manners and customs of his small relation, the dabchick.

The great crested grebe, or loon, is a giant compared to our little friend the dabchick, and altogether makes a more respectable appearance, both in picture and pond. The habits and figure of the two birds, though, are much the same.

There are numbers of loons in the "broads" of Norfolk. Indeed, it is in East Anglia that I have most especially watched the dabchick. These loons, like the lesser grebes, incubate and leave their eggs in the wet, and meet with the same ridiculous failure when they attempt to walk. Like them, they are capital divers, and begin from the egg. A most accurate and patient observer and friend of birds, beasts, and little boys (the Rev. J. C. Atkinson), with whom I have had many a day's nesting and rabbiting, states that "the first lessons of the young loon in diving are taken beneath the literal shelter of their mother's wing." In this case, supposing the instinctive expectancy of the newly hatched led them to wait for the signal from the parent hatcher, and defer their infant plunge till the old bird dived with them, these young loons would prove an exacting family to a domestic hen. Possibly she might fancy them less disappointing than ducks; while in truth, like many an anxious and gratified mother, she would be attributing their abstinence to nature rather than to artificial deference, or absence of contagious example.Harry Jones, M.A.