The Magpie's Nest

by Thomas Taffy

  Following them is a legend from France about another member of the corvid clan, the raven. This story links well to the first story, as it concerns the shrill cawing call common to the rook, the raven, the jackdaw and the crow.

  The Vain Crow

  One fine day, a crow, with a large piece of cheese in its beak, was perched on the branch of a tree at the edge of a wood. Old Daddy Fox, passing by and catching the scent of the cheese, ran up to the trunk of the tree and started barking. He wasn’t as much interested in the crow as he was in the piece of cheese the bird had gripped in its beak.

  At first, the crow completely ignored this noisy red-furred animal, but then the fox started to tell the crow how beautiful she looked. Such compliments made the bird’s dark eyes gleam. Seeing this, the fox upped his game, increasing the flattery, telling her that her feathers had a wonderful shine to them. Blushing a little, for crows do blush, Old Daddy Fox saw his chance of getting his supper had increased. The fox told the crow he thought that such a radiant shining black bird must have a wonderful singing voice. Now we all know that nightingales, linnets and larks can sing beautifully, but as for crows, they can only ‘caw’. However, the fox was so insistent that he wanted to hear the beauty of the crow’s singing that she felt flattered. She asked the fox if he was sure that she could sing and that he really wanted to hear it. The fox assured her that such a beauty as her would be certain to have a song that he would love to hear.

  How could the crow refuse such an enthusiastic request; surely that would be rude of her? Realising this, she couldn’t resist opening her beak and letting out a tuneless ‘caaaw’. Guess what – the cheese dropped out of her beak, falling straight into the jaws of the fox, who had covered his ears with his paws. Delighted, the fox hurried off to his den to enjoy eating his swag. This left the crow hungry and more than a little embarrassed. The crow realised that she had been foolish, and vowed never to be tricked in the same way again.

  The Clever Crows

  This next tale shows that not all crows are as foolish as the one in the previous story.

  In Ancient Greece, a big crow and a small crow stood sweating on a stone in the ruins of an old temple. It was the middle of a heatwave, the hottest it had ever been even in that land. The ground was brown and cracked. All the grass, weeds and other plants had been scorched by the sun and burnt away. The streams, rivers, ponds and puddles were completely dried up.

  These two birds needed water to drink. Looking down at the foot of their stone, they saw a bottle with a little drop of water in the bottom. It was only a little but that would be better than nothing. Big crow fluttered down to try for a drink but its head was too big to fit through the neck of the bottle. It told little crow to have a try. In forcing its head through the bottle neck, one of its feathers pulled out and floated to the ground. Even though the small bird had got its head into the container, it couldn’t reach the water in the bottom. The crows considered upending the bottle but realised the water would only tip out to be soaked up by the dry earth – but small crow was clever. To big crow’s amazement, she spotted a bright shiny pebble on the ground. Flying over, she picked up the pebble in her beak and dropped it into the bottle. It splashed in the water and the water level rose a little. Small crow tried again for a drink and almost reached the water – but not quite.

  However, small crow’s plan was working. She grabbed another pebble, this time a white one, and dropped it in the water with a splash. Again the water level rose up the sides of the bottle. Small crow again tried for her drink. This time her beak almost touched the water – maybe next time! Grabbing a slightly larger bluish pebble, that too was dropped in the bottle. As the stone was quite large, the water level rose significantly. Small crow ducked down and managed a beakful of the precious water. Another pebble was dropped in, this time a reddish one, and the water level rose high enough for big crow to manage a drink. The crows flew away to seek food. In time, the site became covered in earth and hundreds of years later, when archaeologists excavated the site, they found a bottle containing four different coloured pebbles and one black crow’s feather.

  What the archaeoogists didn’t know is that, as the crows battled to get the water from the bottle, they were observed by a philosopher/scientist called Archimedes, who realised something and whispered the word ‘eureka’. Remembering what he’d seen, next time he climbed into his bath his ideas were confirmed and he loudly shouted ‘EUREKA!’ Perhaps this scientific theory should be called ‘small crow’s principle’, not Archimedes’ principle!

  The Raven Messenger

  In this story the caw of the raven is put to a very special use.

  If the raven is jealous, it’s because he feels himself ugly compared to the red-breasted robin or the beautifully speckled thrush. Also, if the raven is jealous, it’s because he feels his loud shrill ‘caw’ is nothing compared to the gentle cooing of the turtle dove or the melodious song of the skylark. Feeling so inadequate, the raven does the only thing it can do well, it flies, soaring high in the sky almost to the heavens.

  One midwinter’s day as the raven was sailing across a clear, cold sky, it sensed a shadowy form above it drawing closer, ever closer. As this shape had a golden tinge, the raven feared it was an eagle. But when a sound came from this shape it wasn’t the cry of a bird of prey – it was a much sweeter sound. Timidly gazing upwards, the raven saw that flying above him was a host of golden angels.

  The angels told the raven that, in a stable in Bethlehem, a king had been born, a king far greater than any that had set foot on this Earth. The raven was then given the task of taking these glad tidings to all the rest of the bird kingdom. The raven protested that he was so ugly that the other birds would not be interested in news he brought. He also thought his voice would be so harsh they wouldn’t even listen to him. The heavenly host insisted it was the raven’s duty and God’s wish that he alone should deliver the news to all the birds. At this the golden host drifted heavenward and melted in to the sky.

  Astonished, the raven knew he had a job to do.

  He descended to a cluster of bushes and trees where many kinds of birds gathered. To the raven’s amazement these birds listened to his message in awe. None of them commented on his appearance or the sound of his voice. The robin and the thrush decided to fly to Bethlehem to view the babe. The turtle dove and the lark knew that their duty was to fly to the stable and sing the new born baby a lullaby.

  As the birds flew off to the East, the raven perched on a branch, confused. Wouldn’t he like to see the Christ Child? After a moment he remembered that he was the messenger and that without him fulfilling his duty, the other birds wouldn’t even have known the glad tidings. Why shouldn’t he go? Confidently he took to the skies in pursuit of the other birds.

  Arriving at the stable, with a great star in the sky above it, the birds flew in through a hole in the roof. The robin and the thrush perched at one end of the crib looking with wonder at the new-born babe and Mary, his mother. The turtle dove and the lark landed at the other end of the crib. Flying into the warm stable the raven found a perch on the wooden roof beam. Looking down, the raven saw the baby reach out and gently stroke the robin’s red breast and the speckled breast of the thrush. The turtle dove cooed gently and the lark sang a beautiful air.

  Mary glanced up and reminded the raven that without his message, none of the birds would be there, so perhaps the raven should fly down and join them. The birds cosied up together, making room for the shiny black bird in the middle of them. The raven dropped down and, as the mother and child stroked the feathers of his shiny black head, he felt a joy and warmth he had never experienced before in the whole of his life. As he murmured a ‘caw’ of pleasure, somehow it didn’t sound quite so shrill and ugly.

  6

  THE NIGHTINGALE

  My sweetheart come along,

  don’t you hear the fond song

  The sweet notes of the nightingale flow

  Don’t you hear the fond
tale

  of the sweet nightingale

  As she sings in the valley below

  As she sings in the valley below.

  (Trad.)

  Hodge and the Nightingale

  The story of the emperor and the nightingale is a well-known story from the Far East. The old English folk tale that follows embraces many similar ideas and sentiments to the Asian story, while being formed independently.

  Hodge was a simple farm labourer with an eye, and indeed an ear, for beauty. As he tended the vegetable patch in his simple cottage garden he was delighted by the song of a tiny brown bird perched on a branch of the small apple tree – for in those days every cottage garden, no matter how small, could boast either a pear tree or an apple tree to provide just enough fresh fruit for those who lived in that house.

  This bird, a nightingale, sang so melodiously that Hodge wanted to own it. Thinking he could keep the bird in a tiny wire cage on the shelf by his tall wooden grandfather chair, he contrived to trap it in a net. Just as he’d planned, he placed the small bird in a wire cage purchased from a bird catcher at the local market, for the procuring of such pets was neither illegal nor unusual in those days. Sitting in the evening in his chair, Hodge was distressed to discover that apart from the occasional flap around the cage the bird stood sad and silent on its perch. Hodge asked the bird why it would not sing for him. The bird told Hodge it had no intention of ever singing whilst it was imprisoned. Angry, the man told the bird that if it didn’t sing he would kill it and eat it. The bird told Hodge that if he killed it and boiled it, the meat would barely provide a mouthful. If, however, he roasted it, it would shrink so small it wouldn’t even be close to a mouthful. But if Hodge would release the bird back to its freedom in the garden, not only would it sing every time the labourer went out to work but it would also give the man three pieces of advice that would be worth more to him than any meal.

  Weighing this up, Hodge opened the cage and let the bird fly out of the cottage window, where it started to sing. Hodge went outside to listen. The bird told the man that it would keep its promise. The first piece of advice was that he should believe no thing that is impossible. The second was that he should keep everything that he owned. And lastly, he should never regret anything that is lost and can never be recovered. Bemused, the simple Hodge pondered these three advices, letting them sink in without really understanding them, truth be told.

  The nightingale then sang a song that said, ‘Blessed is God who has delivered me from my captor, without him knowing about the precious diamond that is concealed in my stomach.’

  Hearing this, Hodge started to curse and swear, for not only had he lost his pet bird, but also he had lost the chance of getting his hands on the precious diamond in the bird’s belly. The bird told Hodge he was a fool, for he hadn’t heeded any of the three advices. Firstly, he’d believed something that was impossible, for no small singing bird could have a large diamond in its stomach! Secondly, he hadn’t held on to what was his, for he had let the caged bird fly free! Lastly, he was regretting two things that were lost and could never be recovered; both the singing bird and the chance of getting his hands on a precious diamond!

  Thus the nightingale had shown Hodge up for the simple fool he was.

  7

  THE SKYLARK

  Behind a clod, how snug the nest

  Is in a horse’s footing fixed

  Of twitch and stubbles roughly dressed

  With roots and horsehair intermixed.

  (John Clare, Lark’s Nest)

  Mother Nature and the Skylark

  About thirty years ago, whilst trading tales, Scottish traveller storyteller Duncan Williamson told me the story that follows. I thought I might never use it, but when I was commissioned to come up with a spring story for the National Landscape Centre at the Wind Sill on Hadrian’s Wall in Northumberland, my memory yielded it up. Great stories stay with you in your subconscious until you need them.

  It was at the beginning of time when the day came for Mother Nature to create the birds. On the main branch of the Tree of Life and on the ground beneath it, there was a long line of nests. Each of these nests was constructed differently, but that truly is another story! Every nest contained a clutch of eggs, all different, some plain, some coloured, and some with squiggles or spots. As the warmth of spring arrived, a tapping could be heard from inside each of the eggs.

  Within days the shells of these eggs started to crack and birds emerged, some large, some smaller, but all plain brown. As these birds lined up on the great branch to dry their feathers they realised they had a problem – were they male or female? They all looked alike. How would they gather in their family groups or find a mate? One of the larger birds, the wise old owl, decided that Mother Nature must be presented with the problem to solve. She told the creatures they should rest the night and line up in the morning by the Tree of Life where she would greet them with her palette and her paintbrush and solve their problem.

  Early the next morning the confused birds formed a line along the branch. Mother Nature first summoned two plain brown birds, one male and one female, to her. After giving the male a bright yellow beak, she cleaned her brush and dipped it in the black paint and painted the male bird black, leaving the female bird brown. She had created the first ever pair of … blackbirds.

  The next bird to come up was one the same size. She painted it black before cleaning her brush and dipping it on the palette and giving the bird a white ring around its neck, making it look like a cross between a blackbird and a priest. She’d created the first ever … ring ouzel.

  Continuing with her black and white theme she began to paint a pair of bigger birds black and white, two of them, luckily! The two birds immediately started chirping their unique rhyme, ‘One for sorrow, two for joy …’ Yes – magpies!

  Mother Nature then thought she’d be a little more extravagant. She cleaned her brush before dipping it in the red and green paint and coloured a bird, which immediately flew off to the trees and started to tap his beak noisily on the trunks – and became the first ever woodpecker.

  Then Mother Nature started on the smaller brown birds. Dipping her brush back in the red paint, she coloured red the breast of a tiny bird. It flew off to the back doors of friendly folk, who would probably put out food for it in the bitter cold of winter. It was a little robin!

  The next little birds she chose to paint blue and yellow. They also headed for friendly people’s gardens to splash in puddles and bird baths before hanging upside down to eat from containers of nuts and seeds. Of course … blue tits.

  Cleaning her brush, she dipped it in the turquoise. Calling up another little bird she painted him with this. The little bird sped to the nearest stream and flew at speed just above the surface of the water, a streak of electric blue, just before catching a minnow, banging it on a tree root and swallowing it whole. Indeed bird royalty – the kingfisher.

  Mother Nature then spotted her shining gold paint. This, she decided, could become the main colour for a cluster of tiny birds as pretty as the song they sang … yes, goldfinches. She then put some gold paint on the head of a tiny and much rarer bird, who became the little goldcrest.

  And so she continued giving each type of bird its unique colours, all waiting their turn until she came to the very end of the line.

  As the last tiny brown bird hopped up, Mother Nature saw that there was no paint left on the palette. She had only one tiny spot of gold paint left and that was on the tip of her brush. Worriedly, the little bird hopped forward and she quietly asked this little bird to open its beak. Very carefully she put the last drop of gold paint on its tongue. Then the little bird soared vertically up in the air high above the moorlands, opened its beak to show the spot of shining gold and began to sing the most beautiful song. This bird became the first ever skylark, and if you listen carefully in the early morning you may hear him singing. His song is so beautiful that many artists have dedicated music, song and poems to the skylark.


  And so Mother Nature went on to give us the first pairs of beautiful birds that we can still see to this day colouring our gardens and woodlands, moors and seashores. Now you know how the birds got their colours.

  This story leads to my next section of bird folklore, where you’ll see the birds in full colour and discover the wonderful names we have for their gatherings.

  8

  WHEN BIRDS GATHER

  As storytellers, we exist in a living oral tradition. Since the Middle Ages, folk have delighted in using collective nouns for gatherings of birds. Some of these are well known, like a murmuration of starlings; some are more obscure, like a siege of herons. Some make historical references, some literary and many poetic. These terms vary from region to region and from person to person. Those that follow are some of the author’s and illustrator’s favourites.

  If you like them, please take them and use them in your everyday speech to share the delight.

  KINGFISHERS

  This spectacular bird’s regal title was thought to be the Kyngges Fisscher or King of the Fishers – its stunning plumage was deemed fit for a king. It is natural that its collective noun should link to this royal association. It is also known as the Halcyon bird, a name from Greek mythology.

  The Greek goddess Alcyone was married to Ceyx. She was known to give protection to sailors from storms. This angered Zeus, who challenged her power by sending a thunderbolt to destroy Ceyx’s ship, drowning him. When she heard of this, in grief, Alcyone threw herself into the ocean and drowned. Out of compassion the Gods later changed them both into beautiful halcyon birds, named after Alcyone, the birds we know as kingfishers.