3 
French coast, is regularly to be counted on. The shore is all before them 
for choice, and yet they seem as much restricted as if they were luxurious 
travellers obliged to go by a mail route. And they do not choose the 
shortest passages over the sea. The bird instinct, in many ways so 
unerring, is here quite at fault. The choice of twenty years ago is 
adhered to, to the present month. So the birdcatcher has to pick his 
ground with care, and to occupy it well in advance. He is on the chosen 
spot in the grey of the morning, with nets, brace birds, and decoys. The 
brace bird is rather a treasure. It is a hardy cock bird, stout in song, who 
has survived the ordeal of being braced. A wire brace is put round the 
roots of the wings near the shoulder-blades, and the ends of it passing 
round the body, are joined in a loop just over the breast-bone. To this 
loop a string is tied, and the bird can fly up and be pulled down without 
injury. Linnets, larks, and goldfinches are all treated in this way. 
The decoys are simply cock birds in very small cages, and in full song. 
These are dispersed round about the field, by banks and hedges, and 
render good service at the proper time. The first step is to set the nets. 
If we could fancy a pair of folding doors lying flat on the grass, open, we 
have a very good idea of the birdcatchers’ machinery, only that the doors 
are made of netting, not of wood. A smart tug at a cord, held some 
distance off, will cause the framework of the nets to rise upward on the 
grass and fall inward, so as to cover the open space that lay previously 
between them. In the centre of that space the catcher places his brace 
birds. A little peg, three inches high, has a long switch hinged to it, the 
end of which rests on the ground, and to that end the brace bird is tied ; 
but he has room to run about the grass, and there is plenty of seed for 
him to eat. The other end is attached to a long cord, which the bird- 
catcher holds in one hand to use at the proper moment ; in the other hand 
he has the stouter cord which controls the nets. So in the frosty mornings 
and almost in the dark he waits for his prey. A troop of linnets are on 
the wing; he hears them before he can see them. They are wheeling 
round and making straight for liberty and the Continent, via Dieppe. 
They have skirted the field, not flown straight over it, and in a minute 
more they will be safe. But the catcher whistles a peculiar note, a call 
note. The decoy birds, in the cages round about, pipe up vigorously. 
The leader of the linnet flight pauses and turns his course a little back: he 
is now over the field. The catcher “jerks” the brace bird with the small 
cord. This small traitor is shot up into the air, and descends all fluttering 
to the ground. The sight of him in trouble seems to determine the wild 
linnets ; they swoop down to the ground ; in a moment the nets are over 
them, and the catcher is quickly on the spot ; another flock is at hand. 
By a kind of instinct he distinguishes the cocks from the hens. These are 
put into a low cage without a perch—he wrings the necks of the hens, 
carries off their little bodies, and flings his nets wide open. In less than 
two minutes he is again lying in ambush, plucking the warm bodies of 
the hens, but ready to seize and ply his cords when the next flight comes. 
The next may be linnets again, or larks, or goldfinches. 
It is the same process for all, except that the goldfinches—as patrician 
birds—are additionally tempted by the display of a bunch of thistledown. 
Chardon is the French for thistle, and chardonneret for the goldfinch. The 
hen larks are not plucked, but sold full-feathered to the poulterers in the 
neighbouring town. The cock birds—lark, linnet, or finch—are all sent up 
that very night by rail to London. Whitechapel or Seven Dials absorb 
