BEAUTIFUL BIRDS
[Illustration: LYRE-BIRD]
BEAUTIFUL BIRDS
BY
EDMUND SELOUS
AUTHOR OF "TOMMY SMITH'S ANIMALS"
WITH MANY ILLUSTRATIONS BY
HUBERT D. ASTLEY
1901
LONDON: J. M. DENT & CO.
29 & 30 BEDFORD STREET, W.C.
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
At the Ballantyne Press
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. WHY BEAUTIFUL BIRDS ARE KILLED 1
II. BIRDS OF PARADISE 20
III. THE GREAT BIRD OF PARADISE 35
IV. THE RED BIRD OF PARADISE 56
V. THE LESSER, BLACK, BLUE, AND GOLDEN BIRDS OF PARADISE 67
VI. ABOUT ALL BIRDS OF PARADISE, AND SOME EXPLANATIONS 93
VII. ABOUT HUMMING-BIRDS, AND SOME MORE EXPLANATIONS 108
VIII. SOME VERY BRIGHT HUMMING-BIRDS 129
IX. HERMIT HUMMING-BIRDS AND TWO OTHER ONES 151
X. THE COCK-OF-THE-ROCK AND THE LYRE-BIRD 164
XI. THE RESPLENDENT TROGON AND THE ARGUS PHEASANT 179
XII. WHITE EGRETS, "OSPREYS," AND OSTRICH-FEATHERS 203
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_Lyre-Bird_ _Frontispiece_
_Page_
_Papuan shooting Birds of Paradise_ 49
_Lesser Bird of Paradise_ 69
_King Bird of Paradise_ 77
_Golden-winged Bird of Paradise_ 89
_Racquet-tailed Humming-Bird_ 113
_Plover-crest Humming-Bird_ 125
_Train-bearer Humming-Bird_ 131
_Cock-of-the-Rock_ 168
_Resplendent Trogon_ 187
_Argus Pheasant_ 195
_White Egret_ 205
_End Piece_ 225
[Illustration]
BEAUTIFUL BIRDS.
CHAPTER I
Why Beautiful Birds are Killed
What beautiful things birds are! Can you think of any other creatures
that are quite so beautiful? I know you will say "Butterflies," and
perhaps it _is_ a race between the birds and the butterflies, but
I think the birds win it even here in England. Just think of the
Kingfisher, that bird that is like a little live chip of the blue
sky, flying about all by itself, and doing just what it likes. The
Sky-blue Butterfly is like that too, I know, but then it is a much
smaller chip, and does not shine in the sun in such a wonderful way
as the Kingfisher does. Neither, I think, does the Peacock-Butterfly,
or the Red Admiral, or the Painted Lady, or the Greater or Lesser
Tortoise-shell; and, besides, they none of them go so fast. Yes,
all those butterflies are beautiful, very, very beautiful. But now,
supposing they were all flying about in a field that a river was
winding through, and, supposing you were sitting there too, amongst
the daisies and buttercups in the bright summer sunshine, and looking
at them, and supposing all at once there was a little dancing dot of
light far away down the river, and that it came gleaming and gleaming
along, getting nearer and nearer and keeping just in the middle all
the time, till it passed you like a sapphire sunbeam, like a star upon
a bird's wings, then I am sure you would look and look at it all the
time it was coming, and look and look after it all the time it was
going away, and when at last it was quite gone you would sit wondering,
forgetting about the butterflies, and thinking only of that star-bird,
that little jewelly gem. But, perhaps, if you were to see a _Purple
Emperor_ sweeping along--ah, _he_ is a _very_ magnificent butterfly, is
the purple emperor. You can tell that from his name, but whether he is
_quite_ so magnificent as a star-bird (for that is what we will call
the Kingfisher)--well, it is not so easy to decide. The birds and the
butterflies are both beautiful, there is no doubt about that, only this
little book is about beautiful birds, and perhaps afterwards there will
be another one about beautiful butterflies. That will be quite fair to
both.
The birds, then! We will talk about them. I am going to tell you about
some of the most beautiful ones that there are, and to describe them
to you, so that you will know something about what they are like. But
perhaps you think that you know that already because you have seen
them, so that _you_ could tell _me_ what they are like. There is the
star-bird that we have been talking about, and then there is the Thrush
and the Blackbird. What two more beautiful birds could you see than
they, as they hop about over the lawn of your garden in the early dewy
morning? The Blackbird is all over of such a dark, glossy, velvety
black, and his bill is such a lovely, deep, orangy gold. It would be
difficult, surely, to find a handsomer bird, but the Thrush, with his
lovely speckled breast, is just as handsome. Then the Robin with _his_
crimson breast, and his little round ball of a body--what bird could be
prettier? Or the Chaffinch, or Greenfinch, or Linnet? Or the Bullfinch,
surely _he_ is handsomer than all of them (except the star-bird), with
his beautiful mauve-peach-cherry-crimson breast, and his coal-black
head and nice fat beak, and that pleasant, saucy look that he has.
Yes, _he_ is the handsomest, unless--oh, just fancy! we were actually
leaving out the Goldfinch. _He_ has crimson on each side of his face,
and a black velvet cap on his head, whilst on both his wings he has
feathers of a beautiful, bright, golden yellow. I think _he must_ be
the handsomest, unless it is the Brambling, who is dressed all in
russet and gold. And then there is the Yellow-Wagtail! Could one think
of a prettier little bird than he is--unless one tried a good deal?
To be a wagtail at all is something, but to be not only a Wagtail but
yellow all over as well, _that does_ make a pretty little bird! And I
daresay you have seen him running about on your lawn, too, at the same
time as the thrush and the blackbird. And there is _another_ bird,
one that you do not see running or hopping over your lawn, but flying
over it, sometimes far above it, when the sky is blue and the insects
are high in the air, sometimes just skimming it when it is dull and
cloudy and the insects are flying low. You know what bird it is I mean,
now--the Swallow. I need not _say_ how beautiful _he_ is.
So, as you have seen all these pretty birds, and a good many others
too--at least if you live in the country and not in London--perhaps you
think that there cannot be many, or perhaps any, that are so _very_
much prettier. Ah, but do not be too sure about that. You must never
think that because something is very beautiful there can be nothing
still more beautiful. _You_ may not be able to imagine anything more
beautiful, but that may be only because your imagination is not strong
enough to do it. It may be a very good imagination in its way, better
than mine perhaps, or a great many other people's, but still it is not
good enough. In fact there is not one of us who has an imagination
which _is_ good enough to do things like that. _We_ could never have
imagined birds which are still more beautiful than those we have been
talking about. Indeed we could never have imagined those that we _have_
been talking about. Only Dame Nature has been able to imagine them both.
_She_ can imagine anything, and the funny thing is that as she imagines
it, there it is--just as if she had cut it out with a pair of scissors.
Perhaps she does do that. She is a lady--_Dame_ Nature, you know--so
she would know how to use a pair of scissors. But what _her_ scissors
are like and how she uses them and what sort of stuff it is that she
cuts things out of, those are things which nobody knows. Only, there
are the birds, not only the beautiful ones that you have seen, but a
very great many others which you have never seen, and which are so very
much more beautiful than the ones you have, that if you were to see
those beside them, they would look quite--well no, not ugly--thrushes
and blackbirds and swallows and robin-redbreasts could not look
_that_--but insignificant--in comparison.
Now it is about some of those birds--the very beautiful birds of
all, the most beautiful ones in the whole world--that I am going to
tell you; but all the while I am telling you, you must remember that
they--these very beautiful birds--do not sing, whilst _our_ birds--the
insignificant-looking ones--do. So you must not think poorly of
our birds because their colours are plain or even dingy--I mean in
comparison with these other ones--for if they have not the great beauty
of plumage, they have the great beauty of song. And perhaps you would
not so very much mind growing up plain, like a lark or a nightingale
(which would not be so very, very plain), if you could _sing_ like a
lark or a nightingale--as perhaps one day you will.
Indeed, I sometimes wish that those very beautiful birds were not quite
so beautiful as they are. You will think that a funny wish to have, but
there is a sensible reason for it, which I will explain to you. Perhaps
if they were not quite so beautiful, not quite so many of them would be
killed. For, strange as it may seem to you--and I know it _will_ seem
strange--it is just because the birds _are_ beautiful that hundreds and
hundreds, yes, and thousands and thousands, of them are being killed
every day. Yes, it is quite true. I wish it were not, but I am sorry to
say it is. People kill the birds _because_ they are beautiful. But is
not that cruel? Yes, indeed it is, very, very cruel. It is cruel for
two reasons: first, because to kill them gives them pain; and secondly,
because their life is so happy. Can anything be happier than the life
of a bird? Surely not. Only to fly, just think how delightful that
must be, and then to be always living in green, leafy palaces under
the bright, warm sun and the blue sky. For I must tell you that these
birds we are going to talk about live where the trees are always leafy,
where the sun is always bright and the sky always blue. So they are
always happy. Even if a bird _could_ be unhappy in winter--which I am
not at all sure about--there is no winter there. Now the happier any
creature is the more cruel it is to kill it and take that happiness
away from it. I am sure you will understand that. If you were carrying
a very heavy weight, which tired you and made you stoop and gave you no
pleasure at all, and some one were to come and take it away from you,
you would not think that so very cruel. You would have nothing now, it
is true, but then all you _had_ had was that weight, which was so heavy
and made you stoop. But, now, if you were carrying a beautiful bunch of
flowers which smelt sweetly and weighed just nothing at all, and some
one were to take _that_ away, you would think _that_ cruel, I am sure.
A bird's life is like that bunch of flowers. How cruel, then, it must
be to take it away from any bird. We should think it very wrong if some
one were to kill _us_. Yet it is not _always_ a bunch of flowers that
_we_ are carrying.
So, as it is cruel to kill the birds, and as they are not nearly so
beautiful when they are dead as they are when they are alive, and as
the world is full of tender-hearted women to love them and plead for
them and to say, "Do not kill them," perhaps you will wonder why it is
that they are killed. I will tell you how it has come about. When Dame
Nature had imagined all her beautiful birds, and then cut them out of
that wonderful stuff of hers--the stuff of life--with her marvellous
pair of scissors, she said to her eldest daughter--whose name is
Truth--"Now I will leave them and go away for a little, for there are
other places where I must imagine things and cut them out with my
scissors." Truth said, "Do not leave the birds, for there are men in
the world with hard hearts and a film over their eyes. They will see
the birds, but not their beauty, because of the film, and they will
kill them because of their hearts, which are like marble or rock or
stone." "They are, it is true," said Dame Nature, "and indeed it was of
some such material that I cut them out. I had my reasons, but you would
never understand them, so I shall not tell you what they were. But
there are not only my men in the world; there are my women too. I cut
_them_ out of something very different. It was soft and yielding, and
that part that went to make the heart was like water--like soft water.
I made them, too, to have influence over the men, and I put no film
over _their_ eyes. _They_ will see how beautiful my birds are, and they
will know that they are more beautiful alive than dead. And because of
this and their soft hearts they will not kill them, and to the men they
will say, 'Do not kill them,' and my beautiful birds will live. Women
will spare them because they have pity, and men because women ask them
to. And to make it still more certain, see yonder on that hill sits the
Goddess of Pity. She has come from heaven to help me, and has promised
to stay till I return. It is from her that pity goes into all those
hearts that have it, and because she is a goddess, she sends most of it
into the hearts of women. Have no fear, then, for until the Goddess of
Pity falls asleep my birds are safe." "But _may_ she not fall asleep?"
said Truth. But Dame Nature had hurried away with her scissors, and was
out of hearing.
As soon as she was gone, there crept out of a dark cave, where he had
been hiding, an ugly little mannikin, who hated Dame Nature and her
daughter Truth, and did everything he could to spite them both. Their
very names made him angry. He was a demon, really, and ugly, as I say.
But he did not _look_ ugly, because nobody saw him. All that people saw
when they looked at him was a suit of clothes, and this suit of clothes
was so well made and so fashionable, and fitted him so well, that they
always thought the ugly demon inside it was just what he ought to be.
So, of course, as every one had different ideas as to what he ought to
be, he seemed different to different people. One person looked at the
clothes, and thought him quite remarkable, another one looked at them
and thought him ordinary and commonplace, and so on. Only every one was
pleased, because, whatever else he seemed, he always seemed just what
he ought to be. So, when two people both found that he was that, they
each of them thought that he looked the same to the other. Of course
the clothes were enchanted, really, only nobody knew it, and if any one
had been told that it was the clothes and not the demon inside them
they were looking at, he would not have believed it. It was only Dame
Nature and her daughter Truth who could look at those clothes and see
the little demon inside them, just as he really was. That was why he
hated them, and never liked to hear their names.
This ugly little demon crept up to the Goddess of Pity, who looked at
the clothes and was not even able to pity him; and, when he saw that he
had her good opinion, he began to repeat a sort of charm to send her
to sleep, for he knew that when once the Goddess of Pity was asleep he
might do whatever he liked.
These were the words of the charm:--
Fashion, fashion, fashion!
Give a little sneer.
Fashion, fashion, fashion!
Science makes it clear.
Fashion, fashion, fashion!
A bird is not a bat.
Fashion, fashion, fashion!
Such a pretty hat!
Under the influence of this drowsy charm--which, of course, had no
meaning in it whatever--the Goddess of Pity began to nod, and nodded
and nodded till, on the last line, she went fast asleep, with a pleased
smile on her face.
Then the wicked little demon took from one of the pockets in the suit
of clothes that charmed everybody two little bottles that contained two
different sorts of powders, one hot like pepper, and the other cold
like ice, but both of them so fine that they were quite invisible. He
took a pinch of the hot powder which was labelled "Vanity," and blew it
upon the heads of all the women, and the instant it touched them they
all looked pleased, and you could see that they were thinking only of
how they looked, though they _talked_ in a _very_ different way. It was
funny that they _all_ looked pleased, because a great many--in fact,
most of them--were plain, not pretty, and yet they looked pleased too,
as well as the others. But, you see, it was all done by magic. Then
from the other little bottle, which was labelled "Apathy," the demon
took a pinch of the cold powder and blew it on the women's hearts, and
as soon as it fell on them they became frozen, so that all the pity
that had been in them before was frozen, too. Frozen pity, you know, is
of no good whatever. You can no more be kind with it in that state than
you can bathe in frozen water. So now there was nothing but vanity in
the women's heads, and no pity in their hearts, and as the Goddess of
Pity was fast asleep, it was not possible for any more to be put into
them until she woke up. Nobody could tell when that would be. Gods and
goddesses sometimes sleep for a long time, and very soundly. Besides,
you know, this was a charmed sleep.
So, now, what happened after the wicked little demon had behaved in
this wicked way? Why, the women whose hearts he had frozen began to
kill the poor, beautiful birds, those birds that Dame Nature loved so,
and had taken such pains to keep alive. I do not mean that they killed
them themselves with their own hands. No, they did not do that, for
they had not enough time to go to the countries where the beautiful
birds lived, which were often a long way off as well as being very
unhealthy. You see they were wanted at home, and so to have gone away
from home into unhealthy countries to kill birds would have been
_selfish_, and one should never be that. So instead of killing them
themselves the women sent men to kill them for them, for _they_ could
be spared much better, and if they should not come back they would not
be nearly so much missed. And the women said to the men, "Kill the
birds and tear off their wings, their tails, their bright breasts and
heads to sew into our hats or onto the sleeves and collars of our gowns
and mantles. Kill them and bring them to us, that you may think us even
more lovely than you have done before, when you compare our beauty with
theirs and find that ours is the greater. Let us shine down the birds,
for they are conceited and think themselves our rivals. Then kill them.
Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill them." Then the men, whose hearts had
always been hard, and over whose eyes there was a film, went forth into
the world and began to kill the poor, beautiful birds wherever they
could find them. Everywhere the earth was stained with their blood,
and the air thick with floating feathers that had been torn from their
poor, wounded bodies. It was full, too, of their frightened cries, and
of the wails of their starving young ones for the parents who were dead
and could not feed them any more. For it is just at the time when the
birds lay their eggs and rear their young ones that their plumage is
most beautiful--most exquisitely beautiful--and it was just this most
_exquisitely_ beautiful plumage that the women, whose hearts the wicked
little demon had frozen, wanted to put into their hats. They knew that
to get it the young fledgling birds must starve in their nests. But
they did not mind that now, their hearts were frozen and the Goddess of
Pity was asleep.
So the birds were killed, and the lovely, painted feathers that had
lighted up whole forests or made a country beautiful, were pressed
close together into dark ugly boxes--or things like boxes--called
"crates" (large it is true, but not _quite_ so large as a forest
or a country), and then brought over the seas in ships, to dark,
ugly houses, where they were taken out and flung in a great heap on
the floor. Soon they were sewn into hats which were set out in the
windows of milliners' shops for the women with the frozen hearts to
buy. You may see such hats now, any time you walk about the streets
of London--or of Paris or Vienna, if you go there--for the Goddess of
Pity is still sleeping, she has not woken up yet. There you will see
them, and outside the window, looking at them--sometimes in a great
crowd--you will see those poor women that the demon has treated so
badly. There they stand, looking and looking, ravenous, hungry--you
would almost say they were--longing to buy them, even though they have
new ones of the same sort on their head. Ah, if they could see those
birds as they looked when they were shot, before they were dressed
and cleaned and made to look so smart and fashionable! If they could
see them with the blood-stains upon them, the wet, warm drops running
down over the bright breasts--perhaps onto the little ones underneath
them--the poor, broken wings dragging over the ground and trying to
rise into the air, through which they had once flown so easily, the
flapping, the struggling! If they could see all this, and much more
that had been done--that _had_ to be done--before there was that
nice, gay, elegant shop-window for them to look into, would it not
be different then, would not the vain heads begin to think a little
and the frozen hearts to melt? No, I do not think so, because of the
ugly little demon in the correct suit of clothes. They would look
in at the window and go in at the door still, and--shall I tell you
something?--it would be the same, just the same, if all those bright
feathers in every one of the hats had been stripped, not from the
birds' but from the _angels'_ wings. Those who could wear the one could
wear the other, and if angels were to come down here I should not
wonder if angel-hats were to get to be quite the fashion. Only first,
of course, angels would _have_ to come down here. I do not think they
are so _very_ likely to.
And the worst of it is that not only the _pretty_ women wear the
beautiful birds in their hats, but the plain ones do too, which makes
so many more of them to be killed. If it was _only_ the pretty women
who wore them it would not be quite so bad, but the wicked little demon
was much too clever to arrange it like that. He did not wish any of
the birds to escape, and I cannot tell you how many _millions_ of them
_would_ escape if only the pretty women were to wear their feathers.
But now, how are the birds to be saved--for _we_ want them _all_ to
escape--and how are the women to be saved? That is another thing. You
know it is not _their_ fault. They were kind and pitiful till the
wicked little demon blew his powder into their hearts. It is _his_
fault. You may be angry with _him_ as much as you like, but you must
not think of being angry with the women. Indeed, you should be sorry
for them, more even than for the birds, for it is much worse to be a
woman with a frozen heart than to be a bird and be shot. Oh, poor,
frozen-hearted women, who _would_ be so kind and so pitiful if only
they were allowed to be, if only the wicked little demon would go
away, and the Goddess of Pity would wake up!
Then is there no way of saving them both, the poor birds and the poor
women? Yes, there is a way, and it is you--the children--who are to
find it out. Listen. It is so simple. All you have to do is to ask
these women (these _poor_ women) _not_ to wear the hats that have
feathers, that have birds' lives in them, and they will not do so any
more. They will listen to you. There is nobody else they would listen
to, but they will to you--the children. Perhaps you think that funny.
Listen and I will explain it. When the wicked little demon blew his
powder called "Apathy" into the hearts of the women, it froze them all
up, as I have told you, but there was just one little spot in every
one of their hearts that it was not able to freeze. That was the spot
called Motherly Love, which every woman has in her heart, and which
is the softest spot of all, if only a little child presses it--and
especially if it is her own little child. So I want you--the little
children who read this little book--to press that spot and to save
the birds from being killed. Nobody can do it but you, nobody even
can find that spot except you, but you will find it directly. And you
are to press it in this way. Throw, each one of you, your arms round
your mother's neck, kiss her and ask her not to kill the birds, not
to wear the hats that make the birds be killed. And if you do that and
really mean what you say, if you are really sorry for the birds and
have real tears in your eyes (or at least in your hearts), then your
mother will do as you have asked her, for you will have pressed that
spot, that soft spot, that spot that even the wicked little demon, try
as he might, could not freeze, could not make hard. And as you press
it, the whole heart that has been frozen will become warm again, and
the powder of the demon will go out of it, and the Goddess of Pity will
wake up. You will do this, will you not? It is only asking, and what
can be easier than to ask something of your mother? But you must make
her promise. Never, never leave off asking her till you have got her to
promise.
And if some of you have mothers who do not kill the birds, who do not
wear the hats that have birds' lives sewn into them, well it will do
them no harm to promise too. Then they never _will_ wear them, and if
they should never mean to wear them, they will be all the more ready
to promise not to. Only in that case you might put your arms round the
neck of some other woman that you have seen wearing those hats and kiss
_her_ and ask _her_ to promise. And she will, you will have touched
that spot because you are a little child, even though you are not her
own little child. Perhaps you will remind her of a little child that
was hers once.
Now I am going to tell you about some of the most beautiful birds that
there are in the world, but you must remember that they are being
killed so fast every day that, unless you get that promise from your
mother very quickly, there will soon be no more of them left; as soon
as she promises it will be all right, for of course it will not be only
_your_ mother who will have promised, but the mother of every other
little girl all over the country, and as the birds were only being
killed to put into their hats, they will be let alone now, for now no
more hats like that will be wanted. No one will wear hats that have
birds' lives sewn into them, any more.
So the beautiful birds will go on living and flying about in the world
and making _it_ beautiful, too. You will have saved them--_you_ the
children will have saved them--and no grown-up person will have done
_anything_ to be more proud about. I daresay a grown-up person _would_
be more proud about what he had done, even if it was nothing very
particular; but _that_ is another matter.
Now we will begin, and as we come to one bird after another, you shall
make your mother promise not to wear it in her hat.