The little Robin, solitary and observant, would come nearer to the house than the other birds; but his advent was usually too late for anything but the bare dry remains of the feast left by the rapacious Sparrows and Starlings.
The Jackdaw would fly straight to the apple tree, perch upon it, then suddenly descend and seize upon the biggest remaining morsel; then as quickly fly up again into the tree and try to eat it there. In this respect, in marked contrast to the Rook, which in the worst weather would occasionally suddenly arrive and help himself to the biggest crust left, but he would always at once fly away with it in his capacious maw.
I am sorry to say that my garden party friends have displayed a very considerable amount of selfishness. Each kind of bird, of course, selects first the kind of food most appropriate to it. But there is clear indication that the law of force prevails amongst them, and that might carries the day against fairness and right. And it is most clear that neither Communism, nor Socialism, nor Equality with Fraternity, is a doctrine in favour with them—at least in practice. As long as there is a good supply of the best eatables, my friends are most communistically amiable to each other. But as soon as the available supply begins to run short, then the most barefaced selfishness is the order of the day. The strong sparrows drive away the weaker ones, or pursue them and steal from them any dainty little morsel they may have secured and flown away with. The Starlings dart at each other and scream, or go through continual “fluttering duels” in their efforts to steal their neighbours’ goods; whilst the Jackdaws and Rooks have no reserve in displaying their views as to their practical agreement with Rob Roy’s well-known maxim.
I have not observed either the Blackbirds or Thrushes to fight for their food as the Sparrows and Starlings do.
The Starlings exhibit some other very peculiar ways. Before descending to feed they will sit upon neighbouring trees in an attitude of pensive watchfulness—one irresistibly reminding one of an old man leaning his head upon one side and resting it upon his hand. Their peculiar waddling walk or run and extreme liveliness of manner are well known; but when all the food is gone, and they return for a short season to their trees, they will often resume their philosophic or contemplative attitude—very soon, however, to disappear to “other fields and pastures new,” or in plain English, to some neighbouring and equally hospitable garden. And their capacity for food appears to be very great.