Birds of Paradise
First I will tell you about the Birds of Paradise. You have heard of
them perhaps, and how beautiful they are, but you may have thought that
birds with a name like that did not live here at all. For the Emperor
of China lives in China, and if the Emperor of China lives in China,
the Birds of Paradise ought, one would think, to live in Paradise. But
that is not the case--not now at any rate. They live a very long way
off, it is true, right over at the other side of the world, but it is
not quite so far off as Paradise is. No, it cannot be there that they
live, because if you were to leave England in a ship and sail always in
the right direction, you would come at last to the very place, instead
of coming right round to England again, which is what you would do if
you were to sail for Paradise--for you know, of course, that the earth
is round. But why, then, are they called Birds of Paradise if they live
here on the earth? Well, there are two ways of explaining it. I will
tell you first one and then the other, and you can choose the way you
like best. The first way is this.
A long time ago--but long after the little demon had crept out of his
cave--the early Portuguese voyagers (whom your mother will tell you
about), when they came to the Moluccas to get spices, were shown the
dried skins of beautiful birds which were called by the natives "Manuk
dewata," which means "God's birds." There were no wings or feet to the
skins, and the natives told the Portuguese that these birds had never
had any, but that they lived always in the air, never coming down
to settle on the earth, and keeping themselves all the while turned
towards the sun. One would have thought they must have wanted wings, at
any rate, to be always in the air, but that is what the natives said.
So the Portuguese, who did not quite know what to make of it, called
them "Passaros de Sol," which means "Sun-birds" or "Birds-of-the-Sun,"
because of their always turning towards him. Some time after that, a
learned Dutchman who wrote in Latin (just think!), called these birds
"Aves Paradisei"--Paradise Birds or Birds of Paradise--and he told
every one that they had never been seen alive by anybody, but only
after they had fallen down dead out of the clouds, when they were
picked up without wings or feet, and still lying with their heads
towards the sun in the way they had fallen. So, after that these
wonderful birds were always called "Birds of Paradise." That is one way
of explaining how they got their names, but the other way, and perhaps
you will think it a _little_ more probable, is this.
Once the Birds of Paradise were really Birds of Paradise, for they
lived there and were ever so much more beautiful than they are now,
though perhaps, if you were to see them flying about in their native
forests, you would hardly believe that possible. That is because
you cannot imagine _how_ beautiful _real_ Birds of Paradise are,
for these Birds of Paradise were not more beautiful than the other
ones that lived there. All were as beautiful as each other though in
different ways, and it was just that which made these Birds of Paradise
discontented. "If we go down to earth," said they, "the birds of all
the world will do homage to us on account of our superior beauty, for
there will be none to equal us. So we shall reign over them and be
their King. Here we are only like all the others. None of them fly to
the tree on which we are sitting to do us homage." "Do not be foolish,"
said the tree (for in Paradise trees and all can speak). "The homage
which you desire you would soon weary of, and the beauty which you
enjoy here would, on earth, be only a pain to you, for it would remind
you of the Paradise you had left but could never enter again. For
those who once leave Paradise can never more return to it. Therefore
be wise and stay, for if you go you will repent, but then it will be
too late." And all the birds around said, "Stay," and then they raised
their voices, which were lovelier than you can imagine, in a song of
joy--of joy that they were in Paradise and not on earth. And the Birds
of Paradise sang too, their voices were as sweet as any, but they had
envy and discontent in their hearts. "Our singing cannot be surpassed,
it is true," thought they, "but it is equalled by that of every other
bird. We sing in a chorus merely. It would not be so on earth. We
should be 'prima donnas' there." (Your mother will tell you what a
prima donna is as well as what doing homage means.)
So, when the song was over, they flew to the Phenix, who was the most
important and powerful bird of all the birds that were in Paradise. I
have told you that all the birds there were equal, and so they were,
only, you see, the Phenix was a little _more_ equal than the others.
One cannot be a Phenix for nothing. Now it was only the Phenix who
could open the gate of Paradise, and let any bird in or out of it. He
was not obliged to let them in, and there were very few birds (who
were not there already) that he ever did let in. Many and many a bird
fluttered and fluttered outside the door, that had to fly away again.
But if a bird that was in Paradise wanted to go out of it, then the
Phenix had to open the door and let it out, because if it had stayed it
would have been discontented, and birds that are discontented cannot
stay in Paradise. It would not be Paradise for long if they could. So
when the Birds of Paradise said to the Phenix, "Let us out, for we
are tired of being here, where all are equal, and wish to be kings
and 'prima donnas' on earth," he had to do it, only he warned them as
the tree had done, that if they once left Paradise they could never
come back to it again. "The door of Paradise," said he, "may be passed
through twice, but only entered once. When you pass through it the
second time, it is to go out of it, and when you are once out of it,
out of it you must remain. You can never come in again; you can only
flutter at the gate."
"We shall never do that," said the proud Birds of Paradise. "We shall
stay down on earth and be kings and 'prima donnas' amongst the other
birds." So the Phenix let them out, and they flew down through the warm
summer sky, looking like soft suns or trembling stars or colours out of
the sunrise or sunset, they were so beautiful.
Then the birds of earth flew around them and did them homage, and, when
they sang, the nightingale stood silent and hid her head for shame, and
would never sing in the daytime any more, but only at night when the
beautiful strangers were asleep. That is why the nightingale sings by
night and not by day--only since the Birds of Paradise have lost their
voice (which I am going to tell you about) she does sing in the daytime
sometimes, just a little.
So the Birds of Paradise were kings and "prima donnas" amongst the
birds of earth, and they were happy--for a time. They were not quite
so happy after a little while, for they got tired of hearing the birds
praise them, and, wherever they looked, they saw nothing to give
them pleasure. The earth, indeed, was beautiful, but they remembered
Paradise, and that made it seem ugly. There was nothing for them to see
that was worth the seeing, or to hear that was worth the listening to,
except their own beauty and their own song. But that reminded them of
Paradise, and they could not bear to be reminded of it now that they
had lost it for ever. In fact they were miserable, and it was not long
before they were all fluttering outside the gates of Paradise, and
begging the Phenix to let them in. But the Phenix said, "No, I cannot.
I warned you that the gates of Paradise could only be passed twice,
once in and once out, and then no more. I tried to keep you from going,
but you chose to go, and now you must stay outside. You can never enter
Paradise again." "If we cannot enter it," said the poor Birds of
Paradise, "let us at least forget it. Take away our beautiful voices,
so that, when we sing, we shall not think of all the joys we have lost.
Let our song be no more than the lark's or the nightingale's, or make
us only able to twitter, and not sing at all. Then we can listen to the
lark and the nightingale, and perhaps, in time, we may grow to admire
them. As it is, we must either sing or be silent. We do not like to sit
silent, and when we sing we think only of Paradise." "Yes," said the
Phenix, "I will take your voice, your beautiful voice of song." So he
took it, and that is why the Birds of Paradise never sing at all now,
not even as the lark and the nightingale sing.
After that they were happier, but still they had their great beauty,
their glorious, glorious plumage, and when they looked at each other
they felt sad and hung their heads, for still they thought of Paradise.
"You have taken our song from us," they said (for they were soon there
at the gate again), "but still our beauty remains. Take that also,
that, when we look at each other, we may not think of the Paradise we
have lost, and be wretched." "Fly back to earth," said the Phenix,
"and when you are a little way off I will open the gates of Paradise
wide, and the brightness that is in it will stream out and scorch your
feathers, and you will be beautiful no more. Only you must fly fast,
and you must not turn to look, for if you do, the brightness will blind
you. You could bear it once when you lived in it and had known nothing
else, but now that you have lived on earth you cannot. It would only
blind you now." So the Birds of Paradise flew towards the earth, and,
when they had got a little way, the Phenix opened the gates (he had
only been speaking to them through the keyhole), and, as the splendour
of Paradise streamed forth and fell upon them, their feathers were
scorched in its excessive brightness, all except a few tufts and plumes
which were not quite destroyed, because, you see, they were getting
farther away every second. A little of their beauty was left, and that
was enough to make them the most beautiful birds on earth (till we come
to the Humming-birds), but they are very ugly compared to what they
once were when they lived in Paradise. Think then, what the real Birds
of Paradise must be like when those that have left it, and have had
their plumage scorched and spoilt, are so very beautiful. That is the
other way of explaining how there come to be Birds of Paradise living
on the earth, and I think you will say that it is the more sensible
way of the two. For as for people having ever believed that there were
birds who had no feet or wings, and that lived always in the air with
their heads turned towards the sun, why, _that_ does not seem possible.
Nobody could have believed in a thing like that, but _here_ is a
_natural_ explanation.
But now you must not think that the Birds of Paradise which are in the
world to-day, are the very same ones that used to live in Paradise,
and that had their feathers scorched. Oh no, you must not think that.
Those old Birds of Paradise died (for, of course, as soon as they came
to earth they became mortal, they had been immortal before), but before
they died they had laid a great many eggs, and reared a great many
young ones, and these young ones, as soon as they were grown up, laid
other eggs, and the birds that came out of those eggs laid others, and
so it has been going on for hundreds of thousands of years, right up
to now. And _now_, if you were to ask a Bird of Paradise where it was
he used to live, and why he had lost his voice and got his feathers
scorched, he would not know one bit what you were talking about. In
hundreds of thousands of years a great many things are forgotten, and
the Birds of Paradise of to-day are quite happy. The earth is quite
good enough for them, and if they were not shot and put into hats for
the women with the frozen hearts to wear, they would have nothing to
complain of. They have something to complain of now, but you must
remember your promise, and then, perhaps, they will not be shot any
more.
Now, the Birds of Paradise that live on the earth to-day do not live
all over it, as they used to do in those old days when they could hear
the lark and the nightingale. It is only a very small part of the
world that they live in now--small, I mean, compared to the rest of
it--and there are no larks or nightingales there. I will tell you where
it is. Far away over the deep sea, farther than Africa, farther than
India, farther even than Burma or Siam, there are a number of great
islands and small islands and middling-sized islands, which lie between
Asia and Australia, and all of these together are called the Malay
Archipelago. The largest of all these islands, and the one that is
farthest away too, is called New Guinea, and it is a very large island
indeed, the largest, in fact, in the world after Australia, which, as
you know, is so large that we call it a continent. Round about this
great island of New Guinea, and not very far from its shores, there are
some other islands which are quite tiny in comparison, and it is here,
just in this one great island and in these few small islands near it,
that the Birds of Paradise live. They do not live in any of the other
islands of the Malay Archipelago, but only just here in the ones that
are farthest away of all.
It would take you weeks to go in a steamer to where the Birds of
Paradise live, and if you were to go, not in a steamer but in a ship
with sails, it would take you longer still. But when you got there you
would not see the Birds of Paradise flying all about, as soon as you
went ashore out of the ship or the steamer, as you would see sparrows
here. Oh no, Birds of Paradise are not so common as that, even in their
own country. They do not come into the towns, like sparrows, either,
but live in the great forests where people do not often go, and even
when one does go into them, it is difficult to see them amongst the
great tall trees and the broad-fronded ferns and the long, hanging
creepers that make a tangle from one tree to another.
Ah, those are wonderful forests, those forests far away over the seas!
Some of the trees have trunks so thick that a dozen men--or perhaps
twenty--would not be able to circle them round by joining their hands
together, and so tall that when you looked up you would not be able to
see their tops. They would go shooting up and up like the spires of
great cathedrals, till at last they would be lost in a green sky, not
the real sky, the blue one--that would be higher up still--but a green
sky of leaves made by all the trees themselves, and in this sky of
leaves there would be flower-stars almost as bright and as beautiful
as the real stars of the real sky. Then there are other trees that
have their roots growing right out of the ground, and going up more
than a hundred feet high into the air. At the top of them is the tree
itself, going up another hundred feet, or perhaps more, so that the
real tree--the trunk at any rate--begins in the air, and before you
could climb it, you would have to climb its roots, which _does_ seem
funny. And there are palm-trees with long, tall, slender trunks, smooth
and shining, crowned with leaves that are like large green fans; and
rattan-palms, which are quite different, for instead of being straight,
their trunks twist round and round the trunks of other trees, going
right up to their very tops, and raising their own most beautiful
feathery ones above theirs. Sometimes they will climb first up one tree
and then down it again, and up another, and then down that, till they
have climbed up and down several trees, all of them very, very tall.
How tall--or rather how _long_--_they_ must be you may think. We say
that a snake is so many feet long, not tall, and these rattan-palms are
palm-creepers, great vegetable serpents, that twist and coil as they
grow, and hug the forest in their great coils, which are larger and
more powerful than those of any python or boa-constrictor. A python or
a boa-constrictor could not kill a _very_ large animal, but the great
palm-snakes will crawl up the largest tree, and crush it and squeeze
it till at last it dies and comes thundering down in the forest, and
then they will crawl along the ground to another, and hug that to
death, too. Then there are tree-ferns, which are ferns that have trunks
like trees, which are sometimes thirty feet high, with fronds growing
from their tops, so broad and tall that a number of people could sit
underneath them in their cool, deep shade, as if they were a tent. And
there are wonderful flowers in these forests, such as you only see here
in botanical gardens or in the conservatories of rich people, orchids
and pitcher-plants, and others with Latin names that one forgets. Some
of them are flower-trees, or tree-flowers, as high as the trees are,
and with hundreds of large, crimson blossoms glowing out like stars
from their trunks. When you come upon them all at once in the gloom of
the forest, it almost looks as if some of the trees were on fire.
Other flowers are golden like the sun and grow all together in
clusters, whilst others, again, grow on the branches of trees and hang
down from them by long stalks which are like threads, each thread-stalk
strung with flowers, as a thread is strung with beads. Only these
flower-beads are as large as sunflowers, with colours varying from
orange to red, and with beautiful, deep, purple-red spots upon them.
But if you had wings like the Birds of Paradise, and could fly over
the tops of the trees that make the forest, and look down into a
leafy meadow instead of up into a leafy sky, then you would see the
most gloriously beautiful flowers growing in that meadow, just as the
daisies and buttercups grow in the meadows that you run over, here.
For flowers love the light of the sun, and they struggle up into it
through the leaves that keep it out. To them the leaves are not as the
sky, but as the clouds that shut the sky out, and as they are clouds
that will never roll away (even though they may fall sometimes in a
rain of leaves), the only thing for them to do is to climb up to them
and pierce them, and see the sky, with the sun shining in it, on the
other side. So whilst a few flowers stay in the shade below, most of
them grow and struggle up into the light and air above, and they are
all in such a hurry to get there that every one tries to grow faster
than all the others. Ah! what a race it is, a race to reach the sun.
You have heard of all sorts of races, and some, perhaps, you have seen;
running-races, races in sacks, boat-races, horse-races (though those,
I hope, you never have and never will see), but you never either saw
or heard of a fairer, lovelier, more delicate race than a race of
flowers to reach the sun. Think of it, all over those great, wide,
far-stretching forests, forests stretching away like the sea, and only
bounded by the sea! Think of all the millions of flowers there must be
in them, with all their delicate shapes, and rich, fragrant scents and
glorious colours, and then think of them all growing up together, each
trying to be the first to see the sun. So eager they all are, but so
gentle. There is no pushing, nothing rude or rough. But as the leaves
grow thinner, and the light shines more and more through them, they
tremble and sigh with joy, and one says to another, "We are getting
nearer--nearer. I can see him almost; we shall soon be bathed in his
light." And so they all grow and grow till at last they gleam softly
through the soft leaves, and see the beautiful deep blue sky and the
glorious, golden sun. Yes, that is a lovely race indeed--as anything to
do with flowers is lovely--and it is a race upwards, to the sky and to
the sun. Not all races are of that kind.
It is in forests like those that the Birds of Paradise live; and
now that we know something about where they live, we will find out
something about them.