British Sea Birds

GUILLEMOT

Of all the various sea birds that cluster on the cliffs of Albion this species, the Uria troile of most modern ornithologists, is by far the commonest, and of the present family of birds the most widely distributed. During summer it may be met with in colonies of varying numbers, here and there on most of our rocky coasts, from the Scilly Islands to the Shetlands, from Flamborough Head in the east to the Blaskets in the west. Not, perhaps, so familiar to the sea-side wanderer as the Gull, whose ærial habits bring it more frequently into notice, the Guillemot, nevertheless, is a seldom absent feature of marine bird life. It is gregarious and social at all times, but joins into greatest companies during the season of reproduction. When the nesting season has passed the birds spread themselves more generally along the coast and out at sea, and it is at such times that they are most ubiquitous. Between October and March the Guillemot may often be met with swimming close in shore, in quiet bays, and especially in the neighbourhood of fishing villages. On these occasions it is not particularly shy, and will allow a sufficiently close scrutiny, but it is ever wary, diving at the least alarm, and appearing again well out of danger. The Guillemot swims well and buoyantly; it also dives with remarkable agility, and obtains most of its food whilst doing so. The Guillemots are rarely seen upon the land after the young have quitted their birthplaces; they spend their entire time upon the sea, seeking shelter during rough weather in bays or under the lee of headlands, but not unfrequently great numbers perish in a gale, their dead bodies strewing the coast where the tide has cast them ashore. Except during the breeding season the Guillemot flies very little, but during that period it often feeds far from its rocky haunts, and may then be seen, especially at eventide, flying in little bunches, or in compact flocks, swiftly and silently just above the waves, returning to them. The food of this bird is almost exclusively composed of fish, especially such small species as pilchards and sprats; it is also extremely partial to the fry of the herring and the pollack. Few birds are more expert at catching fish than the Guillemot; it dives after them, and chases them beneath the surface with marvellous speed and unerring certainty. In this chase of fish it sometimes comes to grief by getting entangled in the drift-nets. The Guillemot is a remarkably silent bird. I have repeatedly been amongst thousands of these birds, both at sea and on the rock stacks where they breed, and the only sound I have ever heard them utter is a low, grunting noise. My experience has been chiefly confined to the earlier part of the breeding season, and the autumn and winter months. It would appear, though, that when the young are partly grown the birds become more noisy, for Gätke describes their cries at the breeding-stations as a “confused noise of a thousand voices, the calls of the parent birds – arr-r-r-r, orr-r-r-r, err-r-r-r, and mingled with these the countless tiny voices of their young offspring on the face of the cliff – irr-r-r-idd, irr-r-r-idd – uttered in timid and anxious accents.” I should here remark that the Guillemot never flies over the land, never flies inland from the rocks, but always when disturbed unerringly makes for the sea, which is almost, if not quite, as much its element as the air.

The actions of the Guillemot are interesting enough upon the sea, few sights being prettier than a number of these birds busily engaged in capturing their finny food; but the most attractive scenes in the life of this bird are to be witnessed at its breeding places. Formerly these were much more numerous than is now the case, especially in England, but there, on the southern coast line notably so, many a large colony has disappeared for ever, and many another has been sadly reduced in numbers. The distribution of the Guillemot becomes much more local during summer, the birds crowding in vast numbers to certain time-honoured spots. Fortunately some of these still remain fairly accessible to the lover of birds. One of the most famous breeding stations is at the Farne Islands; another on the cliffs at Bempton; whilst less noted places are in the Isle of Wight, the Scilly Islands, and the coasts of Devon and Cornwall. The great number of local names by which the Guillemot is known round our coasts speak to its former abundance; Lavy, Marrock, Murre, Diver, and Willock – the latter applicable to the young – may be mentioned as a few of the best known. The birds congregate at their old accustomed haunts in Spring, with remarkable regularity, often punctually arriving on the same day for years in succession. At Heligoland, and certainly other places, Guillemots return to their nesting places from time to time during the winter, appearing in the morning for a little while, just as Rooks are wont to do at the nest trees. The Guillemot rears its young on the face of the lofty ocean cliffs, or on the flat tops of rock stacks. Cliffs with plenty of ledges and hollows are preferred, and in such chosen spots the birds crowd so closely that, at some stations, the wonder is how each individual can possibly find room to incubate its egg, or even secure a standing place in the general throng. There can be little doubt that in such crowded spots as the “Pinnacles,” many of the eggs never reach maturity. The Guillemot makes no nest of any kind, but lays its single large pear-shaped egg on any suitable ledge, or in any available hollow where it can be tolerably safe from toppling over into the sea. There are few more stirring sights in the bird-world than a large colony of Guillemots. I still retain the vivid impressions made upon my mind by the vast hordes of these birds at St. Kilda, at the Farne Islands, and elsewhere. Even whilst I write, I can once more see the struggling, quarrelling, rowdy hosts of Guillemots that crowd the famous “Pinnacles”; still see them pouring off in endless streams, headlong into the water, as I prepared to scale their haunt. Once more memory recalls and paints in vivid scene the beetling St. Kildan cliffs, with their rows and rows of white-breasted Guillemots, sitting tier upon tier, upwards and upwards towards the dark blue sky; my tiny boat tossing like a cork on the wild Atlantic swell, and the countless swarms of Guillemots swimming in the sea around me, hastening to the cliffs or returning from them, beaten off by more fortunate possessors of a place.

The Guillemot lays a single egg, without making a nest of any kind for its reception. If this egg be taken, however, the bird will lay a second or a third, and advantage is taken of this fact by those persons that gather them for a livelihood. The egg of no other known bird varies to such an extraordinary extent as that of the Guillemot, whilst few, if any, are more beautiful. Greens, browns, yellows, pale blues, and white, form the principal ground colour; the markings, which take the form of spots, blotches, streaks, and zones, are composed of browns, grays, and pinks, of every possible tint. One variety is white, intricately laced, netted, and streaked with pink; another is a beautiful green, streaked in the same manner with yellow, light brown, or nearly black; others of various ground colours are zoned with blotches, or marked with fantastic-shaped spots and rings. Some eggs of the Guillemot closely resemble those of the Razorbill, but may be distinguished by the yellowish-white interior of the shell when held up to the light.

There has been much controversy as to the way in which the Guillemot chicks reach the water from their lofty birthplace. Some writers assert that the parent bird carries them down to the sea on its back; on the other hand, Gätke maintains that the chicks tumble off the ledges into the water, being enticed to do so by the old birds swimming on the sea beneath the cliffs. He writes: “in its distress, the little chick tries to get as near as possible to the mother waiting for it below, and keeps tripping about on the outermost ledge of rock, often of no more than a finger’s breath, until it ends by slipping off, and, turning two or three somersaults, lands with a faint splash on the surface of the water; both parents at once take charge of it between them, and swim off with it towards the open sea. This is the only way in which I have seen this change of habitat of the young birds accomplished, during some fifty summers.” As soon as the young are sufficiently matured, the sea in the vicinity of the breeding-stations is deserted, and the colonies disperse far and wide. From this time forward, to the following breeding-season, the Guillemot’s movements are to a certain extent unknown. As Professor Newton justly asks,4 What becomes of the millions of Guillemots and other Auks that breed in northern latitudes? The birds that are met with round the coasts of temperate Europe, and elsewhere, bear no proportion whatever to the mighty hosts whose position and movements remain unrevealed. At present the only feasible explanation seems to be that the birds, during the non-breeding-season, are scattered in quest of sustenance over many thousands of square miles of water; in summer only is their vast abundance palpable, when all are gathered into a comparatively small area.

In connection with the Guillemot mention should be made of the Ringed Guillemot, the Uria ringvia of Latham. It only differs from the Common Guillemot in having a narrow white band round the eye, which is prolonged into a streak for some distance behind and below it. It may be seen breeding in company with the commoner form, and is not known to differ in its habits. Whether it be a distinct species – as Gätke states – or merely a variety of the Common Guillemot, as many naturalists believe, still remains to be decided.

BRUNNICH’S GUILLEMOT

This Guillemot, the Uria bruennichi of Sabine and most modern writers, is a very rare visitor to the British Islands, its home being in the Arctic regions, from Greenland possibly to the Liakoff Islands, off the coasts of northern Siberia. It deserves a passing notice, for it is possible that it occurs in British waters more frequently than is generally supposed. It is a perceptibly stouter bird than the Common Guillemot, and has the base of the upper mandible pale gray. In its habits and economy it is not known to differ in any special manner from the better known species, of which it is the Arctic form.

BLACK GUILLEMOT

This species, the Dovekey, or Greenland Dove, of northern mariners, the Tysty of the Shetlanders, and the Uria grylle of naturalists, is by far the most local of the Auks that are indigenous to the British Islands. During the breeding season it is only known to frequent one English locality, the Isle of Man; but in Scotland it is pretty generally distributed along the western and northern coasts, including St. Kilda, the Orkneys, and the Shetlands. Its chief resorts in Ireland are on the north and west coasts. The difference between the summer and winter plumage of this little bird is most extraordinary. In spring it assumes a rich black dress, glossed with green, except a patch of white on the wings; in winter it is uniformly mottled black and white; the legs and feet are bright coral red. With us the Black Guillemot is strictly marine in its haunts, but in Spitzbergen it was found breeding more than a mile inland – a habit very different from any it displays with us. In its actions it very closely resembles its larger allies. Like them it is an expert diver – I have seen it dive repeatedly at the flash of a gun, and thus escape the shot. It is, on the whole, a more trustful bird, often permitting a near approach, and frequently remaining on the surface until the boat is about to pass over it, when it will dive and reappear quite unconcernedly a short distance away out of danger. This Guillemot often feeds quite close in shore. At St. Kilda I used to see parties of this species every evening, fishing under the cliffs; but, on the other hand, I have often met with them searching for food many miles from land. The Black Guillemot is nothing near so gregarious as the Common Guillemot, nor does it appear to wander so far from its breeding places to feed. It is partially nocturnal in its habits in summer, feeding well into the dusk, and during winter seldom comes upon the land, sleeping out at sea. Although capable of flying swiftly, it always prefers to escape danger by diving; it swims lightly, usually sitting high in the water, but it has the power of sinking itself more than half below the surface when apparently alarmed. Black Guillemots may often be seen in strings, flying to and from a distant feeding place, hurrying along close to the water, their short wings beating rapidly, and rendered very conspicuous by the broad white bar. The food of this Guillemot is largely composed of the fry of the herring and the coal-fish, but other small fishes are eaten, as are crustaceans, and various marine insects. I have never heard the Black Guillemot utter a sound beyond a low grunting; but its note has been described as a whining sound, that of the young birds being more shrill. In chasing its finny prey under the water the Black Guillemot displays astonishing powers, darting to and fro, aided by its wings and feet. During winter these birds wander southwards, and then they may sometimes be seen off our more frequented coasts.

The Black Guillemot retires to its breeding-stations in May. These are situated, in our islands, on rocky headlands and islands, and on ocean cliffs. Here its colonies are never very large, and often much scattered. It very probably pairs for life, and resorts often to one particular spot year after year. The bird deposits its eggs in a hole or cranny of the cliffs, occasionally in the clefts amongst fallen rocks at the foot of the precipice, or on rock-strewn downs sloping to the sea. It makes no nest, and the eggs rest upon the bare ground or rock. The Black Guillemot, and its allies, are remarkable for the fact that their eggs are two or three in number; in all other members of the Alcidæ the eggs never exceed one. This peculiarity has induced some systematists to restrict the genus Uria to the Black Guillemots alone. The Black Guillemot lays two eggs, much smaller than, and not so pear-shaped as, those of the Common Guillemot, cream, buff, or pale green in ground colour, blotched and spotted with rich dark brown, paler brown, and gray. The young chicks are said not to repair to the sea at so early an age as those of the preceding birds; and to be soon deserted by their parents after doing so, congregating in flocks by themselves.

RAZORBILL

This bird, the Alca torda of Linnæus and ornithologists generally, is widely confused with the Common Guillemot, and many local names refer indiscriminately to each – such as Murre, Marrot, and Diver. It is readily distinguished from the Guillemots by its much deeper bill, crossed by a white line at its centre, and by a narrow yet very conspicuous white stripe, extending from the base of the bill to the eye. Otherwise, the Razorbill closely resembles the Guillemot in appearance, both in its summer and winter plumage. It is widely distributed round the British coasts, breeding in most situations where the cliffs are sufficiently suitable, but is much less abundant in the south, and is nowhere, perhaps, so numerous as the Guillemot. During the non-breeding season it becomes more generally scattered, and may then be met with, although ever sparingly, in the seas round most parts of the British coastline. Its actions in the water are almost precisely the same as those of the Guillemot. Like that bird it may be seen swimming to and fro, sitting highly and lightly on the water, often permitting a very close approach, especially in districts where it is not much harassed by the shooter. It dives with the same marvellous celerity as the Guillemot, pursuing its prey through the water, often at a considerable depth, as readily as the swallows chase an insect through the air. It is a very pretty sight to watch the Razorbill in quest of food. This may often be done from the summits of the cliffs, but certainly to better advantage from a boat, in which the birds can be more closely approached, and consequently better observed. A Razorbill in the water is a remarkably striking, if not an actually pretty bird. He sits so lightly, riding buoyantly as a cork on the swell, turning his head from side to side as the boat approaches, swimming rapidly before it, and often nonchalantly dipping his head into the water and throwing a shower over his upper plumage. The boat comes too near at last, and the bird, with a scarcely audible or perceptible splash, disappears into the water. Several moments afterwards he rises again to the right or left, ahead or astern, and the salt spray rolls off his plumage glinting like diamonds in the sun. Should fish be plentiful the birds are diving and rising again incessantly, the time of absence depending upon the depth descended or the length of the chase. The Razorbill ever seems to use its wings with reluctance on these occasions, always keeping out of harm’s way by diving or swimming. It is capable of rapid flight though, and may often be seen in strings or skeins, hastening along just above the waves to or from a favourite fishing place. The Razorbill is gregarious enough during summer, but in winter it is most frequently seen in small parties, or often alone. It also goes some distance from land, where, should a gale overtake it, great numbers often perish, as their dead bodies washed up on the coast sadly testify. The food of the Razorbill is largely composed of fry, especially of the herring, but many other small fishes are captured, together with crustaceans and other small marine creatures. The bird, so far as my experience extends, never seeks its food upon the shore, and obtains most, if not all, of it by diving. The Razorbill is a remarkably silent bird; the only sound I have ever heard it utter has been a low grunting. This note is uttered both in summer and winter, on the rocks as well as on the sea.

In May the Razorbill gives up its roaming, nomad life upon the sea, and collects in numbers at the old-accustomed breeding-places. These are situated on the ocean cliffs, such as contain plenty of nooks and crannies being preferred to those of a more wall-like character. It is possibly due to this that the Razorbill’s colonies are never so crowded as those of the Guillemot, and that the birds are more scattered along the coastline. There can be little doubt that the Razorbill pairs for life. As a proof of this I have known a Puffin burrow resorted to yearly, whilst eggs possessing certain peculiarities of form and colour have repeatedly been taken from one nook in the cliffs, years and years in succession. Like the Guillemot the Razorbill makes no nest, but lays its single egg in a crevice or hole in the cliffs, or far under stacks of rock, poised one upon another, where to reach it is an utter impossibility. Like most birds that breed in such situations, the Razorbill is much more loth to quit its egg than the Guillemot, often remaining upon it until captured. When alarmed by man the birds may be heard scrambling amongst the crevices, and uttering their grunting cries of remonstrance.

The single egg of the Razorbill, though not displaying a tithe of the variety observed in that of the Guillemot, is a remarkably handsome object. The ground colour varies through every tint between white and reddish-brown, and the handsome large blotches and spots are dark liver-brown, reddish-brown, gray, or grayish-brown. No shade of green or blue is ever apparent upon them externally, but the shells, when held up to the light, have the interior of a clear pea-green tint – a character which readily serves to distinguish them from such eggs of the Guillemot that resemble them in external colour. If the first egg be taken the bird will lay another, and this process may be repeated several times, but on no occasion is more than one chick reared in the season. It is said that the young of this species remain upon the cliffs for a much longer period than the chicks of the Guillemot, and that they eventually fly or flutter down to the sea, never revisiting the rocks. The parent will sometimes dive with its offspring, just as the Little Grebe will do.

LITTLE AUK

This species, the Rotche of Arctic navigators, and the Mergulus alle of ornithology, is but an irregular visitor to British seas during autumn and winter, and as it seldom comes near the land under ordinary circumstances, is not a very familiar bird to the seaside observer. Exceptionally severe weather not unfrequently drives this little bird far inland. In its general colouration the Little Auk closely resembles the Razorbill, but it is less than half the size, and has a considerable amount of white on the wings. This curious little species congregates in incredible numbers at certain spots in the Arctic regions, to breed. Beechey, at the beginning of the present century, records that he has seen nearly four millions of these birds on the wing at one time. Colonies of the Little Auk are known in Nova Zembla, Franz-Josef Land (?), Spitzbergen, Grimsey Island (to the north of Iceland), and the coasts of Greenland. Like all its larger allies, the Little Auk is thoroughly pelagic in its habits, apparently only visiting the land to breed, living on the sea for the remainder of the year. It is well adapted for its lengthened sojourn upon the waters. It swims well and buoyantly, sitting rather low, flies rapidly when inclined, dives with as much ease as a fish, and sleeps quite safely and comfortably upon the waves. Voyagers in the Arctic regions have met with flocks of Little Auks at most times of the year, often far from land, and occasionally crowding upon the masses of floating ice. All observers agree in describing it as a somewhat noisy bird, and its specific name of alle is said to resemble its ordinary note. There is scarcely a winter that the Little Auk is not obtained in varying numbers off the British coasts, more frequently, of course, in the northern districts, but under ordinary circumstances it keeps too far off the land to be observed, and occurs most plentifully during periods of continued storm. Where the uncounted millions of Little Auks winter, that are known to breed in the Arctic regions, washed by the Atlantic, is still an unsolved problem. The few that are observed are as nothing in comparison with the numbers that crowd at certain spots during summer. Perhaps it is because the area of distribution is so wide in winter, and, comparatively speaking, so restricted during summer. The food of the Little Auk consists largely of minute crustaceans, and possibly of small fish. The bird is said to resort to the vicinity of fishing fleets, to pick up the refuse thrown overboard.

In May, the Little Auk resorts to the land to breed. It is eminently gregarious, and some of its colonies consist of an almost incredible number of birds. Curiously enough, its breeding places are not always by the sea, some of them being situated a considerable distance from the coast. Sloping rock-covered banks at the foot of the cliffs, seem to be preferred to the cliff themselves. A favourite situation is on the sloping ground below a range of cliffs, where the surface is covered with stones and rock fragments that have, during succeeding ages, crumbled from the precipices towering above. Here, in cavities, worn by wind and storm, beneath large stones and rock fragments, or in various hollows and holes under the fallen débris, the Little Auk deposits its single pale greenish-blue egg, out of reach of the Arctic foxes that prowl about the colony in quest of prey. The actions of the Little Auk at its nesting colony, seem to be very similar to those of the Puffin when breeding on slopes, as, for instance, on the island of Doon, one of the St. Kilda group.

PUFFIN

Of all the Auks the present species, the Alca arctica of Linnæus, and the Fratercula arctica of modern ornithologists, is not only the best known, but the most readily distinguished. The Puffin cannot readily be mistaken for any other bird along the coast, his big brightly coloured beak and comical facial expression, being never failing marks of his identity. In the colour of its plumage the Puffin somewhat closely resembles the Guillemot or the Little Auk, only the throat and the sides of the head are white. The most striking feature in the Puffin is its beak – a deep, laterally flattened, coulter-shaped organ, banded with blue, yellow, and red, singularly grooved and embossed with horny excrescences, although these latter are only assumed for the pairing season, and are cast again when the breeding period is over! Unlike most birds, therefore, the Puffin displays his wedding ornaments on his beak! And this singular peculiarity appears to be common to various other species, more distantly allied, yet undoubtedly of close affinity with the English Puffin. Many local names have been applied to the Puffin in consequence of its singular bill. Bottlenose, Coulterneb, and Sea Parrot, may be mentioned as the most commonly used. Like most, if not all, members of the Auk family, the Puffin is not seen much near the land after the breeding season has passed. Indeed, it is very doubtful whether the bird ever voluntarily seeks the coast after it leaves it in early autumn with its young; continued gales and storms will occasionally drive a bird even far inland, whilst rough weather often causes it to perish at sea, its remains being sometimes washed up in quantities. Its actions on the water are almost precisely the same as those of the Guillemot and Razorbill. It is an adept swimmer, a marvellous diver; it flies well and strongly, especially during the summer, where I have seen it in swarms, drifting round and round the highest peaks of its island haunt on apparently never-tiring-wing. At the summit of the cliffs its powers of flight may often be witnessed to perfection. At St. Kilda, I have watched it gracefully poising itself in the air, its narrow wings beating rapidly, and its two orange-coloured legs spread out behind acting as a rudder. Of all the Auk tribe, so far as my experience goes, the Puffin flies the most. The Puffin feeds principally upon small fish, especially sprats and the fry of larger fishes; it also eats crustaceans, and various marine insects. It dives often to a great depth, and is remarkably active beneath the surface; when on the water it generally tries to escape from danger by diving. Sometimes the Puffin may be seen close ashore during winter, but never in any abundance.