Homes Without Hands: Being a Description of the Habitations of Animals, Classed According to Their Principle of Construction - Page 64

In this curious history of bird architecture, two points are peculiarly interesting, one being the reservation of a higher point whereto the bird may fly in case of invasion, and the other the fact that two broods of young can be in the nest at one time.

Passing from the birds which build with mud, we now come to those which use vegetable substances in their habitations. As examples of such architecture, we shall select the nests of those birds which are able to construct domed habitations, as well as the remarkable structures which are built by the Bower birds of Australia.

The Long-tailed Titmouse (Parus caudatus) constructs a nest which is quite as wonderful in its way as the pensile home of the harvest-mouse.

This pretty little bird is very plentiful in England, and, owing to its habit of associating in little flocks of ten or twelve in number, and the exceeding restlessness of its character, is very familiar to all observers of nature. These flocks generally consist of the parents and their offspring, for the little creature is exceedingly prolific, laying a vast quantity of tiny eggs in its warm nest, and rearing most of the young to maturity. This is a bird which ought to be cherished by all possessors of fields or gardens, for there is scarcely a more determined enemy to the many noxious insects which destroy the fruits, vegetables, and flowers. Fortunately for ourselves, the Long-tailed Titmouse is very fond of the various saw-flies that work such mischief among our fruit-trees, and often lay waste whole acres of gooseberries, and it is no exaggeration to say that to a possessor of an orchard, or a fruit-garden of any kind, every Long-tailed Titmouse is well worth its little weight in gold.

Were it only for the beauty and elegance of its form, no one who had an eye for living art could kill the pretty little bird, and reduce the bright, active, happy creature to a mere pinch of ruffled feathers. Were it only for the wonderful structure of its nest, it would be worthy of preservation. But when we come to consider the inestimable and inappreciated services which this tiny bird renders to mankind, we should not only be devoid of all gratitude, but likewise of all common sense—which, however, comes to much the same point—were we willingly to destroy our feathered benefactor.

Although almost every one who lives in the country, or who possesses a tolerably large garden in a town, is perfectly familiar with this bird, comparatively few are in a position to narrate from personal observation the benefits which it confers upon us. The reason is simple; they do not rise early enough. A Long-tailed Titmouse in early morning, and the identical bird at noon, scarcely seem to be the same creature, so different are its ways. It is a specially early bird, earlier than the sparrow, which is apt to be rather a sluggard as regards leaving its nest, though it sets up its garrulous chirp soon after daybreak. At that hour of the morning the Long-tailed Titmouse seems to cast off fear and diffidence, and allows itself to be watched without displaying much alarm. Indeed, with the aid of a good opera-glass, it may be observed almost as well as if it were in a cage.

As the sun ascends above the horizon, and men and boys begin to go about to their daily work, the Titmouse loses its easy confidence, and will not suffer itself to be approached so calmly as in the early morning. Generally, somewhere about five or six A.M., it leaves the garden and flies afield, and must then be sought far from human habitation. If, however, the garden should happen to be surrounded by walls, and the owner should happen to understand humanity as well as self-interest, the little bird will know that it will not be disturbed, and will remain in its sanctuary throughout the greater part of the day.

The quick, lively movements of the little creature are quite indescribable, so incessant and so varied are its changes of attitude. As it runs about the branches, it seems almost independent of gravity, and is equally at its ease whether its head, back, or breast be upward. It ever and anon utters an odd chirping note, which seems to issue from the bird as if it proceeded from some internal machinery, and were independent of the will of the creature which utters it. The observer should be careful to notice its quick, frequent pecks, and may be sure that every such movement denotes the slaughter of some insect, whether in the stage of egg, larva, pupa, or imago. The little beak is by no means so feeble as it seems, and is able to pick up an insect so small as would escape the observation of human eyes, or to pounce upon and destroy one which many a human being would not care to handle.

All the little flock, which are seen flitting about the trees, darting from branch to branch and tree to tree as if they were little arrows projected from bows, have at one time been inmates of the same nest, the beautiful domed structure which is shown in the illustration. How they are accommodated in so small a space seems quite a mystery, for not only is the hollow of the nest of no great size, but the interior is so filled with feathers and down that the space is still farther limited.

The nest of the Long-tailed Titmouse is rather variable in shape, but its usual form is shown in the illustration. Generally it is rather oval, and has an aperture at one side and near the top, through which the bird can pass. I believe that all domed nests, whether of bird or beast, are constructed by at least two architects, one of which remains within, while the other works from without. This is certainly the case with many creatures, and is probably so with all. The materials of which the nest is made are mosses of various kinds, wool, hair, and similar substances, woven by them with great firmness. It is remarkable that in the construction of this nest, which requires peculiar solidity, the Long-tailed Titmouse uses materials like those which are employed by the humming-birds, and binds its nest together with the webs of spiders, and the silken hammocks of various caterpillars. The exterior of the nest is covered with lichens, so that the whole edifice looks very much like a natural excrescence upon the tree or bush in which it is placed, as is the case with the well-known nest of the chaffinch.

Sometimes the form of the nest is rather different from that which has been mentioned, and the structure is flask-shaped, the entrance corresponding to the neck of the flask. Now and then a nest is found in which there are two openings, one near the top in the usual position, and the other on the opposite side and near the bottom. The presence of one or two apertures is probably influenced by the position of the nest and the climate of the locality. If the finger be introduced into the aperture, a charmingly soft and warm bed of downy feathers is felt, in which, rather than on which, the numerous eggs repose.

The bird will build its nest in various trees, but always chooses a spot where the branches are very close and the foliage dense. The gorse bush is a favorite residence of the Long-tailed Titmouse, and so deeply is the nest buried in the prickly branches that it can not be removed without the aid of thick leather gloves, and a sharp, strong knife. Some skill and artistic taste are required in order to secure a good specimen, and it is difficult to hit the happy medium between cutting away too many branches, and retaining so many that the shape of the nest can not be seen for their luxuriance. I may mention here that such nests are fertile homes of insects and various vermin, and that they ought to be placed in a box with spirits of turpentine for some weeks, and then exposed to strong heat, before the possessor can be sure that all existing insects are dead, and their eggs addled.

The number of eggs is rather variable, but is always great, and, on an average, some ten or twelve eggs can be found in a nest. They are so small and so fragile that the novice finds great difficulty in emptying them without breaking their delicate shells. This task may, however, be accomplished with perfect ease and safety if managed in the right way. Each egg should be enveloped in repeated wrappers of silver paper, soaked in a solution of gum-arabic, one layer being allowed to dry before the next is added. When they are dry, a little hole is easily drilled on one side by means of a needle, the contents of the egg are then broken up with the same needle, and are then washed out by injecting water through a very delicate glass tube. Any one can make these slender tubes by merely taking a piece of ordinary glass tubing, heating it in a spirit lamp, and drawing the ends apart. It may then be broken off to form a tube of any degree of fineness, and by alternate injection of water and sucking the diluted contents into the tube, the egg will soon be emptied.

WE have another well-known bird which makes a nest as well domed as that of the long-tailed titmouse, though not nearly so pretty nor so elegant. This is the common Magpie (Pica caudata), which is one of the very handsomest birds that are indigenous to England. Popularly the Magpie is thought to be only black and white; in reality there is scarcely a black feather about the bird, its plumage being adorned with steel-blue, green, and purple of such intensity that in certain lights they appear to be jetty black. I may here mention that the wings and tail of the Magpie can be made into beautiful fire-screens, which are light and elegant as well as brilliantly colored.

The nest of the Magpie is of very large size when compared with the dimensions of the architect, probably on account of the long tail of the mother bird, which can not be protruded over the edge of the nest, as is the case with many long-tailed birds. It is not merely made of moss and similar soft substances, but the frame-work is very strongly constructed of sticks, among which are generally interwoven a number of sharp thorns, so that the nest is nearly as unpleasant to the bare hand as a thistle. Moreover, the bird has a way of gathering the thorns round the entrance, so that the hand can not be inserted into the nest without danger of many wounds. Indeed, the nest is so large, and the eggs lie so far from the entrance, that to extract them is generally a task that can not be accomplished without the aid of a knife.

Besides the thorny defense, the nest is mostly strengthened by its very position, being generally fixed in the furcation of several stout boughs, so that it can only be approached in certain parts. Moreover, the great height at which the Magpie loves to build the nest renders the operation of robbing it so dangerous, that many a nest escapes because no one has nerve enough to risk the ascent.

The position of the nest, too, conceals its true form so well, that a very practiced eye is needed to distinguish it from an ordinary swelling of the bough, or from the heaps of dislodged twigs which are so often found in the forked branches of trees. Deserted nests are very common, and during my bird's-nesting days I have frequently been disappointed to find that after all the trouble of ascending a lofty tree, the nest was empty, and had clearly been deserted for a year or two. Sometimes the nest is occupied by other creatures, and in some parts of the country the pine marten has been known to take possession of a deserted Magpie's nest, and to lie therein quite unsuspected until driven out by some accident. Although a lofty tree is mostly chosen by the Magpie, such is not invariably the case, for now and then a low tree, or even a bush, is selected. In any case, however, the branches are sure to be thickly set, so that the nest may be firmly held among the boughs.

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