The Cock-of-the-Rock and the Lyre-Bird
Well, I have told you about the Humming-birds and the Birds of
Paradise, which are the _most_ beautiful birds that there are in the
world. Now I will tell you about just a few other ones which are very
beautiful, although they are not quite so beautiful as those are. One
of them is the Cock-of-the-Rock, a bird which lives in South America,
where the Humming-birds live. There are three kinds and they are all
handsome, but the handsomest, _I_ think, is the one that is called the
Blood-red Cock-of-the-Rock. It is about the size of a small pigeon,
and of the most wonderful blood-red colour you can imagine. You would
think, when you saw it first, that it had not one feather on the
whole of its body that was not of this brilliant crimson, but, after
a little, when your eyes are not so dazzled, you see that its wings
and tail are not red but brown. Only, when the wings are shut they are
almost quite covered up by the flaming feathers of the back, and just
on one part--that part which we should call the shoulders--they are
red too. "A scarlet bird! A crimson bird!" that is what you would say
first, if you were to see this wonderful Cock-of-the-Rock, and then,
all at once, you would cry out, "Oh, but where is his beak? Why, he
has no beak!" Yes, and you might almost say, "Where is his head?" for
you don't see that either--at least, you only see the back of it, all
the rest, and the beak too, is hidden in a wonderful crest of crimson
feathers that almost looks like the head itself, only it is a little
too big for that. This crest is just the shape of a tea-cosy, so that
it looks as if some one had put a little tea-cosy made of the most
splendid blood-red, fiery, crimson-sunset feathers right over the
bird's head and covered it quite up. You see no beak at all, and it
_does_ look so funny to see a bird without a beak--_almost_ as funny as
it would to see a beak without a bird.
The two other kinds of Cock-of-the-Rock are very handsome birds, too.
One of them has all its plumage orange-coloured, instead of crimson,
and the other is of a colour between orange and crimson. So, if you
were travelling from one part of South America to another, it would
seem as if the same bird was getting brighter and brighter or darker
and darker all the way, for the three different kinds do not live in
the same parts of the country, but in different parts that join each
other. Only, of course, you would have to go in the right direction,
which would be, first, through the forests of British Guiana, then
along the banks of the great river Amazon--which is the largest river
in the world--then up the mountains of Peru, and then, still higher, up
those of Ecuador. Or, you might start from Ecuador and go all the way
to British Guiana. If you get an atlas and look for the map of South
America, your mother will soon show you where all these places are.
Now after what you know about the Humming-birds and the Birds of
Paradise, you will not be surprised to hear that this brilliant crimson
or orange-coloured bird has quite a sober-coloured wife, and that he
is as careful to please her, as they are, by showing her his beautiful
bright plumage in all the ways in which it looks best; in fact he is
so very careful about it that I feel quite sure he pleases himself by
doing so, at the same time. You know now that male birds dance, when
they show their fine feathers to their wives and sweethearts, for I
have told you about the "sácalelis" of the Great Bird of Paradise, and
the way in which those other Birds of Paradise danced whilst the two
travellers were watching them. But some birds have still more wonderful
dances than these; at least they behave in a way that is even more like
real dancing. Now the Cock-of-the-Rock is a very fine dancer indeed,
and he has a regular place to dance and play in, which we may call his
ball-room, or his drawing-room, or his play-ground--whichever name
we like best. He chooses it in some part of the forest where it is a
little open, and where the ground is soft and mossy, and here, every
day, a number of birds assemble, some males and some females; for of
course the hen-birds come too, there would be nothing to dance for
without them. Then first one of the cocks walks out into the middle of
the open space and begins to dance. He flutters and waves his wings,
moves his head, with its wonderful crimson tea-cosy, from side to side,
and hops about with the queerest little jumpy steps you ever saw. As
he goes on he gets more and more excited, springs higher and higher
into the air, waves his wings more and more violently, and shakes his
head as if he were trying to shake off the tea-cosy, so as to have a
cup of tea to refresh himself. All the other birds stand and look at
him, criticise his performance, turn their heads towards each other,
and make remarks, you may be sure. "How elegant!" exclaims a young hen
Cock-of-the-Rock. "What spring! What elasticity! Really he is a very
fine performer." "I have seen finer ones in my time," says an older
hen--in fact quite an elderly bird. "One could judge better, however,
if there were some one else to compare him with. He seems to be having
it all his own way. In _my_ time there was more emulation amongst male
birds." And you may be sure that, as soon as she says that, ever so
many other Cocks-of-the-Rock step out into the ring, and there they
are, all dancing together, all springing and jumping, all waving their
wings, and all trying to shake the tea-cosies off their heads, so as to
have a cup of tea for refreshment after all that exercise. Perhaps you
will say that that is nonsense, because there is no teapot under the
tea-cosy; but remember that no one has ever taken that tea-cosy off.
How can you tell what is under a tea-cosy until you take it off. (Your
mother will tell you that this is only _fun_.)
[Illustration: COCK-OF-THE-ROCK]
But what a strange, curious dance it is, this wonderful bird dance,
all in the wild, lonely forest. Oh, how interesting it would be to see
it--to find out one of those little, open places where the moss is all
pressed smooth and firm, and then to hide somewhere near, and wait
there quietly, quietly, without making a sound, all alone in the great,
wild, lonely forest, until at last--at last--there is a crimson flash
amongst the tree-trunks, and then another and another and another, as
bird after bird comes flying or walking to the ball-room, and the dance
begins. And sometimes you would see them chasing each other through
the forest, all very excited, and often clinging to the trunks of the
trees, and spreading and ruffling out their lovely plumage, so as to
show it to each other, each one seeming to say, "I _think_ mine is
finer than yours; _perhaps_ I may be mistaken, but I _think_ so." What
beautiful birds! and what funny birds, and what interesting things they
do whilst they are alive! As soon as they are dead they are not funny
or interesting any more, and they are only beautiful as a shawl or a
piece of embroidery is beautiful. It is dead beauty then; the beauty
of life--which is the highest beauty of all--is gone out of them.
Now you can see many and many beautiful things that never had life in
them, though some, such as beautiful statues and pictures, imitate
life so marvellously that you would almost think they were alive. And
you can admire these beautiful things, and take pleasure in looking at
them, without having to feel sorry that they once were alive and happy,
but have been killed for you to look at. Surely you would not wish a
beautiful, happy bird to be killed, just for you to look at. You would
not even wish it to be put in a cage and kept alive, in a way in which
it could not be happy. No, you would rather know that it was alive and
happy in its own country, and only imagine what it was like, and how
beautiful it was. That is much the best way of seeing creatures, if we
have no other way without killing them or putting them in prison--to
imagine them; and there is ever so much more pleasure in imagining
creatures alive and happy than in seeing them dead or wretched. It is a
very fine thing, I can tell you, to _imagine_, and some people can do
it a great deal better than others. There _are_ people who cannot do it
at all, but we do not want birds killed for _stupid_ persons. People
who cannot imagine can do capitally without seeing, either--just as
well as people who _can_ imagine, only in another way. Now, just ask
your mother to promise not to wear any hat that has the feathers of a
beautiful Cock-of-the-Rock in it.
In Australia--oh, but perhaps you want to know why this handsome bird
is called the Cock-of-the-Rock, such a very funny name. Well, although
it lives in forests and flies about amongst the trees, yet some of
these forests are on the sides of mountains, so, of course, there
are rocks all about. The Cock-of-the-Rock likes to perch upon a very
high one; so, when the old travellers first saw it perched up there,
and looking such a fine bird, they called it a Cock-of-the-Rock, and
almost expected to hear it crow. At least, if this is not the right
explanation, it is the only one I can think of. The Indians _may_ have
another one, but if they have I cannot tell it you, because I do not
know what it is. Perhaps if I were to think a little, I should know--or
else I could imagine it--but I have no time to think or imagine just at
present. I want to get on.
In Australia, the great island-continent--the island that is so large
that we call it a continent--there is a wonderful bird called the
Lyre-bird. It is one of the most wonderful and the most beautiful birds
that there is in the world, and all its wonder and all its beauty lies
in its tail. This wonderful tail--as I am sure you will guess from
the name of the bird--is shaped like a lyre, though it is much more
beautiful than any lyre ever was, even the one that Apollo played
on. You know, I dare say, what a lyre is, a kind of harp with a very
graceful shape, curving first out and then in, and then out again on
each side, and with the strings in the centre. Now the Lyre-bird has,
on each side of its tail, two beautiful, broad feathers that curve in
this way, and are of a pretty chestnut colour, with transparent spaces
all the way down. These are the two outer tail feathers, and they are
like the two sides of the lyre--the solid part of it which is held
in the hand, and which we call the framework. Then, for the strings,
which, as you know, are stretched across the hollow space within the
framework, not from side to side, but lengthways from one end to the
other, the Lyre-bird has a number of most beautiful, thin, graceful
feathers, more graceful and delicate than the strings of any harp.
Only, instead of being straight, like harp strings, these feathers are
curved, and droop over to each side in a most graceful way, and instead
of keeping inside the two broad feathers--the sides of the lyre--they
come a long way past them, and instead of being only four, which is the
number of strings that a lyre has, there are ever so many of them--more
than a dozen, I feel sure. And if you could see these feathers, and
the way they are made, oh, you would think them wonderful. You know
that on each side of the quill of most feathers there is what is called
the web--which we have talked about--and this web is made of a number
of little, light, delicate sprays, like miniature feathers, which
we call barbs, and these are kept close together by having a lot of
little, tiddy-tiny hooks (though such soft little things don't look
like hooks a bit), which are called barbules, with which they catch
hold of each other, and won't let each other go. That is why the web
of a feather--on each side of the quill--is so smooth and even. But,
now, in these wonderful feathers of the Lyre-bird, the little delicate
things (the barbs) which make the webs are much fewer than in ordinary
feathers, and they have no little hooks to catch hold of each other
with, and instead of being all together, they are a quarter of an inch
apart, and wave about, each by itself, looking like very delicate
threads floating from the long slender quill of the feather. And that,
too, is how those beautiful plume-feathers of the Birds of Paradise are
formed, and you have seen something like it in the long ones of the
peacock's tail. The tail of the Lyre-bird is not so grand, perhaps, as
that of the peacock, but it is more graceful and delicate, and on the
whole, I _think_ (for on such points one can never be sure) it is still
more wonderful.
But now is it not very strange that any bird should have a tail like
that--a tail that is shaped like Apollo's lyre? Well, I will tell
you how it happened, for it is one of those things that requires an
explanation--and is lucky. Once the great god Apollo (who is the god
of music and song) was walking in Australia and playing upon his lyre.
Now, I must tell you, at that time--it was a very long time ago--the
Lyre-bird had not a tail like it has now, but quite an ordinary one;
so, as it is only its tail that is _extra_ordinary, it was quite an
ordinary bird. But although it was ordinary in appearance, it was
extremely musical, as it is now--I must tell you that--and also a
wonderful imitator of every sound that can be made. The Lyre-bird can
imitate all the different notes of other birds, as well as the barking
of dogs, the mewing of cats, and the conversation of people.
So, when it heard Apollo playing so sweetly on his lyre, it was quite
enraptured, and began to imitate it so cleverly that you would have
thought there were two Apollos playing on two lyres. All the other
birds and creatures were delighted at this--for, of course, two good
things are better than only one--but, for some reason or other which
I cannot quite explain, Apollo was not nearly so pleased. In fact, he
became angry, and _so_ angry that he threw his lyre at the poor bird
who had so appreciated his music, and the lyre hit it on the tail as
it ran away and cut it right off. Of course, when the Lyre-bird found
that it had no tail it was in a terrible state, and it came to Apollo
and said: "It was because I loved your music that I tried to imitate
it. I failed, no doubt--for who can sing as Apollo?--but still it is
a hard price to have to pay for my admiration." And when Apollo heard
that, he was so sorry for what he had done, and so pleased with the way
in which the Lyre-bird had explained things, that he said to it: "Well,
I will make amends, and what I give shall be better than what I took
away. The lyre which I threw at you, you shall keep, but it shall be of
feathers, and even more beautiful than my own. You shall not play on
it, for none but myself must do that, but you shall always be a most
musical bird, as you are now, and able to imitate any sound that you
hear, even my own playing. That power I will not take away from you, I
will even increase it, and from this time forth you shall be called the
Lyre-bird, in honour of your piety and good taste."
That is how the Lyre-bird got its tail, and why it is, now, a very
beautiful, as well as a very musical, bird. But what its tail was like
before Apollo gave it the one it has now, that I cannot tell you,
for it has never been known to allude to the subject, and it would
hardly do to ask it. We only know that it was quite ordinary. But,
do you know, Apollo never quite liked the Lyre-bird's imitating him,
even though he had told it that it might, and so, not so very long
afterwards, he left the country. He went to Greece--it was a very long
time ago--and he has not gone back to Australia yet.
Now you may be sure that a bird with a tail like that has his playing
ground, where he may come and show it to his wife or sweetheart; for it
is only the male bird who has it--like the others--though, really, I
cannot think what Apollo was about, not to give it to the hen as well,
for he was always a very polite god. The Lyre-bird's playground is a
small, round hillock--which he makes all himself--and there he will
come and walk about, raising his magnificent tail right up into the
air, and spreading it out in the most beautiful and graceful way. And,
as he does this, he will sing so beautifully, sometimes his own notes,
which are very pretty ones, and sometimes those of other birds, all of
which he can imitate quite well. But, of course, as Apollo has left
Australia, he cannot imitate him any more now, and after such a long
time he has forgotten what he learnt, unless, indeed, his own notes are
what Apollo used to play. But, if that is the case, he must have left
off singing his old song, and I do not think he would have done that.
This wonderful bird builds a wonderful nest with a roof to it, so
that he can get right inside it and be quite hidden from sight, tail
and all, although he is so large--almost as large as a pheasant, even
without counting his tail. As a rule it is only little birds that make
nests like that, and not big ones. The Lyre-bird's nest is something
like the one that our little wren makes--which perhaps you have
seen--only of course ever so much bigger. Only one egg is laid in it,
and out of it comes one of the queerest little birds you can imagine,
all covered with white, fluffy down, and with no tail at all that you
can see, so that you would never think he was going to grow into a
Lyre-bird. It takes him four years to get that wonderful tail. Apollo
did not mean him to have it, until he was quite grown up--it was not a
thing to be entrusted to children.
Now you must not think that the Lyre-bird always holds his tail up in
the air, for when he walks through the thick bushes he has to carry it
as a pheasant does, and I think you know how that is. As soon as he
wants to show it to his wife or his sweetheart, up it goes, and oh, it
_does_ look so beautiful!
But now, if it were not for that promise which your mother is going to
make you, there would very soon be no more of these wonderful birds,
with their wonderful and beautiful tails, left in Australia, which
would mean that there would be none in the whole world, for Australia
is the only country in the world where they are found. People like much
better to see that beautiful tail in their rooms, where it will soon
get spoilt and dusty, or to put some feathers of it in their hats,
than to know that the bird is running about with it, alive and happy,
holding it down like a pheasant's when he walks through the bushes, but
raising it in the air when he stands on his little hillock, for the
hen Lyre-bird to see, and singing her a song as well. People who live
in Australia--and there are a great many people who live there--might
often see it doing that if they were to take a little trouble (they
take a great deal of trouble to kill it), and, even if they could not
see it, they would hear its beautiful song. But they like much better
to kill it, so that there may be a little less song and beauty and
happiness in the world, and all because of the wicked little demon with
the correct suit of clothes. But all this is going to be altered, and
you are going to alter it. Just run to your mother, wherever she is--if
she is not with you now--and ask her to promise, _ever_ so faithfully,
never to have anything whatever to do with a hat that has so much as
one single feather of a Lyre-bird in it.