A. SOUTH DEVON VALLEY.—CHANGES IN THE BIRD LIFE. T HE last
forty years have seen considerable alterations in the human population of our valley. The permanent residents have increased, especially in and near to our little town, and the visitors both of summer and winter are far more numerous than in former days. There has also been a change in the proportions of the species under which we classify ourselves. Villa residents are multi- plying more rapidly than the wage-earners, and of the latter, the number of workers on the land is less rather than greater than it was forty years ago. One can assign causes for all these differences in the human population, but to give convincing reasons for the alterations in the bird life of the valley is far more difficult. The facts are evident and indisputable, but their why and wherefore could be argued on ad infinitum. For example, why did the buzzards leave and why did they return ? When the present writer was young they were but a memory, and he used to look with interest at the glass case which contained " the last buzzard trapped in the parish." It was about fifteen years ago that a pair nested in a wood of Scotch firs belonging to a large landowner, and strict injunctions were given that they should not be disturbed. Soon afterwards a few more pairs made their way back to the higher valleys, and they too were welcomed. Now, those who know where to seek for them may on a spring morning have the pleasure of seeing several pairs of the birds sailing with almost motionless wings high in the sky.
One observer in 1920 watched the East Combe pair met by their neighbours from Middle Combe, and as the four birds were wheeling together a third couple came at a great height from the northward, beyond our watershed, and joined them.
Yes, the buzzards seem to.be well established, and some are even within a mile of the town now and then. If they could but learn how to avoid rabbit traps, their numbers should increase more rapidly, but they are singularly incautious and have been known actually to pounce on an open gin set for a rabbit, while a trap baited for a crow anywhere in the neighbourhood of the buzzard's nest is most likely to catch the hawk. They were common enough some seventy years ago, one gathers, then became extinct, and now are back again. Peregrines, formerly very rare, are now among our residents, though far less numerous than the buzzards. These peregrines are very jealous of their eyries and hunting ground. They rarely forage inland, and each pair seems to claim as many miles of cliff as it can possibly hold. But of late the old-established settlers, miles tc the east and west of our valley, on low but precipitous headlands, seem to have ceded the middle territory to twc more couples. One of them haunts the cliffs east and west of the esplanade, generally passing from one to the other by a detour over the sea, but sometimes the birds can be seen high over the town " taking the air," as the falconers call it, sailing, wheeling, and stooping for the mere joy of flying. Of course, it is but rarely that they are noticed, for who walks in a town with his gaze directed towards those upper regions where the falcons play ? Only, maybe, the scattering of a flock of jackdaws or the clamour of some rooks causes us to look upward and see what is the mattes with them—and then one may discern the outline, as of a bent crossbow, against the blue, the sickle-shaped wings. the short neck, the finely moulded tail of the peregrine falcon.
The ravens also are more numerous than formerly. One pair has established a right to a site within half a mile of the esplanade—at least, they have now two years' occu- pation to assert against other claimants—and friendly human beings go up the cliff path, lie on their fronts on the turf beyond the protecting line of railings, and peer over the edge to see how the young birds are progressing. One observer succeeded in photographing the nest, but it was rather a ticklish operation. Some one held on to his legs while he focused the camera, lest perchance he might overbalance and " go out over." That is our local euphuism for being killed by a fall from the cliff edge, and is used indiscriminately for men, cattle, and dogs. " That is the place where Mr. Paracombe's bullock, or Mr. Wilson's spaniel, or young James Smith went out over," is a remark one hears with quite uncomfortable frequency—and rare indeed it is that the fall is not a fatal one.
• The majority of our larger birds were probably present in much the same numbers forty years ago as they are now, but some have become much scarcer, among them the magpies. Of these there are not so many in the whole valley as there used to be in any single parish. Just here and there one sees the big, well-built nest, but even the nests, which last for years, are not common. This is not due to game preserving, for the district abounds with carrion crows, sparrow-hawks, and owls of three species. No ; for some unknown reason the magpies have decided to go elsewhere. Partridges, too, have become so few in numbers that no one thinks it worth while to go shooting on September 1st in an ordinary year, when the few coveys that still exist will be in or near standing barley. Forty years ago September 1st was a day to be marked, and though the hill-top birds were clever at flying out to safety in the cliffs when flushed, still a fair number could be obtained. Then came a succession of bad breeding seasons, and much of the arable land was laid down to grass, so that now there are fewer shot in the whole year than formerly in a single week. Pheasants, genuinely wild pheasants, have replaced partridges to some extent. " Consule Planco "--i.e., when muzzle-loaders were used, the call of a cock pheasant would send some men home for their gun and spaniel ; now it is too frequently heard to excite even the boy sportsman. When the big guns are being fired at sea off Portland or The Start, and the distant boom rolls up the valley, the cocks challenge the strange sound and call to one another before the echo has died away. The prettiest of all the sights and most sweet of all the sounds which follow the increase of our birds are the flocks of goldfinches in the autumn and winter, and their delightful song and mellow call notes in the spring. Up two of our lesser valleys, where gardens and orchards have spread, the goldfinches can now be reckoned almost by the dozen. We can rely on hearing six pairs along some half- mile of road in more than one direction. " They arc as common as sparrows in the Springcombe Valley," said one of the residents. Villa gardens suit the goldfinches, and villa gardens multiply around our town. A more rare and local bird, the cirl bunting, comes now to South Devon in abundance. In a neighbouring and larger valley they are so plentiful that they are reported to exceed the yellow-hammers in numbers, and during the last few years they have also colonized our district more thoroughly. In place of a few scattered pairs one can now reckon on seeing them in many places ; in fact, wherever there is the combination of an arable field or two and a good hedge near a road and some elm-trees. Then they have all they need : the road to dust in, the fields for food, hedges for their nests, and a tree for the male bird to perch on and reel off his somewhat Tattling song. This is of a less dreary kind than the average song of the bunting tribe, which always appears to the writer as being like the utterance of a bird afflicted with depression of spirits. The song of the corn bunting is the worst, more dreary than the notes of the yellow-hammer ; and even the reed bunting, who does possess some musical notes, never conveys to him any sense of the joy of singing. The cirl buntings do not nest above the 300 ft. contour line, the height approximately to which our elm-trees extend, and on the hill-top plateau the yellow-hammers are the only buntings found. What the reasons for this dislike of the higher altitude on the part of the cirl buntings may be one cannot say. The hill-top country is the chosen home of our woodlarks, and of them we are quite proud, for they come to us in numbers early in each year, and stay so late that we can regard them as permanent residents, though their numbers vary considerably from month to month. It is hard to say whether they have increased in numbers, or whether it is we who note what a former generation disregarded—the frequent appearance and the charming song of this most attractive little bird. They may have been numerous and yet unnoticed, but our impression is that they too are every year extending their range, and also that more and more people are learning to recognize them and to listen with pleasure to their strange and liquid notes.
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