never trust the other sort. The best way to do with them is to get a good hold with both hands above, and kick them hard. If they break off there is no fear of your using them on the way down (when you can’t always see where your feet are going), and if they stand kicking they are pretty sound, though not to be trusted with your whole weight. In fact wherever you are you should always have one good hand-hold in case anything gives way; and up amongst the top branches keep one arm round the main one, especially when you are transferring eggs from nest to box.
In a rookery the branches are never too thin to bear your weight, or a man’s for that matter, for the Rooks know just as much about rotten branches as we do, and more. So you never need be afraid to go to any Rook’s nest, if your head will stand it; but the straighter up the branch goes, the better, as if your foot slips you don’t slip out into space.
Swarming up a bare trunk uses muscles that don’t often come into play, but anyone can do it with practice. The first Sparrow-hawk’s nest I ever found was in a Scots fir with no branches for about 30 feet, and thicker than any I had tackled before; but the bark was good, and I managed to get up 10 feet or so before I had to give in. I wanted that nest, so I tried the next day and the next, in fact I probably had seven or eight goes at the tree, and each time I got a foot or two higher, until at last I managed to reach the first branch, and the nest. Even then there were no eggs in it, and several more visits were needed before I got my egg; but I never had much trouble in shinning up after that first time.
Probably the most annoying tree to climb is a tall larch, beloved of Magpies, covered with little dead branches, none of which will bear you, and all of which have to be broken off as you go up. You begin by breaking off as many as you can reach with your stick, and then climb as far as you can, stripping the tree as you go. Next you slide down again (slowly) and lie on your back awhile, surveying your handiwork. When you feel better, up you go again and break off some more. This time you ought to reach the first sound branch, but if you feel you are losing the grip with your legs, come down and repeat. I once grasped that first sound branch just as my knees refused to grip any longer, and it wasn’t so sound as it looked. I never came down a tree quicker, and with all those little broken stumps it wasn’t only my trousers that were torn to ribbons.
I once got to a Magpie’s nest in a tree like that by climbing a tall thin spruce that was conveniently near and getting a good swing on till I was able to catch hold of the other tree and step across. This trick is not hard, but needs some judgment in letting go of the first tree. That reminds one of a Carrion Crow’s nest in a pollard willow down in the Fens. The tree was very old and hollow all the way up, but round the crown were branches as big as young trees. Most of these came out at the side and turned straight up, and would not have borne a man for a minute, and the nest was in one of them; so although there was a nice soft river to fall on I felt like giving it up, till I spotted one slim branch that grew straight up from its base and stood well above the nest. I went up that one and persuaded it to bend the right way till I could get my hand into the nest. So you see there are sometimes other ways of getting to a nest than the first that strikes you.
I have said nothing about climbing irons because I don’t think much of them. I may have been unfortunate in those I have tried, but they certainly were much better for telegraph poles than for trees with bark on, not to mention a nasty wound in the leg I gave myself with one of them. Also I don’t think they are very safe on a really big tree, and you should be able to manage a moderate one without them.
Rocks and Ruins.—Rocks and ruins are a very different proposition from trees, and a fair number of grown-up men break their necks every year rock-climbing. So my advice to boys is “let them alone.” But birds build their nests in them, and where the nests are boys are sure to go, so I had better give a few hints on how to take care of yourselves.
First of all study the climb before you start, just as you do with a difficult tree; then when you have started, come back again rather than go round a corner or across a gap if there is any doubt about getting back the way you came. And for goodness sake don’t be too proud to turn back; you’ll get lots of chances of showing your pluck without risking your neck. You will often find things very different up there from what they looked like from below.
If you are climbing down from the top, which I hope you won’t do often, turn your face to the cliff; and beware of a slope that gets steeper as you go down.
Never go up a crumbling cliff higher than you care to fall; and don’t trust a stone embedded in earth so that you can’t see its real shape. And above all things don’t have anyone climbing above you, or climb above anyone else; that is the very worst thing you can do. I was nearer death once in a quarry in the Cotswolds than I ever was in the Great War, through a friend up above sending down a big piece of rock—and all for a few Jackdaws’ eggs!
Ruins are not so treacherous as rocks, and it is easier to judge distances from below by the size of the stones, but they make very nasty climbing for all that. You generally have only fingers and toes to support you, and on a perpendicular face it’s a case of one slip and down you go, with generally a heap of loose stones to land on. So let them alone if you can, and if you can’t, be cautious.
There is just one time when you may try fancy tricks on a cliff or wall-face; and that is when you are certain to fall into deep water, always supposing you can swim, of course.
Have nothing to do with ropes, unless you are with a man who really understands the business.
$ 6. WHAT NOT TO DO.
“Don’t” is a word schoolboys hear far too much of, but it has figured in all good advice since the Ten Commandments, and you must forgive me for using it rather freely here. I am going to tell you your duty towards the birds, the farmer, the keeper, and yourself.
Birds.—Your duty towards the birds is to upset them as little as possible. Most of them are afraid of you to start with, but try not to make matters any worse. Therefore—
Don’t take more than one egg as a rule. No collection wants two eggs of the same type, though you may have a score of different Blackbirds’ eggs, say, and still have hopes of a new variety. But when the bird only lays two eggs, leave them if she has begun to sit, and take them both if they are fresh; for then she will soon lay again, and it is hardly fair to make her spend all her time on bringing up a single chick. And how dull it must be for the young one!
Of course if you found the famous clutch of 18 Blue-tits’ eggs in a small hole it would be your duty to take about half of them, and save that family from the horrors of the Black Hole of Calcutta, for most of them would be smothered for certain.
Don’t take an egg that is nearly hatched, for you will never get it blown decently. You can tell if most light-coloured eggs are fresh, by simply holding them up to the light, when you can see the yolk shining through; but the unfailing test is to put the egg into water. A fresh egg lies flat at the bottom, but as hatching goes on an air-bubble forms at the broad end, which gets bigger and bigger as the chick develops; and in a few days the egg will stand on its point at the bottom, then it rises to the top, and the longer it has been sat upon the more of it shows above the water. If it only floats like a sponge, just touching the surface, you can blow it easily. In marshy ground, or even in a damp ditch, you can often get enough water to test an egg by simply digging your heel well in, when the hole you have made will soon fill. If the one you try is very far gone, you may as well test them all. If there is an addled egg it may float, but will not bob up like the others.
Don’t think that a nest is deserted simply because the eggs in it are cold. They always are cold until the bird has laid her
