Watching Wheatears, Dabchicks, Oyster-catchers, etc.
The wheatear is common over the warren-lands, and as I have been so
fortunate as to witness for a whole afternoon, and very closely, a
series of combined displays and combats on the part of two rival males,
which struck me as very interesting, and as bearing on the question of
sexual selection, I will give the account _in extenso_, as I noted it
down from point to point between the intervals of following the birds
about on my hands and knees. Should the narrative be tedious--and it
is, I confess, somewhat minute--I need not ask my readers to absolve
nature and give me the blame of it, for I am assured that anyone in
the least degree interested in birds and their ways might have lain and
watched these bizarreries a hundred times repeated, without wishing to
get up and go. My observations were made on the last day but one of
March, and are as follows:--
"2.30 (about).--Two male wheatears have for some time been hopping
about in each other's company, and one now makes a hostile
demonstration against the other. This he does by advancing and lowering
the head, with the beak pointed straight forward, ruffling out the
feathers, fanning the tail, and making a sudden, swift run towards him.
He stops, however, before the point of actual contact, and the two
birds hop about, each affecting to think very little about the other."
The wheatear, I should say, always hops, and, by so doing, always give
me something of a surprise, for there is that in his appearance which
does not suggest hopping, but rather that he would run over the ground
like a wagtail. His hops, however, are so quick, and take him forward
so smoothly, that the effect on the eye is often much more like running
than hopping. I therefore often speak of him as running, though, I
believe, he never does so in the strict sense of the word. To continue.
"After some time, during which there was nothing specially noteworthy
in their behaviour, the two birds flew, one after the other, to some
little distance off on a higher and more sandy part of the warren, and
here a female wheatear appeared, hopping near them. One of the males at
once ran to her, but had instantly to fly before the fierce wrath of
the other. The hen then flew to a stunted willow in the neighbourhood,
where she sat perched amongst the topmost twigs, the males not
following her, but continuing to hop about in each other's vicinity
as before. She remained there some five or ten minutes, when she flew
out over the warrens, and with my attention concentrated on the rival
birds, I lost her, and cannot say where she went down.
"One of the male wheatears now enters a shallow depression in the
ground--not a hole, or the mouth of a rabbit-burrow, but one of
those natural fallings away of the soil which make rugged and give
a character to these sandy, lichen-clothed wastes. As soon as he is
in it he seems to become excited, and running forward and coming out
on the opposite brink, he flies from this to the one by which he has
entered, hardly two feet off, then instantly back again, again to the
other, and so backwards and forwards some dozen or twenty times, so
rapidly that he makes of himself a little arch in the air constantly
spanning the hollow, all in the greatest excitement. Finishing here,
he runs a little way to another such depression, enters it, and coming
out again, acts in precisely the same way, making the same little
rapidly moving arch of two black up-and-down-pointed wings, moving now
this way, now that, now forwards, now backwards, from edge to edge of
the trough, perching each time on each edge of it, but so quickly, it
seems rather to be on the points of the wings than the feet that he
comes down. Wings are all one sees; they whirl forwards and backwards,
backwards and forwards, making a little arch or bridge, the highest
point of which, in the centre--which is the point of the upper wing--is
some two feet from the floor of the trough, whilst the point of the
lower one almost touches it. All this time the other male bird is quite
near, but seems to take little notice of the performance. At length the
frenzied one desists from his madness of motion, and the two now hop
about over the warren as before, closely in each other's company. In
some ten minutes or so there is the same display--or rather frenzy--but
whether made by the same bird or the other one I am unable to say. This
time it commences on the even turf and not in a hollow, but after a
few throws the bird finds one and throws, thenceforth, over that." I
have seen, I think, a Japanese acrobat throw a wonderful succession of
somersaults backwards and forwards within his own length. With the bird
there was no somersault, but the effect was something the same. The
man's body also presented the appearance of an arch in the air (as when
one vibrates a lighted joss-stick from side to side), but, as the bird
moved much more quickly, the resemblance in its case was more perfect.
"Once or twice again, now, one of the two birds acts in the same way,
always seeming to prefer to do so over a depression in the ground.
One then flies up a little way into the air, descends again, and,
on alighting, instantly recommences as before, again, I think, over
a slight hollow. The motion is equally violent, but not so long
continued, some seven or eight flings, perhaps, in all. At the end of
it he stops still, advances the head straight forwards, lowering it a
trifle, swells the feathers, and broadly fans the tail. Then the two
birds fly at each other, but almost in the act of closing they part,
with a little twitter, and commence hopping over the warren as before.
It is a constant little run of hops, a pause, and then another little
run of hops, each bird following the other about in turn, the distance
between them being, as a rule, from two or three feet to five or six
paces.
"3.10.--Another little fly up into the air, followed by the frenzied
dance on descending. Then the two come together in the mouth of a
rabbit-burrow, fly at each other as before, separate again almost
immediately, and continue their hopping over the warren, the one still
dogging the other.
"3.30.--The two fly at each other as though to fight; but, again, just
as they seem about to meet, they avoid, and quicker than the eye can
follow they are a yard or so apart. One of them then dances violently
from one depression of the soil to another, arching the space between
the two; at the end of it he fans out the tail and stands looking
defiantly at his rival, who fans his and returns the glance, then makes
a little run towards him, sweeping the ground with it. Instead of
fighting, however, which both the champions seem to be chary of, one of
them again runs into a hollow--this time a very shallow one--and begins
to dance, but in a manner slightly different. He now hardly rises from
the ground, over which he seems more to spin in a strange sort of
way than to fly--to buzz, as it were--in a confined area, and with a
tendency to go round and round.[9] Having done this a little, he runs
quickly from the hollow, plucks a few little bits of grass, returns
with them into it, drops them there, comes out again, hops about as
before, flies up into the air, descends, and again dances about.
[9] Very like the action of the nightjar when disturbed with the young
chicks.
"At about four the female reappears, flying from the warren towards the
same willow-tree where she had before sat. She perches in it again, and
after remaining but a short time, flies down, and once more becomes
invisible. Shortly afterwards one of the male birds flies to a little
distance, but whether towards her or not I cannot say. He then rises
into the air and descends with a twittering song, upon which the other
one, who has remained where he was, does so too. The two are now a good
way apart, but the distance is soon diminished till they are again
quite near, when one of them flies away, then turns and flies back
again and settles not quite so near. As he does so, the other one flies
in an opposite direction, and at the end of his flight rises into the
air with the twitter-song and descends, when the other immediately does
the same, just as before. Then again they hop, now this way, now that
way, but always diminishing the distance, till at length not more than
some three or four feet separates them. But it must not be supposed
(and this applies throughout) that the birds seem to have any sinister
intention, or even any impertinent curiosity, in regard to each other.
They do not advance openly to the attack, but get to close quarters in
a very odd sort of way. Seeming for the most part to be unconscious of
each other's presence, hopping constantly away from and approaching
one another but obliquely, they in reality dog each other's steps and
keep a constant eye on each other's movements. When at length there is
but this short space between them, they stand for a moment looking
at each other, yet without any very warlike demonstration. Then, all
at once, one darts upon the other--so swiftly that I cannot be sure
whether he flies, hops, or does both--and there is now a fierce and
prolonged fight. For a moment or two they are in the air (though not
at any height), then struggling on the ground, when one, getting
uppermost, holds the other down. At last they separate, and for a few
seconds stand close together as though recovering breath. Then, as by
mutual consent, they retire from each other to a short distance and
hop about again in the same manner as before. One of them then again
flies singing into the air, and on coming down dances, but to this
the other does not respond, and now all goes on in the usual way, the
birds getting once or twice again quite close, but separating without
fighting. At half-past four there is another twittering flight into the
air, and a dance on descent, which is emulated in a few minutes by the
rival bird. Shortly afterwards one flies a considerable way off, but is
followed almost at once by the other, and the same thing goes on. Then
there is another flight and song with, this time, no dance on descent,
but, as though to make up for this omission, on the next occasion,
which is some few minutes afterwards, there are two distinct transports
on alighting, separated by a short interval. On this occasion the bird
did not sing either in ascending or descending.
"Here some other birds claimed my attention, and I was away for a
quarter of an hour. On returning, at a quarter to five, I found the
two wheatears still together, and precisely the same thing going on.
Shortly after five they again fought, but this time entirely in the
air. They mounted, fighting, to a considerable height, descended,
still doing so, and separated in alighting. Afterwards both of them
sang whilst on the ground, and then one mounted up, still singing, and
danced when he came down. At half-past five I could only see one of the
birds, and this one I noticed to run several times in and out of one
of those sandy depressions I have spoken of, and which seem to play
such a part in these curious performances. A little later both of them
seem gone, but now, at a quarter to six, as I am about to follow their
example, I again see them, in company with the hen. She shortly runs a
little away from them, the two males remaining together, but making no
further demonstration. In a little, one of them flies to her, and these
two are now in each other's company, singing, flying, and twittering,
for some ten minutes. It would seem as though she had made her choice,
and that this was submitted to by the rejected bird, but just before
leaving at six o'clock all three are again together."
It is to be observed here that these two birds, though they were in
active and excited rivalry for the greater part of an afternoon, and
though they made many feints and, as it were, endeavours to fight,
yet only really fought twice, seeming, indeed, to have a considerable
respect for each other's prowess, and "letting I dare not wait upon
I will" during most of the time. Perhaps they were brave, but the
idea given me by the whole thing was that of two cowards trying to
work themselves up into a sufficient degree of fury to overcome, for
a moment or two, their natural timidity. "Willing to wound, but yet
afraid to strike," seemed to me to describe their mental attitude.
Much has been said as to the pugnacity of birds, but I think that a
large amount of timidity often mingles with this pugnacity, even in
the most pugnacious kinds. I have seen, for instance, two pheasants
sit, first, face to face, pecking timidly at, or rather towards, each
other, and then, on rising, make various little half-hearted feints
and runs, one at another, as though trying to fight and not being
able to, and this for quite a long time. At last one of them ran to
some distance away, and then, turning, made a most tremendous, fiery
rush down upon the other one, like a knight in the tilt-yard. Nothing
could have looked bolder, more spirited, more full of fire and fury,
but--just like these wheatears--at the very moment that he should
have hurled himself upon his foe he swerved timidly aside, and all
his brave carriage was gone in a moment. And what struck me (and,
indeed, as humorous) was that this other bird--the one thus charged
down upon--who had been just as timid, and had seemed to find fighting
equally difficult, did not retreat, as one might have expected, before
this great show, but sat quietly, as knowing it to be "indeed but
show," and that there was nothing really to fear. In fact, it was like
the drawing of swords between Nym and Pistol in _Henry V._, each being
afraid to use his, and knowing the other to be so too. Black-cocks,
again, are often very ready to avoid a conflict, and dance much more
fiercely than they fight. A bird, indeed, which is a very demon in the
"spiel" or "lek-platz" may, as I have seen, become meek and retreat
from it upon the entry of another, which other is then, of course,
_ipso facto_, the boldest bird in existence. Blackbirds are considered
to be quarrelsome,[10] and I know that even the hens--or, perhaps, they
especially--will sometimes fight in the most vindictive manner. But, as
with these wheatears, I have seen in the case of rival cock blackbirds
a great deal of chariness of real fighting mingle with much ostentation
of being ready to fight.
[10] Whereas the thrush (it is usually added) is peaceable. But this is
one of those passed-on things with which natural history is burdened.
From my own experience, I know it to be otherwise. I have watched
thrushes fighting furiously, not only with one another but with the
blackbird also.
I am not, of course, disputing the pugnacity of birds during the
breeding season and often at other times. That is quite beyond doubt,
and proofs or instances of it are altogether superfluous. But the
pugnacity is all the greater if, in order for it to assert itself, a
greater or less degree of timidity, varying, of course, in different
species and individuals, must first be overcome. Assuming that this is
sometimes the case (and I know not how else such instances as I have
given are to be explained), is it so unlikely that rival birds, wishing
to fight yet half afraid to, and being thus in a state of great nervous
tension, should fall into certain violent or frenzied movements, into
little paroxysms of fury, as when a man is popularly said to "dance
with rage"? Anything that excites highly tends to exalt the courage and
conquer fear, as we know with our own martial music, to say nothing of
the "pyrrhic" and other dances. It seems possible, therefore, that
such violent movements as are here imagined might have this effect,
and thus, though excited originally by rage--or some high state of
emotion--only, might be persisted in and increased through experience
of their efficacy. But if this does ever happen, may we not have here
the origin--or one of the origins--of those undoubted displays made by
the male bird to the female, on which the theory of sexual selection
is chiefly based? That the male birds should, in the beginning, have
consciously displayed their plumage, in however slight a manner, to
the females, with an idea of it striking them, seems improbable, and,
even if we might assume the intelligence requisite for this, the theory
of sexual selection supposes the beauty of the plumage to have been
gained by the display of it, not that the display has been founded
upon the beauty. Then what should first lead a bird of dull plumage
consciously to display this plumage before the female? A mere habit of
the male, increased and perfected by the selective agency of the female
(as this is explained by Darwin), has hitherto--as far as I know--been
considered a sufficient explanation of the origin and early stages of
such displays as are now made by the great bustard, the various birds
of paradise, or the argus pheasant. But if we can show a likelihood as
to how this habit has arisen we are, at least, a step farther forward,
even if a slight difficulty has not thereby been removed.
Now, with regard to these wheatears, it will, I think, be admitted that
the little frenzies of the male birds--as I have described them--were
of a very marked, and, indeed, extraordinary nature, and also,
perhaps, that it is more easy to look upon them as sudden bursts of
excitement--nerve-storms or emotional whirlwinds, so to speak--than
as displays intended to attract the attention of the female bird.
Certainly there was nothing like a set display of the plumage; and,
with regard to the female, the question arises, Where was she, at least
during the greater part of the time? The two male birds in the course
of their drama got over a considerable amount of ground, and constantly
flew from one part to another, so that, in order to have had anything
like a good view, the female must have accompanied them, and I must
then, perforce, have seen her, which I did not, except on the occasions
related. She was, therefore, not with them, and, if watching them
at all, could only have been doing so from such a distance that the
dancings of the male birds would have been very much thrown away. Yet
that she took some interest in what was going on appears likely from
her flying up twice into the willow tree during its continuance, and
being with the two rivals at the end of the day. She might, too, have
been listening to the song and observing the flights up into the air,
which would have been much more noticeable from a distance.
One might expect a female bird to take _some_ interest in two male ones
fighting for her merely, without any adjunct, and if they added to the
fighting peculiar violent movements, such as those here described, that
interest would tend to become increased. Now I can imagine that with
this material of violent motions on the one side and some amount of
interested curiosity on the other, the former might gradually come to
be a display made entirely for the female, and the latter a greater or
lesser degree of pleasurable excitement raised by it with a choice in
accordance, which is sexual selection. And that the display would come
at last to be made intelligently, and with a view to a proposed end--as
in the case supposed of the female wild duck (or other bird) diverting
attention from its young--I can also understand. In both instances mere
nervous movements due to a high state of excitement would have been
directed into a certain channel and then perfected by the agency either
of natural or sexual selection.
On this view the curiosity (passing insensibly into interest and
satisfaction) of the female bird would have been directed, at first,
not to the plumage but to the frenzied actions--the antics--of the
male, and he, on his part, would have first consciously displayed
only these. From this to the more refined appreciation of colours and
patterns may have been a very gradual process, but one can understand
the one growing out of the other, for waving plumes and fluttering
wings would still be action, and action is emphasised by colour.
Where, however, such movements had not been seized upon and controlled
by the latter of these two powers--_i.e._ sexual selection--(and there
is no necessity that they should be), we should have antics not in the
nature of sexual display properly speaking, but which might yet bear a
greater or less resemblance to such. That this is, in fact, the case
has been pointed out by the opponents of sexual selection, and often
as if it were evidence against it (though no one, unfortunately, can
point to men as a ground for disbelief in armies). Mr Hudson, for
instance, in his very interesting work, "The Naturalist in La Plata,"
after bringing forward a number of cases of curious dance-movements (or
of song), performed by birds, and which are, in his opinion, not to be
explained on the theory of sexual selection, says, in regard to other
cases brought forward by Darwin in support of that theory:
"How unfair the argument is, based on these carefully selected cases
gathered from all regions of the globe, and often not properly
reported, is seen when we turn from the book[11] to nature, and closely
consider the habits and actions of all the species inhabiting any _one_
district!"
[11] But from _which_ "book"? Not, I suppose, from Darwin's alone.
Now, had Darwin been of opinion that antics performed by a bird which
could not, or could not easily, be explained by his theory, were fatal
to it in other cases--if he had thought that the one was inconsistent
with the other--then, no doubt, it would have been unfair on his
part to have marshalled the affirmative evidence without concerning
himself with the negative. But why should he have held that view, or
on what good grounds can such a view be maintained? As well might it
be argued--so it appears to me--that woollen or other goods could
only have been produced through the action of the loom, or some such
special machinery. But let the wool be there, and it can be worked
up in various ways. Mr Hudson would account for all such displays or
exhibitions by "a universal joyous instinct" present throughout nature,
but to which birds are more subject than mammals. I do not dispute
the instinct--or rather, perhaps, the emotion--or that some of the
displays in question may be due to it simply and solely: but I cannot
believe that all are. Why should this be the case, or how can movements
which are often of a complex and elaborate nature be explained solely
by reference to some large general factor, such as joy or vital energy?
These may lie at the root of all; but something else, some more special
process is, I think, in many cases required. One would not be content
to explain all the phenomena of history by a reference to human nature,
and though it may be true, as the Kaffirs say, that in a cattle-kraal
there can only be one bull, yet nature is a good deal larger than a
cattle-kraal. I believe myself that various antics which are performed
by birds have grown out of various nervous, excited, or automatic
movements arising under the influence of various special causes. Two
such possible causes--viz. (1) sudden alarm whilst incubating, and
(2) paroxysms of rage or nervous excitement during rivalry for the
female I have already indicated. Two other possible ones have also been
suggested to me by some of my observations, and I will now, by the aid
of these, make an attempt--I daresay a lame one--to throw light on the
possible origin of a very extraordinary case of bird-antics, described
by Mr Hudson in the work I have mentioned, and which is believed by him
to be unique.
The bird in question is the spur-winged lapwing, and the following is
Mr Hudson's account of its performances:--
"If a person watches any two birds for some time--for they live in
pairs--he will see another lapwing, one of a neighbouring couple, rise
up and fly to them, leaving his own mate to guard their chosen ground;
and instead of resenting this visit as an unwarranted intrusion on
their domain, as they would certainly resent the approach of almost any
other bird, they welcome it with notes and signs of pleasure. Advancing
to the visitor, they place themselves behind it; then all three keeping
step begin a rapid march, uttering resonant drumming notes in time
with their movements, the notes of the pair behind being emitted in a
stream, like a drum-roll, while the leader utters loud single notes
at regular intervals. The march ceases; the leader elevates his wings
and stands erect and motionless, still uttering loud notes; while the
other two, with puffed-out plumage, and standing exactly abreast, stoop
forward and downward until the tips of their beaks touch the ground,
and, sinking their rhythmical voices to a murmur, remain for some time
in this position. The performance is then over, and the visitor goes
back to his own ground and mate, to receive a visitor himself later on."
Now the most curious point in this remarkable performance, so well
described, is that three birds--a pair (male and female), and one
other, whether male or female is not stated--take part in it, and how
is this fundamental peculiarity to be explained better on the theory
of "a universal joyous instinct" than on that of sexual selection, if,
indeed, the former one helps us so well? Joy, no doubt, is there, but
something else--some shaping force--is surely required to account for
the particular form in which it finds expression. Now with regard to
the peculiarity pointed out--the odd bird (though all act oddly)--I
have, whilst watching birds in the early spring, been struck by the
frequency with which three of the same species will be seen in each
other's company, usually chasing one another about, and, as with the
spur-winged lapwing, these three are almost always made up of a pair (a
male and female) and another bird, a male, as I believe. It may be said
that here there can be no analogy, for that it is either merely a case
of two males courting one female, or that the odd male is both a rival
and intruder, endeavouring to come between the married happiness of two
who have made their choice. This latter explanation is the one that has
generally seemed to me to meet the case, but what I have frequently
noticed with surprise is that the state of anger, or, indeed, fury,
which one might imagine would obtain under such circumstances between
the two male birds, is either wholly absent, or very much subdued. Now
it is in the case of our own peewit, more than with any other species,
that I have noticed this quite amicable association of three birds, two
of which would often seem to be a paired couple, and as my notes, made
whilst I had the birds under observation, both illustrate the point and
contain the explanation of it which I have to offer, I will here quote
from them:
"_February 25th._--Three peewits in company with each other. Two are
flying close together, as though they were a paired couple, whilst one
follows them at a short interval.
"_February 27th._--Three peewits flying together in the same way as
before--that is to say two, which may be paired birds, are close
together, whilst there is commonly a short space between them and the
third one. This arrangement may be temporarily suspended or reversed
by the bird that has been separated getting up to the other two, when
one of these will often fall behind, so that now the bird which was the
follower makes one of the two advanced ones, whilst one of these has
taken its place. As there is no sexual distinction in the plumage of
peewits,[12] it is impossible to be quite sure to what sex each of these
birds belongs, but I believe that two of them are male and female, and
the third a male, either of the two males being alternately in the
close company of the female. This, indeed, may be in the nature of the
matter. The pairing off of the birds, we will suppose--as is likely
at this time--is not yet completed, and, assuming two of the three
to be of one sex, it may not be quite settled with which of them the
third will pair. It is not, indeed, necessary to suppose that either
of the three will eventually pair with one of the others, though this
may be probable. But what appears to me to obtain is this, that the
association of two birds (male and female) together has a tendency
to bring up a third, presumably a male, who envies this arrangement,
and would fain itself make one of the two. But how, then, is the
amicableness--or, at any rate, the absence of any marked evidence of
hostility--to be accounted for? I believe that at this early season the
sexual feelings have not yet become fully developed, or so strong as
to produce jealousy to any active extent. Things are only beginning,
the emotions are, as yet, in their infancy, and thus, I believe,
the curious, not fully defined nature of the actions of the three
birds--their seeming to be half unconscious of what they really want
or mean--may be accounted for. As the season advances, the tendency
will be more and more for the two birds (but I here speak of birds
generally) to avoid, or actively to drive away, the third, and for the
third to find another bird for a partner, the whole being tempered by
the character both of the species of bird and the individual birds
belonging to it. The three birds being thus brought together, without
the feelings being of a very strong or defined character, and the
feelings of animals generally being, as I believe they are, of a very
plastic nature (by which I mean that they pass easily from one channel
into another), I can understand a sort of sport or game of three
birds together arising, at first almost imperceptible, till, by the
fundamental laws of evolution--variation and inheritance--it might
pass into something highly peculiar, as in the case of the spur-winged
lapwing--for though such sport might commence in the air, there would
be no reason why it should not pass from thence on to the ground. And
that the number should be three, and not more, is thus also explained,
for whilst the sight of a paired male and female bird would be likely
to excite the sexual feelings--even though, as here supposed, somewhat
languid--of another male, so as to make it join them, three together
would hardly have this effect in an equal degree, and, moreover, more
than three would tend to become a flock, when other feelings would
come into play. However this may be, I have, as a matter of fact, been
struck with the frequency with which, in the early spring, three birds
will keep together, as and in the manner before stated."
[12] For ordinary field observation at least.
This, it will be observed, was written at a time of year when peewits
are only beginning their nuptial antics, though, as to their having
begun them, there is no doubt, as I had carefully noted this at a still
earlier date. But long subsequent to this, and when the theory of a
not fully developed state of the sexual feelings could no longer be
tenable as an explanation of non-combativeness, I noticed, or thought I
noticed, a more than usual tendency in this species for a single bird
to project itself, so to speak, into the midst of a married pair, and
for its presence not to be resented, but rather otherwise. If this be
really so--for, of course, I may be deceived--it is interesting, and
perhaps assists the suggestion which I have offered as to the origin of
the astonishing conduct of the spur-winged lapwing, the two being such
near relations. When the habit had once commenced, it might continue
and become fixed, irrespective of season.
But it may be said that all the evidence which I here bring forward
is of three birds being together, and that there is none as to any
sport or antic, of however incipient or rudimentary a nature. I have,
however, often seen peewits sport and wanton in the air in threes, but
I admit that more evidence in this direction is wanted. The little
that I have, and will here give, relates, not to the peewit, but to
two birds very different both to it and to each other. The first of
these is that attractive and delightful little creature, the dabchick
or little grebe (_Podiceps fluviatilis_), a bird whose society I have
always cultivated to the best of my ability. My first note, taken on
14th December, I give merely by way of showing that sexual feelings
in birds may not always lie entirely dormant, even in the depth of
winter; for, from having long watched the same birds in the same little
reedy creek, I feel sure that the two I here chronicle were male and
female.
These were "pursuing each other, first over the water--fly-flapping
along the surface in their peculiar way--then on and under it, ducking,
coming up close together, ducking again, and so on, flapping, ducking,
and swimming, each in turn. It is very sustained and animated,
suggesting an amorous pursuit of the female by the male, even at
this time of year. They make a great noise and splashing, they are
obstreperous, and a hen moor-hen standing staidly on some bent reeds
gives a look as though doubtful of the strict propriety of such
conduct,--in the winter,--then with an 'Ah, well! dabchicks will be
dabchicks, I suppose, at all times,' resigns herself to the inevitable,
and takes to preening her feathers." In the other case, which is the
one that bears more directly on the question under discussion, three
dabchicks pursued each other in this manner, one behind the other, and
following the course of the stream. The last bird was particularly
energetic, and seemed determined to interfere with the pursuit of the
foremost by the one just in front of him. "When quite near me they all
three pitch down and instantly dive. The first to come up stops dead
still on the water, looking keenly and expectantly over it, his neck
stretched rigidly out, his head darting forward from it at a right
angle, as rigid as the neck. The instant another one appears, he dives
again with a suddenness as of the lid of a box going down with a snap,
and this other one has seen him at the same time, and dives still more
quickly, if that were possible--so quickly that there is just a swirl
on the water, the appearance seems part of the disappearance, 'and
nothing is but what is not.' And this, as I think, continues, but owing
to the rapid progress of the birds under the water, and their getting
amongst flags and weeds, I never have an equally 'convincing' sight of
it."
Now, here, on the 4th February, we have, as in the case of the peewits,
three birds together, all in pursuit of each other, but two, as it
appeared to me, in a little more intimate association, and the third
seeming to wish to _make_ a third. They chase each other excitedly down
the stream for a little, then all pitch down upon it and dive, and one,
upon coming up, dives again at the merest sight of another who behaves
similarly, a peculiarly set and rigid attitude being adopted by the
waiting bird. Is this not something like a little romp or water-dance
following on the excitement of the chase? True, it may have been
fighting between the two males, for dabchicks, like the great crested
grebe and other water-birds, probably fight by diving and attacking
each other beneath the surface. To my eyes, however, it had very much
the appearance of a romp, or, at any rate, a something betwixt sport
and earnest. Assuming it to have been so, then here is a habit of a
sport or antic between three birds at the end of an excited chase of
each other. Now supposing this habit to increase, then, as the birds
became more enamoured of their little sport--as it became more and
more a fixed habit with them--is it not likely that the preliminary
chase before the romp began would be thrown more and more into the
background? The more one enjoys a thing, the more eager is one to begin
it, and as here, the longer the chase lasted, the longer must the romp
at the end be postponed, the tendency would be for the former to become
shortened and shortened, till at length it ceased altogether, the
approach of the one bird getting to be associated in the minds of the
other two with the sport or game alone. In the final stage this last
might be extraordinary in a high degree, but every trace of its origin,
as here suggested, would have vanished. And so strongly might the habit
or instinct of thus romping _à trois_ be now implanted, that one of
any pair of birds would be ready to join any other pair, and they to
receive him, in order to indulge in it.
I can, indeed, see no reason why birds that sported well should succeed
in life better than others, but if such sporting were an outcome of
general vigour, and vigorous birds were selected, their sportings would
be selected also. And that movements of this sort would tend sooner
or later--if only by mere preference--to fall into some sort of form,
also seems not unlikely. It will be remembered that what I have just
recounted took place early in February, whereas the dabchick does not,
in my experience, commonly build before May. One would not, at so early
a period, expect to find the jealous and combative feelings of the
male in regard to the female bird fully awake, but if there were apt
to be occasional sudden outbursts of this--little flare-ups, inducing
appropriate action for a few moments and then passing quickly away--the
birds might be left, as it were, surprised at themselves and not
quite knowing what had started them off. The originating cause would
have ceased or subsided, but the excitation consequent on the bodily
activity which had been thus aroused would require a further outlet,
and this might pass in time into some prescribed play or antic which
might afterwards be indulged in for its own sake.
My other instance is that of the oyster-catcher. If anyone will watch
these birds closely, he may see three of them go through a performance
bearing the same sort of resemblance to that of the spur-winged
lapwing, that the combs of the humble-bee do to the more perfect ones
of the hive-bee. He may see, for instance, two standing side by side
with their heads bent forwards and downwards, as the two lapwings bend
theirs, though here the length of the brilliant, orange-red bills,
the tips of which, also, almost touch the ground, make the angle of
inclination a much lesser one. In this attitude they both of them utter
a long, continuous, piping note, of a very powerful and penetrative
quality, sometimes swaying their heads from side to side as though in
ecstasy at their own performance, and seeming to listen intently in a
manner strongly suggestive of the musical connoisseur. The third bird,
who is obviously the female, either stands or walks at a short distance
from the two pipers, who will frequently follow and press upon her, and
then, though the march is not quite so formal and regular, it yet bears
for a few moments a considerable resemblance to that of the spur-winged
lapwing, as described and figured in Mr Hudson's work. Of course, there
is really no march at all in the proper sense of the word, but there is
the occasional resemblance, and the resemblance suggests the origin.
In the case of the spur-winged lapwing the play is commenced by one
bird of a pair flying to another pair, and thus making the trio. There
is the same kind of rough and imperfect resemblance to this in the way
in which these oyster-catcher trios commonly open, but as an account of
what I actually saw may give a better idea of how the birds act than
can a mere generalisation, I will illustrate the last point, as well as
those others which I have mentioned, by this means.
"When one of the male birds--standing near the female--commences thus
to pipe, the other one, if on the same rock, runs excitedly up to
him, and pushing him out of the way so as to occupy almost his exact
place, pipes himself, as though he would do so instead of him. The
other, however, is not to be silenced, but standing close by him the
two pipe together, throwing their heads from time to time in each
other's direction, and then back again, in a frenzy or ecstasy, as
though they were Highland bagpipers of rival clans piping against each
other, and swinging their instruments as they grew inspired by their
strains. Continuing thus to act, the two male birds approach and press
upon the female. She flies to a corner of the rock, the two, still
piping vigorously, follow and again press upon her. She flies down
upon a lower ledge of it, the two pipe down at her from above. She
flies from the rock, they half raise their heads, and cease to pipe,
then with single querulous notes, and in their ordinary attitude, walk
disconsolately about.
"After some ten minutes the female flies back again. The demeanour
of the two birds is at once visibly affected, and they begin to pipe
again, though not so vigorously as before. They continue to do so, more
or less, at intervals, the third bird (the female) remaining always
passive, and never once piping. All at once one of the two pipers flies
violently at the other, who flies off, and is closely pursued by him.
They alight--it would seem together--on the edge of a great rocky slab,
but are instantly at some little distance apart, looking at each other
and bearing themselves after the manner of rivals. How they separated,
whether as recoiling from a conflict, or avoiding it, I cannot now say.
The movements of birds are often so quick, that the eye, though it may
follow, forgets them as they pass. On another occasion, a bird close to
where I sit, on hearing the pipe from a rock a little off the shore,
becomes excited, pipes for a moment itself, and then darts off to the
rock. On alighting, he instantly runs to the piping bird, and the two
pipe together to a third, exactly as before. This third one, silent and
unresponsive, soon flies away. The piping instantly ceases, and the two
birds assume normal attitudes.
"The note of the male oyster-catcher when thus courting the female
differs both from its ordinary one, and, as I think, from that of the
female. The usual note is a loud 'wich, wich, wich,' or some similar
sharp, penetrative cry, constantly reiterated. The pipe is a much more
wonderful affair, and, though harsh, is like a real composition. It is
of long continuance, beginning with something like 'kee, kee, kee, kee,
ker-vie, ker-vie, ker-vie, ker-vie, ker-vie,' a loud and ear-piercing
clamour. Gradually, however, it sinks, becoming in its later stages
quite faint, and ending, commonly, in a sort of long-drawn-out,
quavering trill which the bird seems to pause upon with pleasure.
Holding down its head all the time, it seems to drink in every tittle
of the sound, and to strive to give it its full and just expression.
So much has it, whilst doing this, the appearance of a musician, and
so much does the long, straight, orange bill resemble a pipe it is
playing on, that if fingers were to appear there of a sudden, and begin
to 'govern the stops,' one would hardly feel surprise--for a moment or
two. A point to be noted is that the piping bird is not always turned
towards the female he is courting, even when close beside her. He turns
towards her, commonly (perhaps always), when he begins, but having
once begun, he seems more enthralled by his own music than by her, and
will turn from side to side, or even right round and away from her, as
though in the rhythmical sway of his piping."
Here, then, at last, we have upon our own shores, and amongst our own
birds, an unmistakable case of a display or performance of a very
marked character, in which three birds are present, though one takes
only a passive part. The motive power here is obviously sexual; two
males are, at least to all appearance, courting one female. But I made
at the time this special observation, that, though the rival birds
did, upon two occasions, fly at each other, and though the piping of
one always brought the other over to him to pipe in rivalry, yet,
when once they began to pipe vigorously, their interest seemed to
become centred in, and, as it were, abstracted into this. The actual
display, in this case vocal, seemed to have become, or to be in
process of becoming, of more importance than the emotion which had
given birth to it, the essence seemed merged into the form, the book
had become its binding. I suggest that this may be sometimes actually
the case in nature, that a movement, or a note, or series of notes, may
become itself so all-absorbing as to demand the whole consciousness
of the bird who, in performing it, forgets the why and the wherefore
of the performance. Let this process once commence, and certain
movements--antics--performed at first with a definite object, might be
gone through at last for themselves alone, the object having become now
merely to perform them. In this case, we should have a pure antic or
display, the reason of it being unobvious and its origin a puzzle. Such
a principle, if it exists, might, perhaps, be called the "law of the
formalisation of actions once purposive" (which sounds learned enough),
and perhaps traces of it may be seen amongst ourselves. What, for
instance, are our civilised dances except movements which have become
quite formal and meaningless, but which once, as in the war-dance of
the savage, had an intense significance? The analogy is not quite
perfect, unless we could show that actual war, for instance, had
sometimes passed into a dance. Whether this has ever been the case with
man I do not know, but I believe that it may have actually happened
with some birds, for which idea I will further on adduce my, perhaps,
somewhat slender evidence. But, coming back to the oyster-catchers, I
can understand that under such a law as this, the actions of the two
male birds in regard to the female might gradually get to be of a
quite formal and non-courting nature, and, though I will not here try
to indicate the steps by which the female bird might gradually enter
into the dance-movements or the song, they do not seem to me impossible
to conceive of. The number of performers, however, having once become
fixed, would be likely to continue, through habit, as long as no other
influence arose to affect it.
The fact that it was in the early days of July, when the true
courting-season should have been over, that I witnessed these
movements, may perhaps strengthen the above view.
In seeking to explain such performances as those of the spur-winged
lapwing in this latter way, one must assume the number of three
birds to have originated in accordance with general principles, and
that first there has been a real courtship of the female bird by two
males, the antics proper to which have, at last, become stereotyped
into a formal dance or display. This, however, would not exclude the
possibility of what I have suggested in the case of the dabchicks and
common peewit, and I believe myself that it is not by one only, but by
many causes, that the many curious antics of birds are to be explained.
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