The gullies and pits of Novi Bečej and Vranjevo were particularly alluring landscapes of our fields. One had to experience the clamor: the chirping, twittering, cawing, and the most beautiful songs of songbirds to truly understand the richness of nature and the life within this bird kingdom. Even before approaching these areas, birds could be seen circling high above from a distance, choosing the right spot to land. As we got closer, the joyful noise of birds grew louder, either at dawn or just before dusk wrapped the fields in a misty shroud as the day came to a close.
Many beautiful words are needed to describe the wonders and the richness of life in our gullies and marshlands. It’s not just about the birds; small game also finds food and shelter from predators there. As the sun rises or sets, everything is in motion. New flocks land, or solitary birds take off, moving to better places with more food, or chasing each other during mating rituals. They call to one another and communicate in their own unique way. Life thrives in complete freedom, yet everything unfolds according to a certain order, the survival of the fittest.
It was a special joy to stop, watch, and listen to how quickly and cunningly each bird approached its prey and hunted with such skill. Their quiet movements on the water, so as not to scare the prey, and then the sudden dive of the beak, or even the entire head down to the neck, capturing the prey. You could see them swallowing it, sometimes on the water's surface. It's not a simple process but one so calculated and precise that it represents a true art of hunting. Watching divers, pochards, and wild ducks dive into the water and reappear where least expected, each emerging with prey in their beaks, was a mesmerizing sight.
I enjoyed watching a procession of wild ducks with their ducklings swimming almost in a perfect line, joyfully chirping. I marveled at their quick and sudden hiding when their mother, the duck, signaled danger with a call only they understood.
All the birds worked hard, hastily gathering food to both nourish themselves and carry reserves for their young, who impatiently awaited their return before the heat of the day set in. Those that did not nest in the marshes flew to their distant nests, sometimes several kilometers away, only to return soon and continue hunting diligently to feed their ravenous young. Birds with nests in the marsh quietly hid among the reeds or rushes until dusk, when they would resume where they had left off. This cycle repeated day after day, year after year. There was always enough food for all and their offspring over the years.
It was a delight to watch the proud and graceful strides of storks and herons on land or water, as well as the swimming and diving skills of divers, pochards, and other birds for whom swimming was their primary mode of movement. The sight of these birds flying was even more majestic, as they skillfully used air currents to fly with minimal energy expenditure. One couldn’t help but feel they enjoyed flying as much as we enjoyed watching them.
Modern life, alongside many changes, also transformed the appearance of our fields. Drainage systems dried up most of our gullies and wetlands, and with the disappearance of food sources, marsh birds quietly vanished from our fields forever.
When we were children from farming families, we eagerly awaited the moments our parents would head to fields near the gullies and marshes. In my case, it was the large field, or the part of Livade bordering a large marsh called Ostrovo, in the area of the village of Kumane.
Usually, knowing our desires, parents would take us along, not to help but to fulfill our wish to wade through the water and uncover the secrets of the reeds, rushes, and other marsh vegetation, which we believed to be hiding places for bird nests. Many times, I was startled by the sudden flight of a wild duck, teal, or pochard, which had been hiding in a clump of marsh grass or rushes, hoping to remain unnoticed. But in a moment of fear, they’d suddenly take flight, scaring me so much that I’d run out of the marsh, only to realize what had happened. But our childlike curiosity remained, and we would continue exploring until we found a nest with bird eggs or chicks.
We would often collect those eggs, despite the bird, whose eggs they were, almost pleading with us to leave them, circling above us, screeching and mourning. It was likely an attempt to scare us away and leave their nests in peace, but today I believe it was a cry for mercy, one we were too insensitive to hear. Thinking about it now, I feel sadness for that poor, distressed bird.
As an adult, I often wondered how it was that rural children, including myself, forgot or were never taught by their parents that birds were part of their close environment, protectors of their crops and livestock from insects and other small pests, and as such, deserved not just attention but care and protection. Yet, I was not the only ungrateful one—nearly all children were inclined to collect bird eggs, to play with them a little, but in most cases, they would be broken on the field, and it was rare for someone to bring a whole egg back home.
There were times when, while exploring Ostrovo, a leech would attach to my leg and suck my blood, and I, helpless to remove it, would run crying and wailing to my father, who was working in a nearby field, to take it off. I didn't believe it could be removed, but to us, our fathers were all-powerful protectors, so I had no choice but to trust him. My father, like all other grown farmers, knew that leeches couldn't stand salt. He took a wooden salt shaker from his lunch bag, pinched a bit of salt between his fingers, and placed it on the spot where the leech was. It immediately let go of my leg, and the problem was solved. I returned, now much more cautious to avoid the leeches, to continue exploring the marsh, hoping to find some bird chicks. That’s how our joyful rural childhood passed, and today, those memories bring a slight sadness.
I had the chance to hear from older folks about how a partridge behaves with its chicks when disturbed. It sounded like “tall tales” due to the bird's incredible cunning. There could be as many as fifteen chicks in a group. They were usually encountered while harvesting wheat, which was done by hand at the time. Partridges usually hatched around the same time the wheat ripened. As harvesting began, the partridge would keep moving her chicks away from the reapers until the last cut. Then, when the final cut was made, the reaper would be surprised by the sight of chicks scurrying from beneath the sheaves and nearby piles. In such cases, the mother partridge would perform a masterful trick, just to give her chicks a chance to hide. She would pretend to limp or let one wing hang, as if it were broken, to draw the reaper's attention away from the chicks and get him to chase her, thinking she was an easy catch. Just as he approached, she would suddenly fly off, leaving the reaper stunned, while the chicks had already found safe hiding spots.
I never got to witness this, but I did see a partridge with her chicks on the final cut a few times, all of them slipping out of sight to continue their happy lives under their mother's wing until some predator caught them, or most grew up to live independently and form their own families.
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