Section 4 of Notes of an East Coast Naturalist by Arthur Henry Patterson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Bird Notes, Part 4. The Common Scooter. In severe winters, considerable numbers of common scoters, edemia nigra, may be observed frequenting the roadstead north of the Britannia Pier. Sometimes in a long straggling line, a large flock is seen bobbing upon the waves, drifting with the tide, sleeping, feeding or preening as the case may be, occasionally joining up in flight, winging northwards for a mile or more, and settling again to drift downwards, and rarely inshore, until the hopeful gunner is half tempted to draw bead upon them. It is an exceeding rare circumstance for one to be caught napping. Odd birds taking to Brayden are now and again shot in snowy weather. The bottom, sandy and shifting as it is, has in places beds of mollusks for which these birds remain in the neighbourhood. In one place nearly a mile of muscle ground is known, and in places, notably in the Ham at Galston, a large area is frequented by the radiated trough shell, maxtra stultorum. The muscle referred to is Maudiola Maudiolus, locally known as the horse muscle. During a short spell of calm weather early in the eighties, a gunner carted his gunpunt across the town from Brayden, and launched forth from the beach to try his hand at a shot at the scooters. After some manoeuvring he managed to get within shot of the crowd. They, however, appeared a trifle too sharp for him, and dived safely out of harm at the very clink of the hammer, but two velvet scooters, Edemia Fusca, not so wary, fell to the discharge and were secured. The scared scooters allowed him to take no further liberties. It is curious that the velvet scooter occasionally mixes with the commoner species, and in their company too the long-tailed duck, Haralda Glacialis, usually immature, is sometimes seen, driven southwards also, by the severity of the weather. A velvet scooter entangled itself in a herring net in October 1893. Fisherman Sportsman In the palmier days of the trawl fishing at Yarmouth, when so many little masters, the skipper occasionally being owner himself, owned a fishing-smack and short voyages, known as single boating, in contra-distinction to those which sailed in fleets and kept afloat for weeks, were taken. Many a skipper carried his gun to sea with him, on the chances of having a little sport. When the gun license and close season became more burdensome, the practice was gradually discontinued. Not a few interesting birds in this way came into the hands of local dealers. In January 1881, during severe weather, a smack-master got well in amongst a number of Glockus gulls, Larus Glockus, securing no less than twenty-seven. These were thrown on the ice, and kept fresh enough until his arrival in port. An amusing circumstance is attached to the disposal of the dead gulls. Two local dealers in natural objects boarded the boat together, one going below, the other remaining on deck. It would be unnatural to suppose that he who was in the hold choosing the birds he wished for picked the least valuable specimens. Therefore, the most mature examples were handed up to the deck, where he supposed they would become his. But to his amazement, he who had remained on deck was in lawful possession of them, having paid the skipper ere his rival below could come up to claim them. These fisherman's sportsmen sometimes took a big curly-coated retriever to see with them, finding the animal useful in recovering wounded and dead birds, which included such species as fulmar petrels, scuas, various ducks, and the like. An immature gannet in the peculiarly spotted plumage of youth was always a desideratum. The fisherman, even on occasion, going to the expense of its preservation as an ornament for their parlours.  Their amusement used to be the capturing of live gulls by means of twirling a stern, a long tarry cord. The birds tamely hovering around in the wake of the vessel would become entangled by their flight feathers in the string, when they were dragged aboard. I once saw a number of kitty-wakes taken in this manner. Back to the middle of the seventies, the storm petrol was a well-recognised annual visitor to the neighbourhood. Up till that time, the herrings, which were then caught by the now-obsolete three-mast luggers, were landed on the beach in huge unwieldy boats known as ferriers, the luggers remaining at anchor in the roadstead. Much offal was thrown overboard, as it did not then pay to bring it ashore to be sold as manure, and not a few swills of prime herrings would be spilled overboard too in rough weather. This circumstance offered a great attraction for the insuring of many species of fish and of seabirds. Amongst them came the skewers and the storm-petrels. It was usual for the carriers to trail soft rows, or milts, of herrings behind by means of string. At these the hungry birds would swoop, to be knocked down by long osier ones, carried for the purpose. It was probably a love of sport, rather than the poultry tuppants offered per bird by the local game-dealers, which induced the men to thus encompass the destruction of the unfortunate birds. Today, the herrings are landed a mile up river at Fishworth. The offal is put ashore too, as a profitable extra. And although gulls in some numbers muster up yearly for a share of the spoil, the storm-petrel is only a casual visitor, unless driven hither by exceptionally bad weather, when, as mentioned by Booth in his rough notes, during the continuance of a most severe easterly guile in November 1872, hundreds were seen off the harbour mouth. The guile began on the eleventh. On the eighteenth the sea had become as smooth as glass, and Mr. Booth steamed in a tug through many hundreds fast asleep on the water. On the twentieth they had nearly all disappeared. Foraging Rooks, Crows and Gulls There is constantly a certain amount of animal matter to be found floating in rivers polluted by sewage matter, besides the sundry insects and small creatures blown or tumbled into them by accident. While from the town drains, kitchen fragments are washed down sinks and gullies to the streams. This flotsam is ever a temptation to numerous gulls, which in certain localities assemble to pick up such unconsidered trifles. The entrance of Brayden Estuary has been a happy hunting ground from time immemorial. Here are to be seen congregated at times numerous black-headed gulls, common gulls, and larger species, the grey immature of the herring and saddle-back gulls in particular. The flood tide draws the birds together, and great is the commotion if some wasteful mariner, tired of mouldy or stale ship-bread, has thrown overboard some, to him obnoxious loaves. In a constant mazy flight, squealing and squabbling, the birds work to and fro. Now gleaning singly, as some toothsome bit catches the sharp, wandering eye, and now clustering in a noisy, quarrelsome group, as some larger edible attracts the notice of several simultaneously. The smaller particles are snatched up as neatly as swallows catch at passing insects, the end of the mandibles, and the ends of the toes, scarce touching the water, ere the bird has bevelled itself upwards again, as it were, by the force of the impetus that brought it down. A heavy or brittle substance, such as a large bit of bread, makes diversion by its breaking and falling, to be snatched at again, probably by a trio or half a dozen rivals. Sometimes a bird settles upon the water, and feeds upon its find, as the tide floats them along together. In amongst the gulls, on similar intent, may be seen rooks, whose methods are slightly different, for they are more fearful of an immersion. Easy quarrels are often struck up a wing between the corvine gleaners and the gulls. On the 17th of November 1901, just off the half-mile point on Braden, some 500 blackheaded gulls were fishing along the tide line, a perceptible dividing line between the up-running stream, and an eddy caused by a projecting wall. They were vivaciously hunting in their light, airy, frolics and manner. Amongst them were several hooded crows, dipping and wheeling, and exactly mimicking their webfooted companions, then whom, however, they tired more quickly, and so retired every now and again for a few minutes' rest on a mud-flat across the channel. It was pretty to see the gulls trotting, as it were, now and again upon the surface, scarcely dipping their toes. While the heavier crows, with big feet hanging helplessly, dipped them, so to speak, ankle-deep, and needed a more spasmodic and laborious effort to rise than their lighter pinioned companions. A quantity of refuse bread, fragments of fish from some scotch boats moored in the river and other like flotsam, afforded the birds a goodly repast. There was a long dry spell in the summer of 1893. The birds, depending upon ground-grubs, worms and the like, fared badly, the rooks in particular being in a sorry plight. Early one morning, when rambling about the North Deans, I saw a rook unusually busy and exceedingly erratic in its movements.  From behind a fursbush that I managed to reach unobserved, I had a good look at him. A number of grasshoppers skipped merrily around me, and I found it was in quest of this very insect the rook had come. I could not only quite easily observe him snatch at and capture the grasshoppers, a lively performance in all conscience, but I could also see that a portion of his bill had been shot away. This seemed not in the least to inconvenience him. I could almost imagine there was a gleam of satisfaction in his BDI at falling in Luxway and in having a feast all to himself. The gathering together of a large number of birds of the same species, where suitable food has unexpectedly and abundantly turned up, convinces me that not only do individual birds possess remarkably keen sight, but that a means of communication exists among them. A rough easterly sea had thrown on to the North Beach a quantity of live razor shells, solar enses. The gathering of gulls at Mustard as soon as the coast was clear afforded a lively and interesting sight. So long as the supply lasted they did not disperse. It was to be seen, for many years, the wreck of a steamboat nearly opposite the North Battery. This was covered with a mass of sea anemones and other marine creatures. Certain tides of unusual strength occasionally washed off a number of these hangers on, and the gulls, herring gulls in particular, would at low water and at the early part of the tide muster in some numbers and glean up whatever edible came to hand. The herons frequenting Braden spend much of their time watching for and capturing eels. The patience with which they will stand, rigid and motionless for many minutes together, is as remarkable as their celerity and accuracy of aim in striking and seizing an eel unfortunate enough to come within reach. A heron on one occasion struck and secured an eel not far short of a pound and a half in weight, which would be somewhat thicker than a broom handle. He had a regular tussle with it and might eventually have mastered and devoured it, had not two hooded crows attacked him, making him drop it upon the mud flat, when they descended with the intention of appropriating it for themselves. They had already disembowelled it, when a Braden-er rode up and landed, putting them to flight. The old man picked up the hapless eel, took it to his houseboat and cooked it for his dinner. He chuckles to the stay, when relating how the heron obliged him by catching a fine eel for him. Some Swan Notes The various species of wild swans usually visit us in very hard winters. Occasionally so many have been seen as to mark the year as a swan year. In other winters not a swan is seen. During a very sharp and protracted frost in January 1879 I counted in two flocks fifty-three hoopers, Cygnus musicus. They were wheeling in an unsettled and distrustful way around Braden, far above gunshot, to the annoyance of quite a regiment of punts and shore-gunners who were hiding and skulking eager for a shot. Not one was killed. In March odd birds and small flocks are occasionally observed passing northward. The note of this bird, as I have heard it, seems to me to resemble a very bad imitation of the curlews. As far as I have been able to note, the appearances of swans, the Buick swan, Cygnus Buicci, occurs more frequently, although not in such large flocks. Modern seasons have seen on the poultry as stalls only birds of this species. Mr. Booth, author of the catalogue of birds, speaks of having seen at one time between fifty and sixty flying in company over Hickling Broad. In October 1881, the late John Thomas, punter-gunner, bagged three swans to a shot from his swivel gun, and two others immediately after to a shoulder gun. They were swimming about tamely and unconcernedly on Braden. Delighted with his prowess, Johnny made haste for home, where, on hooks outside the shop window, they were soon seen hanging, and in front of the shop the gunner proudly paraded. On calling his attention to the fact that they were tame, escaped birds, he hastily pulled them down and disappeared inside with them. In the old days, when the allotments were yet a watery waste, swans dropped in and were stalked from behind a borrowed horse or donkey, several of which were usually to be found feeding upon the higher portions of this marshy waste. On the twenty-fifth of October 1890, I saw three Polish swans, Cygnus immutabilis, hanging on Durant's stall in the market. Looking the same to Mr. T. Southwell, fellow of the Zoological Society, he wrote, Did you notice the colour of the feet? I immediately obtained leave to cut off a bit of one bird's foot, and my knife, slipping, with malice a forethought, I managed to take pretty well a whole foot off at once. The pale greenish line down each claw of the foot had attracted my attention to the birds. Mr. Southwell's reply is conclusive as to the certainty of this swan's claim to distinction as a species. Thanks for your letter of the thirty-first of October, and for the enclosures, but I fear you will get into trouble with Durant. I am nevertheless glad to get the bird's toes. I quite forgot whether I thanked you for the colour drawing of the swan's head. It appears to me very characteristic, and the foot is no more like the colour of Cygnus O'Law than it is Lycodux. I have met with the Polish swan on more than one occasion. Trapping Extraordinary During several mild days in January, 1883, golden plovers and lap wings congregated on the marshes in some numbers, where their weariness gained them immunity from mishap at the hands of the gunning fraternity. But some boys, becoming conversant with the favourite resorts of these birds, fixed a number of small steel-falls thereabouts, with the result that a considerable capture was made. A row of these broken-legged plovers attracted my attention as they hung on Durant's stall, where I was informed of the trick successfully carried out by the urchins. Prior to the sixties, when ringed plovers were more abundant on the then less-frequented North Beach, bird-lime sticks were placed around a nest in a triangular fashion. To these, the old birds became easily fastened, and were at once secured. At that period, during long droughts, the rooks used to frequent the allotments which were never without puddles or pulp holes. These brown paper were made into cones, like sugar bags, and holes being made in the turf. These bags were inserted. The inside, having been smeared with bird-lime and a few grains of corn dropped in, the trapper hid himself. The hungry rooks, glad enough to find something that promised a wholesome meal, eagerly dipped into the cones to get at the corn, when an attempted withdrawal of the beak brought the paper hood up with it. The terrified birds would fly straight into the air, but, being blinded, soon came to grieve. Occasionally they would strike the ground with sufficient force to stun themselves, and so become an easy capture. On one occasion, a gunner named Her was out shooting at the harbour mouth when he aspired a gawker's gull, which persistently kept out of gunshot. Having a ball of string in his pocket, he proceeded to make a hake, as follows. Picking up a stranded herring, he cut it down the back like a kipper, and removed the backbone and entrails, filling the space thus made with a piece of cork float, which, with herrings, are usually to be found in that locality in the fishing season. Having closed the fish, and roughly fastened it together, he attached a piece of string weighted at the end with a stone. Another and longer cord was attached there too, to be held by the hand. A couple of fish hooks were then fastened to the fish, and the bait slung out just beyond the breakers, her running to hide behind some fish baskets stranded on the beach. The gawker's gull, espying the herring, swooped down upon it when one hook, instead of fastening into the throat of the bird, caught it by the nostrils, and it was easily hauled ashore and secured. Hakes were not rare traps at that period. More recently a countryman at Tunstall, who has successfully tried some remarkable experiments in capturing stoats, otters, coots, jackdaws, and other creatures alive, caught a number of rooks. He stated they boldly entered his hencoops to steal eggs, which they carried away in their feet, so he declared. He consequently baited the hencoops with maize, to the shortly enjoyed delight of the depredators who reached the maize by squeezing in below, through an aperture left for their ingress. When the man deemed the coop sufficiently tenanted, he hurriedly showed himself. The birds, naturally alarmed, forgot the only way of escape below, and poking their heads excitedly out through the higher apertures, became an easy prey. At one time, the man avows, he took ten rooks in one coop. In January 1891 I saw a common snipe, with both legs broken, hanging on a poultry as store. On inquiry I found that a country lad, who was more than half a poacher, had watched this species and observing its frequent footprints in a moist corner, set for it a steel fall, with an unlucky result, to one bird at least. Only similarly watched the woodcock, and in this way trapped one. But a cat was before him, and on going to examine his traps, he found only the bird's legs. A number of lap-wings frequented a marsh up the North River in November 1893, and advantage was taken of this by some lads, who set rat traps in order to catch them. While the eager gunners could not get within range of them, the boys filled their handkerchiefs with game. Several of the victims, injured in one or both legs, were brought to market for sale, where I examined them. During the winter of 1901, I noticed unusual numbers of blackbirds in the market. Now, this sable fellow is known to be good eating, especially in the depth of winter, when, no matter how severe the weather, he is always fat and in good condition. Big bunches are taken from the stalls, by lovers of this small game, long before the moorhens and lap-wings brought to market by market gardener sportsmen, who sell them aim at providing more distinguished game birds. I made inquiries, and found that in certain villages, old herring nets had been placed above the raspberry canes, and blackbirds were attracted beneath them by rotten apples strewn about as bait. When disturbed, the frightened birds, instead of flying away in a horizontal direction, excitedly flew upwards, becoming sadly entangled in the meshes of the nets, and were easily captured. Section 5 of Notes of an East Coast Naturalist by Arthur Henry Paterson The Cormorant The Cormorant, only a few years ago, was by no means a rare bird in this locality. Even in my recollection, it has become much scarcer than formerly, when, as an ardent youth, I delightedly watched it perched upon the top of a stake, on braiden, resting or preening its feathers. Old gunners speak of having seen several stakes occupied at a time by quite a party of these birds, their quest being the various fishers swimming over the flats that were at that time so little grown up, that water usually covered them even at low tide, or was absent but for a very short period. The grey mullet, Mujil Capito, was a favourite prey of the Cormorant. In Sir Thomas Brown's time, the Cormorants nested at Redham, upon trees whence King Charles I was want to be supplied. In Lubbock's time, it still nested around Frit and Decoy, in some years in numbers. In other years, not a nest was to be seen. They appear sometimes to have usurped the Heron's nest, but today neither Heron nor Cormorant are found there. The pageants refer to it as common. Tolerant as the large gulls are of the Spoonbill Society, they seem to draw the line at that of the Cormorant. When I saw a light on a flat in proximity to some two hundred gulls was bullied and fled from in turn by them with the utmost excitement, willing as the bird itself seemed to be to fraternise. The gulls eventually left it. A live Cormorant was brought to me in March 1900, and turned into a wide enclosure when it immediately mounted a heap of stones and made itself at home. In two or three days it recognised its fish basket, and in a week's time would catch its fish when thrown to it with remarkable accuracy, trumpeting its approval in strange harsh notes. Joey soon learnt to distinguish my voice and to judge of my intentions. He gave decided preference to whitenings, whiting heads being even more acceptable than cut-up flounders. Guernards were preferred to herrings. After having his fill he would hop onto a favourite stone and resume his usual occupation, meditating. If at one o'clock he was surfeted with some four or five whitenings, the tail of the last one still protruding from the corner of his bill for want of room, at two o'clock he was, like Oliver Twist, asking for more, and could easily swallow a couple of others. Digestion was remarkably rapid. Three to four pounds of fish were devoured daily. He did not vomit the bones of fish, as did my tame shag. His mill, indeed, grinding exceedingly small. I never saw him attempt to drink, although his plumage was kept clean and well-groomed, and a dropping of water after meals was always noticeable at his mandible tip. He did not protest, however, against water being thrown over him. In May the passing over of a cormorant, just within my vision, and his, greatly disturbed him, and he commenced and kept up for days a frequent hop round his establishment from stone to stone, and to a stunted tree-trunk carrying small faggots in his mandibles, as if suggesting to himself the delights of housekeeping. Seventeen were seen on the nineteenth of May, eighteen ninety-two, on Braden. How did they feed? Under ordinary conditions a bird needs all his faculties away can complete in order to get a respectable living, and one so unfortunate as to become maimed, or that is naturally malformed, must be seriously handicapped in the struggle for existence. In December 1883 I saw a hooded crow whose upper mandible overlapped its lower one, curving downward with a more decided bend than that of a cross-bills, the undemandable being normally shapen and responsible for the work of grubbing in those places where food had to be found when carrion was scant. The odd was a rook whose lower mandible was slightly elongated and peculiarly sharpened, in contrast to a singularly short upper member. Like the preceding bird it was shot in good plight, the malformation proving its downfall by attracting the attention of gunners. I have twice met with gulls with the upper mandible rounding off to a right angle and passing the lower one, namely an adult common gull in November 1891 and an immature herring gull in December 1900. For a number of days a large gull was observed flying about the vicinity of Yarmouth with a long piece of string depending from its mandibles. To this most probably was attached a hook that had become fast in its gullet. The bird could always be distinguished by this means even when flying amongst a flock of its fellows. It was a common sight when gunning was more profitably pursued owing to the greater number of birds frequenting braiden, to see dunlins or other small wading birds minus one leg hopping about on the remaining member, and as adroitly capturing sandhoppers and gamaridai as their unmutilated companions. And birds too, with parts or pieces of mandibles broken off by gunshots, were not infrequently shot, showing that, in spite of apparently disqualifying conditions, the unfortunate sufferers had outlived their mishaps and were still game for gaining a livelihood. On the 4th of October 1903 my attention was attracted by a bird several hundred yards away upon a flat. I turned my glasses upon it, and was for the moment inclined to imagine it a glossy ibis, of which species one had recently been shot. The face was black, giving the mandibles a singular appearance. Presently the bird opened its wings, and at once I could see by the markings it was a curlew. And by the odd way it hopped, I could see one leg was hopelessly shattered by a gunshot. The discoloration on the face was nothing else but mud that had besmeared it as, while probing for its prey, the bell was thrust still deeper into the mud by the poor bird's efforts to steady itself. The rapidity with which wounded limbs heal is remarkable, and it is equally astonishing how fractures and damages to limbs that would entirely incapacitate human beings do not vary apparently in convenience the bird, otherwise then in its pursuit of food. Surely pain must be felt in so highly organized a creature. The learned wit Birds are slow to change old habits, or for sake old horns, nor do they appear to be readily taught to profit by accidents. They lack, too, the faculty of observation, although usually very wary and ready to shun apparent dangers. Birds are seldom caught napping, and after a few repeated onslaughts by a gunner will give him some trouble to get a tolerably good shot at them in the open. Extreme exhaustion, however, makes many birds stupidly tame or indifferent when their natural weariness becomes conspicuous by its absence. In October 1890 a flock of starlings are lighted, tired and weary in the rigging of a light ship, when one of the hands deftly brought down one by a shot from a pea-rifle. The birds closed up, as the ranks of a regiment might do at the falling of a comrade. Thus one after the other, thirteen were rendered oars to combat, the survivors having meanwhile continuously closed up, as one and another dropped out. Suddenly, however, those remaining became alarmed and flew away. The ringed plovers, which from time immemorial have placed their nests on the North Beach, have not profited by the very untoward circumstances of latter years, and to this day the remnant of the native race attempts to settle here in the spring. As recently as the spring of 1902, two pairs of lesser turns, Sterna Mineuta, took a great fancy to the braid and mud flats, and from what I observed of their actions they were intent upon taking up nesting quarters on one of the highest flats near the ship drain, which is covered to-day only by the higher spring tides. They remained there well into June, when a higher tide than usual washed them entirely off the flat. I saw them afterwards, seemingly disconsolently feeding and hovering in the neighbourhood, having, apparently, become convinced that this was the end of the spring housekeeping and that they had made a mess of it. My attention was attracted one day in December 1890 by the strange rotary flight of a rook. In a most agitated fashion it mounted spirally to some distance. I covered it with my glasses, and saw presently a crab fall from it into a heap of furs below, to the very apparent relief of the bird, which shook itself and most gladly made off inland. It had undoubtedly pounced down upon the stranded crab, thinking to make an easy meal of it, but had instead tackled a very lively tartar indeed. The crustacean, as far as I could see, had grasped the rook by the neck in one of its pincer claws. A large gull and a heron were seen engaged in a regular combat on braided mud flats. The latter, who had secured an eel weighing a pound and a half, bravely warded off its antagonist, which now and then plucked tufts of feathers out of it. A gunner, drawing up unobserved, settled the dispute by shooting both birds. He secured the eel as well.  Very odd meals. Had with the long dreary flight across seas from his Norwegian home, a jack-door sought shelter and rest on board a light ship in the October of 1882. He was secured by one of the crew, and having had his wing clipped was allowed the freedom of the deck. He soon became a most amusing member of the crew, the Cook's Galley being his favorite resort. One day, while the men were at prayers, Jack discovered a big plum duff standing outside the cookhouse door to cool, and immediately set to work, picking out and devouring every raisin that could be seen sticking around it. The men apparently enjoyed the joke as much as the bird did the raisins. Called only, perhaps, from its disproportionate size, a full grown grey plover was found entire in the crop of a Glaucus gull shot in this locality. It was perhaps a wounded bird picked up on the seashore, or more probably a bird found floating dead on the sea. Such dead migrants often make a welcome meal to passing gulls. Mention is made in the zoologist, of a common gull shot on the ear, from whose mouth depended five tallow candles, the six having been almost entirely swallowed. The candles were of that sort used on board the fishing luggers some years ago, about ten inches in length with cotton wicks. It was suggested that the bird had snatched up the candles from the deck of a vessel, but the probability is that they had been accidentally dropped overboard, and they are discovered by the hungry creature. This and other gulls are by no means dainty as to their diet, being indeed omnivorous and apparently perfectly indifferent as to taste. I have seen the common gull in big squabbling flocks, hanging around the sewer-gratings at Dublin, pulling out refuse of the vilest description, fighting indeed for it. Nightlights, candle-ends, drowned mice, rats, kittens, and a hundred other forms of refuse floating up from the filthy water-side of a town, are all alike acceptable to the various species which congregate at the entrance of Braden. In the matter of eating, few birds trouble about the odd ingredients making their meals so long as a sufficiency is forthcoming. In June, 1891, when rowing up the beer, I was struck by the antics of a couple of starlings that were busily scrambling and fluttering up and down some bordered pilings, against which worries more to discharge cargoes of maul, gravel, and flints. By carefully getting into close proximity to the industrious birds, I could see that they were having a right royal time amongst the variously sized sea slaters, Ligia oceanica, that were sunning themselves on the warm, dry timbers. Equally fond of armadillos, armadillidium vulgari, locally known as sails, and their kindred, it used to be a frequent thing to see the starling grubbing about at the foot of gravestones in the old churchyard, pulling the grass away, indeed, in order to get at them. I noticed this when a mere lad, as I myself always found these spots afforded very comfortable shelter from the sun and weather, for snails and other vermin loved of my birds. The House Martin Of late years, from two obvious reasons, that delightful little bird, the House Martin, has become exceedingly scarce within the town precincts. Time was when its constant flitting to and fro was one of the common sights in our hot, dusty streets. Its merry chatter, as it flew overhead in fine weather, or kept low in rain time, its white rump conspicuously showing, calling attention to its passing. Its nests were known in several locations, particularly at a corner house, now demolished and replaced by a restaurant adjoining the Catholic Church. Also at the bank in the market place, and under the eaves of a tall house on Caster Road, at this latter place, to this day, one or two pairs still determinedly nest. And there were a number of other houses to be found, dotted with an odd nest or two. In the early mornings, in my boyish days, I used to watch the House Martins at the mud puddles in the middle of the Caster Road, pecking at the softened soil and kneading and preparing the material for their nests. But bad times came along. The sparrows, increasing beyond reasonable bounds, became more impudent, if it were possible, in like proportion, and among other appropriation, usurped many a little Martins nest, waiting usually until the domicile was well towards completion, and then driving out the builders. Immediately, the thieves set about dragging in what, to them, seemed the necessary furniture. Hey! bits of straw, extra feathers, and the like. An eviction is usually published by a slovenly outhanging of fluttering, pendant rubbish. How the new and unexpected tenants find room as the young sparrows grow is a mystery. Certain it is that the unprepared for weight occasionally brings down the whole structure, and the sparrows' housekeeping comes to an abrupt termination. It is not difficult to distinguish a sparrow that has nested in a stolen home, for it has a stumpy tile, due, of course, to abrasion against the hard cabin walls. The innovation, too, of watering the town roads with salt water, has added a new menace in the shape of spoiling the Martins' mortar. In the first place, the mud is salt, which must be noticed by the sense of taste, although it has not deterred the Martins from trying it. Again, it is very susceptible to changes in the temperature, and while it may remain hard and compact during hot dry weather, its consistency and strength are so impaired by a continuation of moisture that it becomes easily detached from the supporting wall, and down comes babies and cradle and all. Consequently, there has seemed a very apparent rush to the country, at least so it appeared to me, and I have wandered some miles around looking for nests and knots in vain. Nests are fortunately still fairly common in the villagers. In taking a ramble in 1890 to Morby, I came across a couple of cottages, in the gardens of which the Martins flitted about like so many bees around a hive. Under the eaves of one house, no less than twelve nests were attached, and the other had a similar number. A certain corner of the first house had been chosen, and the nests were literally built in flats. Three nests were erected under the eaves at one end, and in the angles below them two others were affixed. The place around was sunny and sheltered, and just the locality for harboring insect life. The Martins seemed to know and appreciate this, as did the inhabitants of the cottages, who were justly proud of the colony of birds, and righteously protected them. At one time I took in hand to count the number of nests in Yarmouth, in the heyday of their abundance, and among other facts I ascertained that, although the birds apparently choose sites facing east and north, opposite points of the compass exhibited almost an equal number of nests. Very hungry birds. The winter of 1890-91, set in early, most severe weather obtaining as early as the 26th of November, when a heavy snowstorm ushered in a considerable spell of it. Snowbuntings are bounded on the deans. Red wings on the 28th were busily hunting for berries on the snow-covered Hawthorns. The blackbirds and thrushes, hard up for Provinda, visited backyards in the town itself. Those burrowed into the stacks, starlings gleaned by the margin of the river. On the same date I saw numerous sandalings on the beach, birds that only visit us in any numbers in severe weather. A great many ducks were in the roadstead. Larks busy amongst the cabbages in town gardens were reducing the leaves to a bare skeleton work of ribs. I saw a hooded crow chasing a dunlin on Braden, losing them both in the distance. Another was seen to single out a dunlin from a flock, chase it down, and in a very few minutes had dismembered and eaten it. Gulls were seen to hunt down wounded dunlins. It is notorious that, when the hooded crow is hungry enough to follow the sportsman, he does not interfere with the dead birds, but invariably pursues the wounded. A Wily Birdcatcher The following entry is copied verbatim from an entry dated the 27th of December 1890. A Wild Day This morning was exceedingly wintry, wind east nor east. The wasteland now being converted into a new recreation ground, now building on, and which has been well sprinkled with town refuse, was swarmed by some five hundred black-headed gulls. They were not only sharp-set, but had found something in the shape of putrid herrings that might be seen sticking out of the snow in a very tempting fashion. No sooner were they disturbed and driven away from one spot than they settled on another. A number of starlings, sharing the spoil with the gulls, were constantly harassed by small boys with stones and steel-falls, and older boys with guns. Not far off here, under the lee of the mill, a Wily Birdcatcher, nicknamed Dutchess, Cubet, had spread a pair of clapnets made of herring lint, each twelve yards in length, by four in width. The ground had been brushed clear of snow and baited with herring refuse. His quest was gulls. He captured more than a hundred poor things, all of which, say fifteen that I procured from him alive, were killed for the paltry fourpence each he got for them from a skin dealer who sent them away for millenary work. The continuance of severe weather so hungered and tamed the poor creatures that they swarmed the river opposite the town hall, picking up food thrown into the water. They even flew up and down the marine parade, snatching up broken biscuits flung out to them by interested spectators. Of course many fell victims to the sporting tactics of cruel boys. On the twenty-ninth some were being trapped in steel-falls. A wash-tub and even a fish-trunk were seen in use, standing on edge, supported by a stick which could be pulled away by a long string. Many were taken by these rough downfall contrivances. Some were even taken on the south deans by lifting in a similar fashion the net spread there. On the seventeenth of February 1902 one man captured forty-six black-headed gulls and two common gulls. This same man, cubit by name, is a remarkably keen-witted fellow in the detecting of rare incisories and in their capture very fortunate. His largest catch of common linets in one day was 207 miles and an almost equal number of females, the latter he released as useless. In the Lapland year, 1892, he secured in all no less than five dozen Lapland buntings, calcareous laponicus. Of larks he captured nearly one hundred dozen one year and as many as forty dozen in one week. A common snipe passing over his nets in company with several starlings was pulled at and secured. One other interesting fellow is Wyre Quinton, a gaunt Robinson Crusoe sort of a man, who amongst other occupations tax on that of bird catching. During the rush of bramblings in 1895 he captured thirty at one pull of the net. During an invasion of siskins in December 1901 he observed a number of these birds on an old letters-bed. Borrowing a decoy bird he laid his nets early next morning and by breakfast time had netted ninety and by eleven o'clock no less than one hundred and forty. That rare or interesting bird which catches Quinton's eye, almost surely sooner or later, is invagalled into his nets, be it black cap, flycatcher, shorelark or seren finch. End of section five. Section six of Bird Notes of an East Coast Naturalist by Arthur Henry Patterson. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Bird Notes. Part six. Watching Wild Ducks. This title may be slightly misleading for the remarks that follow deal simply with the local habits of a certain few species. It would be difficult enough to attempt anything dealing with the general habits of these palmipedes, for whole volumes have been devoted to describing the life history of our British ducks. To my mind the most interesting of the local ducks is the common skoter, whose presence here offshore corresponds only with the advent and continuation of the severest weather. The Wigeon is without doubt the most abundant local species, dropping in in varying numbers every March. It is sometimes exceedingly numerous. Flocks of from five hundred to one thousand are not uncommon occasionally on Braydon, where the Wigeon grass, Zostera marina, which flourishes on the mudflats, affords an excellent supply of food. The birds most industriously drag it out of the muds for the sake of the white succulent stalks which are nibbled off and devoured. The slender leaves, left to float upon the surface, drift down on the ebb in great green patches. The Wigeon may be seen in the daytime napping and preening their feathers, occasionally varying these exercises by that of feeding. And they may be heard babbling in the dark, still busily pulling up the grass for their evening meal. An incessant cry of smear, smear, testifying to the satisfaction a goodly supply of Provinder affords them. The local gunners in the old days welcomed these merry gatherings of Smee as they named them from their cry. Today they congregate in peace. On the twentieth of April, nineteen hundred, at very low water, when the windings of the ship drain were mostly hidden by the edges of the flats, I twice unexpectedly sailed through a large flock, mostly miles. They rose as I dashed round a bend into their midst, and again as I doubled another, beyond which they had settled very shortly after my first intrusion. On the sixteenth of March, eighteen eighty-nine, I estimated the number of Wigeon on Braden had something like five thousand birds. The teal is becoming yearly scarcer. Golden eyes, plangular glossion, are common in hard weather. And with the tufted duck, fuligula cristata, and the scalp, fuligula marila, are known as hard weather fowl. The pochard, nicknamed the poker, is far less abundant than formerly on Braden, although in protracted winters I have known crowds to be seen in the open places on the frozen broads. In the severe weather of December, eighteen ninety, some pochards brought to Durant's stall were so hard-frozen, although freshly killed, that I balanced one on my hand on the tip of its bill, the tail and feet remaining straight up and immovable. An old gunner described the ducks, the old hard weathers, as blocking around the neighborhood by wagon-loads. To hear the worn-out gunners discourse upon the weather and the wild fowl of old days, one might suppose that of late winters have deteriorated in the matter of frost and snow, instead of occasional winters being severe as ever, with others open and mild between. It is natural they should, with that privilege allowed to increasing age, go on from imagining to believing that the old was altogether so different from the new. Still, wild ducks in ordinary seasons are scarcer, and there may be even something in the statement that since the decoys fell into disuse, wildfowl have fallen off in numbers, the feeding, the privacy, and other circumstances having also become matters of the past. In the old days, said a gunner to me, the ice formed on Braden four or five inches thick in as many days. This was when, even at low water, the majority of the flats still remained submerged, and by keeping a wake open near his houseboat, he used to have the fowl drop in right past the punt gun. He and others, although prices were low, used to earn three pounds and four pounds a week in hard weather. We get more wild ducks in Norfolk waters when the Baltic becomes frozen over. When it is otherwise, shipmasters tell us, parts of that sea are black with birds. One being asked, what was the greatest shot he ever made? An ancient Bradenner dryly remarked that he once laid at quite a thousand smee and other ducks and pulled a trigger when the gun missed fire. In the fifties, there followed the profession of wildfowler, a man who was, in his day, a mighty hunter. He was also a deep drinker, and not infrequently, after becoming stupidly intoxicated, would tumble into his punt, mechanically paddle upstream, and after making fast his craft to an ore stuck in the mud, fall asleep, to wake up sober in the morning. On one occasion he awoke to find himself smothered with snow, with ice formed around him, saving a wake in the drain a bit ahead of him. As he rubbed his eyes into wakefulness, he heard the babble of wild ducks that had gathered around him, unconscious of an enemy being so near. This sight effectually sobered him, and cautiously firing into them he made a good bag. Profiting by his environment and the eagerness of parties of birds to use the open water, he kept the game going, and at length found upon the ice on either side of him two small heaps of slain. This old man was subsequently drowned on Braden after a drunken spree. It is an exceptionally rare circumstance to see a duck of any species, unless slightly wounded, on the beach. I have seen, however, pretty plain evidence that some of the diving ducks do take a quiet sit-down on the beach at night, but they are so exceedingly wary that one can never actually find them there, the slightest footfall being enough to startle them, and only a few footprints or some droppings here and there remain to mark the spot. Young northerly winds are responsible for the rather rare appearance of the ider, somataria mollissima, and it is a fortunate one indeed that ever returns, for its tameness is taken advantage of by the Maristurgeon who can throw a stone with the slightest skill. On December 1883, one was killed in this manner on Braden by some mischievous boys, and another in the wash of the sea of Hemsby in November 1897. The shoveler is undoubtedly becoming more abundant, as many as sixty-five were observed in a flock on Braden on the 5th of March 1890. A few pairs of shelled ducks still nest on the northwest coast of Norfolk, and small casual flocks visit Braden. The greatest quantity I ever saw was during a thick rime frost in 1879, when an unusual number passed along the beach southwards, almost within arm's length. There really seemed to be hundreds. A flock of seventeen were seen on Braden in January 1897, the greater portion being killed in the course of two or three days. The shelled duck has much of the goose in its habits, and keeps a great deal out of the water, patrolling all over the flats, cleaning small mollusca and the young of the common-winkle. The Peregrine Falcon This, the noblest of our British Falcon ID, although always comparatively rare in this neighbourhood, is now one of our rarest autumnal visitors. A chance one occasionally drops in and makes his presence felt in the surrounding villages, and complaints are heard from one and another marshman that his ducks have suffered, or some pigeon fancier has a complaint to make. All its movements are characterised by a courage and dash that at least command the notice if not the admiration of those who meet with it. The broad men term it the Gamehawk, and some could tell of its boldness in chasing its quarry under the very noses of the angry owners. Lubbock, in his observations on the fauna of Norfolk, mentions the fact of a Peregrine striking at Coots disturbed by an approaching boat, killing two within a very short distance from the startled rower. A few years ago, when some sportsmen, unarmed at that moment, were gossiping on the beer walls near the market gardens, now built upon, they observed some ducks passing over seawards from Braden. Suddenly out from a tree dashed a Peregrine, and singling out a widgen it struck the bird which fell just over the hedge. Through the hedge one of the men scrambled, and appropriated the fowl ere the disappointed falcon could claim it for his own. On one occasion an old and noted punt-gunner, known as Silky Watson, was sculling up in a wake in the ice with intent to try a shot at a parcel of ducks asleep on the top of the ice on the edge of a flat. The gunner was, however, to be baffled, for at a most ticklish moment a Peregrine made a dash at the fowl. With precipitate haste they dived into the drain, rising at some distance ahead and so escaping. My informant would have repeated the broad Norfolk, made use of by the disappointed Watson, but well-knowing what a vocabulary the old school of Bradeners had at their command, even on ordinary occasions, I preferred to imagine it instead. Some years ago, during an exceptionally hard winter, Braden was pretty well covered with ice, except where here and there a creek kept open awake. In one of these openings several gunners were on the lookout for a shot at the fowl, which in numbers flew around overhead, anxious to feel the water beneath them. Presently a Peregrine loomed up and drove the fowl hither and thither. Suddenly from a great height he was seen to descend, and in a moment struck a fowl with such force that it was killed outright, falling from under him. To the surprise of the interested gunners the stricken duck fell with a thud upon the bottom boards of one of the punts. An exceptional circumstance this indeed, where a gunner has his game so neatly killed and retrieved, without any effort, on his part. Birds on a Game-Stall The late W. Durrant's Game-Stall in Yarmouth Market has for years been a resort of wildfowlers, sportsmen, and men not wishing to be recognised or known as either, but whose tastes brought them into contact with various creatures, the snaring or shooting of, which provides sport without much fear of trouble at the hands of the rural policemen. The stall has for many years been a most reliable gauge of the numbers and species of birds frequenting the locality at different seasons of the year. It had been my practice to watch this institution carefully, for there was usually something interesting to be seen, rarely a good bird to be discovered, and frequently a great display of victims during the prevalence of severe or stormy weather. Swans, wild geese, ducks, shorebirds, land birds were all mixed up together in rioters' confusion, and at times the boards literally creaked under their weight. A few lists made at sundry times may prove of interest. 8th of December 1890 Tufted ducks, several. Dab chicks, three. Golden-eye ducks, five. Buick swans, mature, two. Buick swans, immature, one. Short-horned owls, two. Red-throated diver, one. Duck and mellard, several. White-fronted goose, one. Water hens and coots, several. Snipe, several. Pochard and widgen, several. Kestrel, one. Goose sander, one. Curlews, two. Water riles, twelve. Barn owls, three. Numerous small birds, thrushes, etc. 29th of November 1890 240 dunlands, 47. Duck and mellard, 110. Full snipe, nine knots. Two swans, Buick. Fourteen plovers, various. Eleven woodcocks, 14 jack snipe. Three curlews, 39 larks. Fifty-two, thrushes and blackbirds, etc. Also, golden-eyes, a pin-tail, a bittern, and a godwit. During a few days' severe frost in the first half of December 1899, Durant had something like 650 common snipe on his stall. On the 16th, the figures of birds as culled from his notebook are sufficiently interesting to subjoin, and these, with those previously mentioned, may be taken as fair samples of many displays exhibited there. During the number of years, business was carried on by him. 16th of December 1899 336 dunlands, 20 coots, six dab chicks, 12 water riles, three golden plovers, one heron, 30 larks, 310 snipe, 10 mohens, 26 lap-wings, one goose sander, 80 blackbirds, one curlew, 32 duck and mellard, 90 half-fowl, being about equally divided between tufted ducks, widgen, and potchards. Three teal, three golden-eyes. Rain-beaten swifts On the afternoon of the 19th of July 1891, I witnessed a huge procession of swifts, by far the largest flock of this species I ever saw. They were flying from northeast to southwest, against a deluge of rain, with thunder working in an opposite direction, the sky being lighted up below the storm cloud. For this brighter spot, they were evidently heading. They appeared lumps of bedraggled feathers, and scarcely able to ply their wings. At the rate of 60 or 70 per minute, I computed some 2,000 birds must have passed in half an hour. A very similar incident occurred on Ormsby Broad, the August previous, when I and a friend were fishing. A terrific thunderstorm, and probably the heaviest downpour of rain I was ever caught in, had, as it were, drawn into its midst, a confused cloud of swifts, swallows, and martens. These were struggling towards the horizon, where there was an apparent break in the leaden skies. Whether they ever reached it, I am unable to say. It is probable that in such unexpected storms, many of these delicate birds perish. Their soaked plumage, at any rate, reduces them to sore straits. On one occasion I saw a gunner bring down a swift. Opening its mouth, I saw in its gullet a mass, quite a teaspoonful, of a species of small dipterous insect. The favourite item in its bill of fare is the St Mark's Fly, Bibio Marci. On the 13th of May the arrival of the first swifts is looked for, and the last of them in about the third or last week of August. The last of 1903 was observed on the 5th of September. The latest record I have of one scene was on the 25th of September, 1892. In August 1881 a spell of cold rains decimated the ranks of the swifts, which dropped into the streets, or flew, bedraggled and dying, into most unusual places. The wet cold summer of 1903 killed off the first brood. In most cases the chicks and the eggs perishing. In one local resort the owner of the house informed me that the old birds turned out the eggs which he found broken with the unhatched young on his doorstep. Unsociable Birds Some birds are exceedingly sociable in their habits, and delight under various circumstances not only to congregate in flocks of their own species, but to join in with those of others. The starling and the knot are particular instances. On the other hand certain birds do not court the society of their fellows, much less that of other species. They may not necessarily be rare, they are solitary rather, and unsociable. The purple sandpiper, Tringer Stryata, is an example. Its appearance is usually looked for in October, upon the beach. Very seldom indeed is it seen on Braden. And then only odd birds are found, industriously running along by the sea margin, utterly indifferent to the company of any other a vine rambler. It is a rare circumstance on our beach to find two together. The green sandpiper, Totanus Ocropus, and the fallow ropes are also usually met with singly. Stalking a Spoonbill The Spoonbill, Plata Lea, Blue Corodia, almost invariably visits us in springtime, seldom in winter. And whereas, prior to the innovation of the Protection Acts, its appearance on Braden meant an immediate opening of hostilities. Today, thanks to the presence of a watcher, so long as it remains in the vicinity of the mudflats, its safety is almost guaranteed. Unfortunately, odd birds will occasionally struggle to the marshes. And there, once marked down, a persistent visitation is almost certain to end in disaster. Such an ending overtook a Spoonbill on Barra Marshes as recently as the spring of 1902. In the Padgets List, the Spoonbill is thus remarked upon. A flock in the marshes in 1774, several killed in 1808, and two or three are generally shot every spring on Braden. The stalking of Wildfowl was never greatly in vogue, at least in recent years. In the early half of the nineteenth century, an occasional goose was approached by stalking it behind a borrowed horse, or ass, upon the allotments, but only in an extemporary and casual sort of way. On the sixteenth of September 1890, a Spoonbill visited Braden. On the nineteenth, it was killed on the marshes by a gunner, who, securing a horse by means of a halter, attempted, and with success, the old ruse of walking round in gradually lessening circles, hidden behind the animal. Before the bird had taken the alarm, he managed to get within easy distance, killing it at the first shot. Siberian pectoral sandpiper On the afternoon of the twenty-first of August, 1892, I took a stroll along the North Braden walls. When near the Triangle Pond, about half a mile up the estuary, I aspired a very nimble, pert sort of wader, erratically hunting along the margin. At a glance, I was satisfied it was a stranger, and my glasses made it out to be an unusual sandpiper. I laid flat on the grass, and could distinctly see its quest was the freshwater shrimp, which swarmed in great numbers all round the shallow edge of the pond. While trying to make out the identity of the bird, I was twice disturbed by a pony stallion that had been turned out on the marsh, its persistent capering and prancing around me, making it necessary for me to save myself probably from a kick, to chase the brute away. This performance naturally put the bird to flight, but, to my surprise, it flew out over Braden in a half-mile circle, and actually came back and settled in the same spot again. I had a capital view of it, and on reference to Saunderser's Manual, decided it to be a pectoral sandpiper. The bird, unfortunately being shot shortly after, confirmed my finding, for it was identified as Tringer Accuminata, the Siberian pectoral sandpiper. Irregular Migrants Under ordinary conditions there are certain species of birds visiting this locality year by year, in greater or lesser numbers. We look for their appearance as regularly as the season comes round. These include flocks of larks, rooks, hooded crows, siskins, gold-crested wrens, woodcocks, and some others. Other species are erratic in their visits, years intervening sometimes between a noticeable immigration and a reoccurrence of the species. They then probably surprise us by their numbers. The summer invasion of the palaces Sandgrouse in 1863 and the spring eruption of 1888 are cases in point. The Lapland Bunting was formally looked upon as a rare visitant to Norfolk, so much so that Stevenson's remarks upon it are worth repetition. On the 26th of January 1855, during extremely severe weather, a specimen of this very rare bunting was taken alive at Posek near Norwich. This bird, probably the first ever known to have occurred in this county, was brought to me soon after its capture and proved to be a young male in winter plumage. Some remarks upon its characteristics in confinement follow, and Stevenson continues, the only other Norfolk specimen of this bunting I have either seen or heard of was shown to me on the 14th of April 1862. In October and November 1892, a considerable number were seen, trapped and shot, more than fifty being secured by net and gun. It happened that a bird catcher who was set for snow buntings secured an example, and being curious at the peculiarity of its markings made inquiries with the result that it was identified. It was discovered that the lap-land bunting was quite a boon companion of the commoner species, consorting with it in some numbers, and the rare birds, hitherto supposed to be badly marked females or young, had met with scant notice. One wily bird catcher, after this identification, made it a practice to seek for the species, and having distinguished a difference in its call-note, took particular pains to ensnare every bird possible, until it became accounted absolutely common, and its marketable value came down to between one shilling and two shillings apiece. A similar history attaches to the shorelark, which, prior to 1876, was considered a great variety. An educated sportsman shooting into a flock of snow buntings, with which the species consorts from choice, discovered, and afterwards confirmed his convictions, that it was almost a yearly visitant, sometimes arriving in considerable numbers, as in October 1880, and again in the winter of 1882, when sixty, mostly miles, were obtained. Stevenson says, the first recorded specimen of the shorelark in Norfolk, and probably the first ever recognised in England, is the one, thus, referred to, quoting Yarrow. This specimen was obtained at Sherringham in March 1830. Several were obtained before the publication of the Birds of Norfolk. These, Stevenson takes pains to enumerate and attach dates, considering the occurrences sufficiently rare to warrant this. An arrival of mealy redpolls in November 1893, was a marked feature of that year, when scores were netted. The brambling occurred in large flocks in the winter of 1885, and again in that of 1894-95, when many dozens were trapped. A bird catcher, who discovered the bird's partiality for certain districts, cleared the ground of snow, and daily baited it with various seeds. So many poor little things were taken, that they were sold alive at a penny and tuppence apiece in the open market. Unusual quantities of siskins arrived in the winter of 1900. A bird catcher, observing a number frequenting an old lettuce bed, borrowed a tame siskin for a decoy bird, and laid his net early in the morning. By breakfast time he had netted ninety, and by eleven o'clock he had secured one hundred and forty, which he assures me he sold at one shilling each mile, and tuppence each female. End of section six