WAYS OF THE - WATER-HEN.
T .D0 not know when or from whom certain wild creatures received their names, but -these are in the main singularly well chosen. -How, for. i instance, could such birds as the Windhover, the Coracrake, or the Cock- of-the-Woods, i.e., the Capercailzie, have been more appropriately styled ? Each of these in a ;single .expression suggests the bird in its true setting, but how -the moorhen ever came to be so called passes understanding. True, she is -occasionally known as the " water-hen," and, more or less locally, as the " dip-chick " (quite -distinct from the dab-chick, which is the little grebe), -but to the-vast majority of people she is the moorhen, and nothing else. This is -entirely unaccountable, for nowhere, is the species less in. evidence than upon the moors, unless, as sometimes happens, the expression is erroneously applied-to grazing- marshes and low-lying, swampy country, such as Sedgemoor, for example, where tidal streams.and. innumerable " rhinos " and 'irrigation ditches constitute a veritable paradise for waterfowl of every description. No, the moorland streams, in general too rapid even for the kingfisher, offer little inducement to -the water-hen. Still, dark .pools, or long, deep-flowing :reaches she must have, wherever her haunt may be, also banks well-blinded with shrubby growth, or reed-heds that afford plenty of skulking room. Heavy cover is, above all else, essential . from her point of view, for she is incapableof prolonged flight or long immersion. Thus open streams, whose banks are screened with nothing more than ling or bilberry growth, do not afford her sufficient protection. A mill-pond, beside which sword reeds. grow, or even a quiet little dead-water pool, encircled with willow -or alder scrub, is better suited to her needs than the wildest mountain river. Indeed, so placed, she is only too well content to leave upland waters with all their uoquestionable advan- tages to .the grebes and dippers, er.-anybody else who can make use of them.
Though easily reconciled to semi-domesticated conditions, as evidenced by the ridiculously tame birds which can be -seen in the London parks or upon almost any ornamental lake, few creatures are wilder than the moorhen in her natural setting. Being principally a night-feeder, she Lurks for the greater part of the day in the shadow of some low-growing willow, and her main consideration, it would seem, is to escape notice. When possible, she selects a perch literally overhanging the water, and at the first sound of a footstep—if she believes herself unseen—she dives, or rather slides off, into the all-protecting element with scarcely a sound or a ripple to betray her. That is the last seen of her by the casual observer, who passes on, concluding that she is remaining under water like a fish. Not so, however. Even the otter cannot do that, and in such a case the moorhen and he employ similar tactics. Swimming deep, she leaves no wave to indicate her course, but by noting the direction in which her head points when diving, one can get some idea as to where to look out for her. Within a few seconds she will rise silently to the surface, in some dark corner, perhaps under a hover, or, more likely still, deep within the friendly sedges. And there, unless discovered, she will stay until the danger is over, with perhaps no more than her head showing above water. The latter, by the way, is a favourite position of hers when she wishes to see without being seen. The little dark head, despite the scarlet shield, very easily passes for a floating leaf, and she will swim considerable distances without showing one inch of the long neck which would inevitably attract attention. A friend of mine, when rabbit-stalking one evening beside a lake in his grounds, noticed a small dark sot moving slowly across the water. Mistaking this for a rat s head, he tried, a. shot at it with the little rook rifle which he was using, and, being one of the best rifle-shots of his day, scored a hit. The dead " rat " rose at once to the surface, and, sad to relate, proved to be a moorhen.
Cover, again, is essential to this bird when choosing a site for her nest, but in this respect she sometimes displays not a little originality. One always looks for it, of course, amongst the sedges or bulrush entanglements, and there, as a rule, it will be found, more often than not out of reach from the bank. Low, overhanging bushes, bundles of driftwood, and fallen boughs partly submerged are freely used, but the most remarkable case I have ever heard of occurred on the Tees last year.
In a fir-tree, a gunshot back from the river bank, a wood-pigeon nested and laid her eggs. These, though observed, were incubated without mishap, and the young birds duly flew. Later on, when passing the place, the narrator was surprised to see that some bulkier structure had been erected on the same site. Indeed, the pigeon's nest had served as the foundation for another, and this upon inspection was found to be that of a moorhen, con- taining five eggs. It was a curious nest, being built entirely of red-hot poker leaves, gathered, presumably, from some pleasure-grounds near by : but the most peculiar thing about it was its unusual height above ground—a matter of some twenty-five feet. And here an interesting problem arose. Young moorhens take to the water as soon as hatched, being self-feeders like all their order. How, in this case, would they get there ? But that question, unfortunately, remains unanswered, for the descent was accomplished, as such things usually are done, when nobody was there to observe the manner of doing. There was only the empty nest upon which to conjecture, but nothing suggested tragedy. A Devonshire lady recently watched the construction of a moorhen's nest, which, she said, was built with remark- able address and rapidity. There was none of that laborious care and patience—one straw to-day and another to-morrow sort of thing—which for some reason we always associate with nest-building. On the contrary, the entire process occupied barely two hours, both birds taking part in the work with a will. The nest was, apparently, a second venture, made to replace an earlier one which had been disturbed, and therefore forsaken, for, when it was com- pleted, the female, after disappearing for a while, returned with a young brood, one or two of which at once scrambled into the new abode. The latter incident, indeed, is the most interesting part of the story, destroying the natural assumption that the nest was intended to contain a second clutch, and suggests that the first home is not immediately forsaken when the young take to the water, but serves, possibly, as a roosting-place when natural enemies are numerous. The dip-chick breeds early, usually laying her coffee- coloured, brown-spotted eggs by the end of April. These number anything from seven to twelve, but in the case of a second clutch, laid some time during July, not so many. The nest is a clumsy affair, made of the everlasting bul- rushes with a lining of coarse grass or leaves. But to this rule, as to all others, exceptions occur, and I have seen at least one nest built almost entirely of twigs. An experiment which might have proved exceedingly interesting was tried upon the Clyst a few years ago. Some new-laid eggs of the mallard were procured and substituted for those of a water-hen who was about to sit. It was successful so far in that she actually fostered these changelings for upwards of three weeks, after which, becoming suspicious of the long incubation, she ejected them.
The dangers with which these birds have to contend, particularly during the breeding season, are numerous. Large as the broods originally are, they dwindle rapidly, and only a very low percentage of the chicks that actually chip shell reach maturity. On waters where pike abound they stand little chance ; the heron and the otter deem them fair game, no doubt, not to mention the eternal rat; while every schoolboy who prowls the river banks in early summer appears to hold similar views regarding their eggs. Here, speaking for bird life in general, it might be worth while to remark that the one evil which has accompanied the growing popularity of nature study amongst all classes is the greatly increased number of thoughtless and injudicious collectors. One welcomes the movement whole-heartedly. It is full of possibilities. But, until young enthusiasts are taught to temper keenness with some consideration for the birds whose eggs they seek, it will defeat its own ends.
Moorhens who breed in the vicinity of human habitations have yet another enemy, little suspected of such practices. Last summer, when passing a large wayside pond in the Otter Vale, which is wonderful country for waterfowl, my companion and I noticed a domestic duck struggling with something which we concluded to be a frog. She experi- enced some difficulty in bolting the captive, and, getting nearer, we saw that it was no frog but a very tiny dip- chick, who seemed strongly to resent being swallowed. Before anything could be done, however, the poor little blackamoor vanished down the capacious maw ; where- upon the duck, no whit satisfied, swam off to a far corner of the pond where, under some drooping alders, we now saw an adult water-hen with three more chicks behind her.
Their plight was obvious. Ordinarily the alder-tips would have sheltered them, but the water had shrunk to so low a level that the bushes, instead of reaching almost to its surface, now waved a clear two feet above it, while the bank was too steep to allow the chicks to climb out and seek cover. The duck doubtless intended to have the lot. The mother, however, had something to say about that, and she, very properly, went for the cannibal with all the pluck said pertinacity of a barn-door hen. Needless to add, our sympathies were entirely with the moorhens, and, before any further damage could be done, a few bricks, judiciously pitched, settled the matter pro tem. So far as my personal observation goes, the dip-chick makes little use of her wings, seldom resorting to flight unless compelled. Her long, strong legs enable her to run considerable distances, and this faculty stood her in good stead during the long drought in 1921, when aquatic birds and beasts were put to exceptional distress. Of these none suffered more severely than the moorhen, and she might then have been seen straddling about on the fellows, grubbing like a rook, and, in fact, almost anywhere where one would least expect to meet her. Ordinarily she subsists upon the teeming insect life found amongst aquatic vegeta- tion, shoots of the green water-weed, small fishes, and slugs in great numbers. In search of the latter she enters gardens and roams far afield over the water-meadows under cover of twilight, thus, in some districts, incurring considerable danger from foxes, who hunt river-banks assiduously after sundown. The curious, unmistakable cry of the moorhen—a croak, some people call it—is one of the most familiar and characteristic sounds on the marshes. There are more musical voices, but, as the cries of water-birds go, it is unusually soft and by no means unpleasing. It may be heard at all times of the day or night, but it is most noticeable about dusk, when the birds are seeking their
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