Birds of Town and Village | Page 9

field of buttercups. It was a very bright
day, and the bird going from me with the sunshine full on it, appeared
entirely of a shining, splendid green. Never had I seen the kingfisher in
such favourable circumstances; flying so low above the flowery level
that the swiftly vibrating wings must have touched the yellow petals; he
was like a waif from some far tropical land. The bird was tropical, but I
doubt if there exists within the tropics anything to compare with a field
of buttercups--such large and unbroken surfaces of the most brilliant
colour in nature. The first bird's mate appeared a minute later, flying in
the same direction, and producing the same splendid effect, and also
green. These two alone were seen, and only on this occasion, although I
often revisited the spot, hoping to find them again.
Now, the kingfisher is blue, and I am puzzled to know why, on this one
occasion, it appeared green. I have, in a former work, Argentine
Ornithology, described a contrary effect in a small and beautiful
tyrant-bird, Cyanotis azarae, variously called, in the vernacular,
"All-colored or Many-colored Kinglet." It has a little blue on its head,
but its entire back, from the nape to the tail, is deep green. It lives in
beds of bulrushes, and when seen flying from the spectator in a very
strong light, at a distance of twenty or thirty yards, its colour in
appearance is bright cerulean blue. It is a sunlight effect, but how
produced is a mystery to me. In the case of the two green kingfishers, I
am inclined to think that the yellow of that shining field of buttercups
in some way produced the illusion.
Why are these exquisite birds so rare, even in situations so favourable
to them as the one I have described? Are they killed by severe frosts?
An ornithological friend from Oxfordshire assures me that it will take
several favourable seasons to make good the losses of the late terrible
winter of 1891-92. But this, as every ornithologist knows, is only a part
of the truth. The large number of stuffed kingfishers under glass shades
that one sees in houses of all descriptions, in town and country, but
most frequently in the parlours of country cottages and inns, tell a
melancholy story. Some time ago a young man showed me three
stuffed kingfishers in a case, and informed me that he had shot them at
a place (which he named) quite close to London. He said that these

three birds were the last of their kind ever seen there; that he had gone,
week after week and watched and waited, until one by one, at long
intervals, he had secured them all; and that two years had passed since
the last one was killed, and no other kingfisher had been seen at the
place. He added that the waterside which these birds had frequented
was resorted to by crowds of London working people on Saturday
afternoons, Sundays and other holidays; the fact that hundreds, perhaps
thousands, of pairs of tired eyes would have been freshened and
gladdened by the sight of their rare gem-like beauty only made him
prouder of his achievement. This young man was a cockney of the
small shop-keeping class--a Philistine of the Philistines--hence there
was no call to feel surprise at his self-glorification over such a matter.
But what shall we say of that writer whose masterly works on English
rural life are familiar to everyone, who is regarded as first among
"lovers of nature," when he relates that he invariably carried a gun
when out of doors, mainly with the object of shooting any kingfisher he
might chance to see, as the dead bird always formed an acceptable
present to the cottager's wife, who would get it stuffed and keep it as an
ornament on her parlour mantelshelf!
Happily for the kingfisher, and for human beings who love nature, the
old idea that beautiful birds were meant to be destroyed for fun by
anyone and everyone, from the small-brained, detestable cockney
sportsman I have mentioned, to the gentlemen who write books about
the beauties of nature, is now gradually giving place to this new
one--that it would be better to preserve the beautiful things we possess.
Half a century before the author of "Wild Life in a Southern Country"
amused himself by carrying a gun to shoot kingfishers, the inhabitants
of that same county of Wiltshire were bathed in tears--so I read in an
old Salisbury newspaper--at the tragic death of a young gentleman of
great distinction, great social charm, great promise. He was out
shooting swallows with a friend who, firing at a passing swallow, had
the misfortune to shoot and kill _him._
At the present time when gentlemen practise a