The Resplendent Trogon and the Argus Pheasant
One of the most beautiful birds in the whole world--more beautiful,
even, than _some_ of the Birds of Paradise and than _some_ of the
Humming-birds, even those that are not hermits--is the lovely Trogon
of Mexico. But first I must tell you that there are a great many
birds called Trogons that live in other parts of America as well as
in Mexico, and in other parts of the world as well as in America. But
the most beautiful of all of them--which is the only one I shall have
time to tell you about--is the Resplendent Trogon or Quezal--for that
is what the Indians call it--and it is only found in Mexico, which,
you know, is in North America, only right down at the southern end of
it, where there are a good many Humming-birds too. There are many more
Humming-birds in South America than in North America. It is the hot,
tropical countries they are so fond of. You see they like to be with
their brothers the sunbeams.
This Mexico is such an interesting country. It belongs, now, to the
Spaniards, whom I dare say you have heard about, but once it belonged
to a quite different people, an old people who had been there for
hundreds and hundreds of years, long before Columbus discovered
America. These people were civilised, only in a different way to
ourselves. They did not wear the kind of clothes that we do, but only
light linen things, dyed all sorts of colours, which were prettier
and suited the climate. They had many cities, as we have, though they
were built in a different way, and the largest was built all over a
great lake, with bridges going from one side of it to another. One can
build houses in the water, you know, for there is Venice in Italy, and
Rotterdam in Holland, which are both built in the sea, and which your
mother will tell you about.
These people, who were called Aztecs, were very clever workmen, and
such wonderful goldsmiths and silversmiths, especially, that they used
to make imitation gardens, with all sorts of flowers beaten out of
gold and silver. Then they used feathers as we do a paint-box, to make
pictures of things with. They would paint houses and ships and men and
boats and landscapes with them, putting the right-coloured feathers
just where they were wanted, blue ones for the sky, green ones for the
grass, and so on. For the wicked little demon knew of those people
just as well as he knows of us, and he had taught them to kill birds,
too. Only as they had no guns they could not kill nearly so many of
them as we can, so that there was no danger, then, of a beautiful bird
getting rarer and rarer, until, at last, it is not to be found in the
world any more, which is what happens now with us--at least it will if
_you_ do not stop it. But though it would have been much better to let
these birds--which were often Humming-birds--go on living and flying
about, and though no picture made with their feathers was nearly so
beautiful as the feathers themselves were, growing upon them, yet these
feather-pictures of the old Aztecs were very wonderful things, and it
is a great pity that there are none of them left now, for us to look
at. Nothing could bring the poor birds back to life, so we might just
as well have had the pictures that they had helped to make.
And we might have had some other pictures, too, that these people made,
for they used to draw things, just as we do, and when they wanted to
describe a thing they would often draw a picture of it, instead of only
_saying_ what it was like. Even their writing was all in pictures, for
when they wanted to write--say the word "sun" or the word "house"--they
would draw a little picture of the sun or of a house, only so quickly
and with such a few strokes of the pen or the paint-brush (I don't
quite know which it was), that it was quite like proper writing. Of
course there are some words that are not so easy to make a picture
of--as you can try for yourself--but, wherever it could be done, these
old Aztecs would do it. And if only we had some more of this writing
(for we have very little of it), we should be able to know a great deal
more about this old people, who were in America before Columbus came
there, and what they did and what they thought about, and the remarks
they made to each other, and just think how interesting that would be.
It is always interesting to know something about people quite different
to ourselves who lived a long time ago.
Unfortunately, when the Spaniards had conquered these people, instead
of keeping the things which they had made, they burnt them. They burnt
their houses, their temples, their cities, their picture-writings,
their feather-pictures, their wonderful flowers--until the gold
and silver they were made of were quite melted--their clothes,
everything--even the people themselves--and, to save time, they
often burnt the two last together. It is a great pity they did this,
but, you see, everybody has a plan of doing things, and the plan of
the Spaniards was to burn the people they conquered, and everything
belonging to them. But was it not horribly cruel? Oh! most horribly;
but so it is to shoot sea-gulls, and then to cut off their wings,
before they are dead, and throw them back into the sea, to drown there
or bleed to death. That is what _we_ do, and _it_ is horribly cruel,
too. So do not let us think about the cruel things the Spaniards
did--yet. Let us think, first, about the cruel things that are done
by people in our own country, and try to stop _them_. _When_ we have
stopped them--_all_ of them--then we can think about the Spaniards--and
some other nations.
You know there is a proverb which says, "Those who live in glass houses
should not throw stones;" that is generally one of the first proverbs
we learn, and _always_ the very first one we forget. I am afraid that
those old Aztecs lived in _rather_ a glass house, for _they_ had a plan
of cutting people open, whilst they were still alive, and tearing their
hearts out. Horrible! was it not? But they did not _burn_ people; so,
when they saw the Spaniards doing so, they were shocked at them. As
for the Spaniards, _they_ were shocked at the Aztecs doing this other
thing, for _that_ had never been _their_ custom. So the Aztecs and the
Spaniards were shocked at each other. People are very easily shocked at
each other, but they are not nearly so easily shocked at themselves.
Now I come to think of it, I never remember hearing any one say, "I
am _shocked_ at myself!" And yet it would often be a quite sensible
remark.
But what I wanted to tell you about these old Aztecs, who lived in
Mexico all that time ago, was that, when the Spaniards came there, they
were ruled over by a great king named Montezuma, and this king, amongst
many other wonderful things, had a great place, where he kept all the
different kinds of birds that were found in his country. A place like
that is called an aviary, and you may be quite sure that the beautiful
Trogon or Quezal was one of the birds in King Montezuma's aviary, for
it was more highly thought of than any other bird in the country. Let
us hope that all the birds in this aviary had nice, large places to be
in, with trees, and flowers, and everything that they wanted; and, as
it was a king's aviary, I daresay they had.
Well, now, I will tell you what this beautiful bird, the Quezal or
Resplendent Trogon, that used to be in King Montezuma's aviary,
is like. It is about the size of a turtle-dove, but with the most
beautiful, long, curling feathers in its tail, and these beautiful
feathers, and all the feathers on its back and breast and on its head,
too, are of the most lovely, rich, golden-green colour. Really I don't
know whether there is more of gold or of green in them, but there
is just the right quantity of each to make them the most beautiful,
beautiful feathers you can possibly imagine. It is the tail-feathers
that are the most beautiful, for they are so very long--the two longest
are much longer than those in a pheasant's tail--but there are some
feathers which begin on the back and lap softly round the sides, one
a little way off from the other, so that you see their pretty shapes,
and these are almost as beautiful, although they are ever so much
shorter. But now there is something funny about those long feathers,
which I have called the tail-feathers, and that is, that they are not
_really_ tail-feathers at all. They look as if they were, but _really_
they are feathers which go _over_ the tail and cover it up, so that
the _real_ tail is underneath them. It is like that--though I am sure
you never knew it--with the peacock; those beautiful, long feathers
which we _call_ the tail are not _really_ the tail, and you will see
that, directly, if you watch a peacock when he spreads them out, for,
as soon as he does, you will see the real tail underneath, which is
nothing very particular to look at. Still, in both these birds the long
feathers look so like the real tail that we may very well call them the
tail-feathers, and we can always explain about it afterwards, to show
how much we know. And, do you know, these beautiful, long, golden-green
feathers of the Quezal, which we are going to call the tail-feathers,
although we know very well they are not, were so highly valued by
these people who used to live in Mexico, that no one was ever allowed
to kill the bird, but only to catch it and cut them off and let it go
again, so that new ones might grow on it. And only the chiefs were
allowed to wear its feathers. And, indeed, there would be no great harm
in wearing feathers in hats, if we got them only in that way. Only
I cannot think what the little demon could have been about in that
country. A law like that must have made him very angry indeed.
Then, besides his splendid tail-feathers, this beautiful bird has a
crest on his head, which is something like the one the Cock-of-the-Rock
has on his, for it is of the same tea-cosy shape, only it is green
instead of crimson, and it does not quite cover up the beak. So perhaps
you will think that, as the Cock-of-the-Rock is all blood-red, with a
tea-cosy crest on his head, this beautiful golden-green Trogon, with
the tea-cosy crest on _his_ head, is all golden-green. But no, all the
lower part of him--that part which is hidden when he sits down--instead
of being golden-green, is the most splendid vermilion, as bright a
colour--although it is not quite the same--as the Cock-of-the-Rock's
himself. Just think, golden-green and splendidly bright vermilion! and
you cannot think how beautiful the one looks against the other. Whether
they would look quite so well together in a dress _I_ am not quite
sure, but your mother would know all about that. Only you must remember
that _such_ a golden-green and _such_ a vermilion as this Trogon has
were never seen together--no, or separately either--in any dress yet.
[Illustration: THE RESPLENDENT TROGON]
These beautiful Quezals live in the forests of Mexico, and they like
to sit lazily on the branch of a tree, and let their beautiful long
tails (which we know are not _really_ tails) hang down underneath
it, like the "funny feathers" of the Birds of Paradise. At least the
male birds like to do that, because the female Quezals have not got
those beautiful, long feathers, although they are very fine birds even
without them. They are not so handsome as the males, but they are not
plain like the female Humming-birds or Birds of Paradise. Perhaps the
male Quezals show off their fine feathers to the females by letting
them hang down like that, because, of course, long, soft, drooping
feathers, such as they have, would not stand up in the air, like those
of the peacock or of the Lyre-bird. But very likely they have some
other nice way of showing them.
Now, although the Quezal or Resplendent Trogon is such a magnificent
bird, he is not so very often seen. It is difficult to find him in the
dense forest, and I wish it was still more difficult than it is, for
when he _is_ found, he is always shot for those beautiful feathers of
his. When the Indian who is looking for him sees him sitting in the way
I have told you, he hides somewhere near and imitates the cry of the
bird. When the poor Trogon hears it, he thinks it is another Trogon--a
friend of his, perhaps--and so he comes flying to where the sound
came from. Then this deceitful man--and I really think it is _very_
contemptible to deceive a bird in that way--shoots him, and there is
one beautiful, happy bird less in the world. Is it not dreadful to
think of, that in almost every part of the world there are some _very_
beautiful birds to be found, and everywhere they are being killed and
killed and killed, so that they are getting scarcer and scarcer every
year? If it were not for what your mother has promised you about the
Lyre-bird, and what she is going to promise you about this Trogon,
there would soon be no more beautiful Lyre-birds in Australia, and no
more beautiful Trogons in Mexico. How terrible that would be! But we
have saved the beautiful Lyre-bird, and now we are going to save the
beautiful Trogon. Ask your mother--oh, _do_ ask her--to promise, most
_faithfully_, never to have anything whatever to do with a hat that has
any of the feathers--short or long, golden-green or vermilion--of a
Quezal--a Resplendent Trogon--in it. Ah, now she has promised, and we
have saved that beautiful bird as well as a great many others.
Now I will tell you about a very beautiful pheasant--the Argus
Pheasant. Some people may think him the most beautiful one of all.
And yet he is not the most showy pheasant--for the pheasants, you
know, are very showy birds indeed. There is the Golden Pheasant, who
is dressed in the sun's own livery; and the Silver Pheasant, who has
a silver white one which is more like the moon's, but who looks gaudy
and smart all the same; and the Amherst Pheasant, who manages to be
handsomer than both the sun and moon--which is very clever of him; and
the Fire-back, who is all in a blaze without minding it at all; and
the Impeyan or Monal, who looks as if he was made of beaten metal, and
had just been polished up with a piece of wash-leather. There is the
Peacock, too--for he is really nothing but a large pheasant--so, you
see, the pheasants are a handsome family, and you may be sure that
they know how to appreciate themselves. The pheasant that we are going
to talk about is quite a large bird, not so large as the peacock, it
is true, but with still longer tail-feathers, and oh, such wonderful
wings! One may say, indeed, that this bird is all wings and tail, but
he is principally wings, at least when he spreads them out. But, even
when they are folded, they are so very large that he looks quite
wrapped up in them; and I think he is, too, partly because of that, but
still more because they are so very handsome.
So, first, I will tell you what these large, handsome wings of his are
like. Well, in each one there are twenty-five or twenty-six very fine
long feathers, but these feathers are not all so fine or so long as
each other. Ten of them are about a foot long, and these are prettily
marked and mottled with all sorts of pretty brown colours, whilst, down
the centre of each one, there is a pretty blue stripe. It is the quill
of the feather that makes that stripe, for it is blue, and looks as if
it had been painted. So you see even these are pretty feathers, but
it is the fifteen or sixteen other ones that are so very beautiful.
They are much broader and longer than the other ten--the longest are
more than twice as long--and down each of them, just on one side of
the great quill in the centre, there is a row of such wonderful spots.
They are as large as horse-chestnuts (big ones I mean), and what they
look like is a cup and ball, the ball just lying in the cup ready to
be sent up; only, of course, the cup has no handle to it--you must not
think that--for the spots are round. And, do you know, the balls look
as if they were _really_ balls, so that you would think you could take
them in your hand, and throw them up into the air, and catch them
again as they came down. They do not look flat at all. You know, when
you try to draw an orange or an apple, how difficult it is not to make
it look flat like a penny. _You would_ make it look flat, I know, but
these wonderful balls on the Argus Pheasant's feathers look as if
they had all been drawn by a very clever artist (as indeed they have
been--a _very_ clever one), who had shaded them properly; you know how
difficult shading is. There are eighteen or twenty--sometimes as many
as twenty-two--of these wonderful spots on each feather, but I have not
told you, yet, of what colour they are. Perhaps you will think they are
very bright and dazzling. No, they are not like that at all. They are
soft, not bright, and their softness is their beauty. All round them,
at the edge, there is a ring of deep, soft brown, and, just inside the
ring, there is a lighter brown, and it goes on getting lighter and
lighter, until, in the centre, it is a pretty, soft amber, and, at
the edge of the soft amber, there is a pretty, white, silvery light,
as if the moon was just coming out from behind an amber cloud. _So_
pretty! And when the Argus Pheasant spreads his wonderful wings out,
you can see more than a hundred of these wonderful spots on each wing,
which is more than two hundred altogether. Such a sight! so soft and
so pretty they look. Shall I tell you what such wings are like? They
are like skies where the stars are all moons, that float softly among
soft brown and amber clouds, tipping them all with soft silver. For the
Argus Pheasant is not one of the very brilliant birds of the world. No,
he is not brilliant at all. His colours are only soft browns and soft
ambers and soft, silver whites, and yet he is so pretty, so beautiful.
I think he is as pretty as the peacock, and, when one sees him after
the peacock, it is a rest for the eye. Some people might prefer him to
the peacock. Do you wonder at that? It is not so very wonderful. There
may be a little girl reading this, with soft brown hair and soft brown
eyes, and with nothing golden or gleaming about her, and some people,
besides her father and mother, may think her prettier than the little
girl who is all golden and gleaming. It is all a matter of taste. Some
like a broad sheet of water dancing in the sunlight, and some like
quiet streams running under cool, mossy banks, with trees arching above
them, where the shadows are cool and deep, and where even the sun's
peepings are only like brighter shadows. People who like that better
than the other, will like the quiet little girl with the brown hair
better than the one who gleams and dazzles; and they will like the
Argus Pheasant better than the peacock, and think them both a rest for
the eye. It is not at all a bad thing to be a rest for the eye.
[Illustration: THE ARGUS PHEASANT]
I have told you how large the wings of the Argus Pheasant are; when
he spreads them out to show to the hen bird (who has nothing like
them), they look like two banners or two beautiful feather-fans, the
kind of fans that you see Eastern queens being fanned with, in the
pictures. Then he has a very fine tail as well, as I told you. Two
of the feathers in it are very long indeed--quite four feet long, I
should think--and as broad as a man's hand, if not broader, near the
base (which means where they begin), but getting gradually narrower
towards the tips. On one side, these feathers are a soft, rich brown,
with silver-white spots, and, on the other, a soft, silver grey, with
silver-white spots. When the Argus Pheasant spreads out his two great
wings, he takes care to lift up his fine handsome tail, as well, so
that the two long feathers of it are quite high in the air. So there is
his tail going up like a rocket, whilst his wings spread out on each
side of it, like feather-fans, and his head comes out between them,
just in the middle, and makes a polite bow to the hen. That is the
right way to do it, and the Argus Pheasant would rather not do it at
all than not do it properly. Oh, he takes a great deal of trouble about
it, and all for the hen--which is unselfish.
This beautiful Argus Pheasant lives in Sumatra--which is a large island
of the Malay Archipelago--and also in the Malay Peninsula and Siam,
which are, both, part of the great Asiatic continent--as perhaps you
know. Yes, that is where he lives, but you might walk about there for
a very long time, without ever once seeing him, for the Argus Pheasant
is a very difficult bird to find. He lives in the great, thick forests,
and keeps out of everybody's way. One hardly ever does find _him_,
but, sometimes, one finds his drawing-room (for he has one, like the
Cock-of-the-Rock and the Lyre-bird), and if one waits there long enough
(_I_ would wait a week if it were necessary) one may see him come into
it. He spends almost all his time in looking after this drawing-room,
and he only sees the hen Argus Pheasant when she comes there too, to
look at him. Of course he dances in it, and it is there that he spreads
out his wonderful wings and lifts up his tail, in the way that I have
told you. The Argus Pheasant is very proud of his drawing-room, and he
_will_ have it nice and clean, with nothing lying about in it. So, if
he finds anything there that has no business to be there, he picks it
up with his beak, and throws it outside. He has not to open a door to
do that; his drawing-room is only an open space which he keeps nice
and smooth, so, as it is always open, it does not want a door to it.
Now I think you will say--and I am _sure_ your mother will agree with
you--that the Argus Pheasant does quite right to act in this way, and
that to keep one's drawing-room clean and tidy is a very proper thing
to do. Your mother may be surprised, perhaps, that it is the male Argus
Pheasant, and not the hen bird, that does it, but I am sure she will
not blame _him_ on that account. But I am sorry to say that the wicked
little demon has found out a way of making this habit of the poor
bird's--which is such a good one--a means of killing him.
The people who live in that part of the world--those yellow people
called Malays that I have told you of--know all about the ways of the
Argus Pheasant, and how he will _not_ have things lying about in his
drawing-room. Now there is a great tall reed that grows there, called
the bamboo, which I am sure you have heard of, and which your mother
will tell you all about. The Malays cut off a piece of this bamboo,
about two feet long, and then they shave it down--all except about six
inches at one end of it--till it is almost as thin as writing paper. It
looks like a piece of ribbon then, only, as it is very hard, as well
as thin, its edges are quite sharp, and able to cut like a razor. But
the piece at the end, which has been left and not shaved down, they cut
into a point, so that it makes a peg, and this peg, that has a ribbon
at the end of it, they stick into the ground, right in the middle of
the Argus Pheasant's drawing-room. So, when the poor Argus Pheasant
comes into his drawing-room, he sees something lying on the floor,
which has no business to be there. It may be only a ribbon, but that
is not the right place for it, so he tries to pick it up and throw it
outside. But it won't come, however much he pulls it, for the peg at
the end is fixed in the ground, and he is not strong enough to pull
it out. At last he gets angry and thinks he will make a great effort.
He twists the long ribbon round and round his neck--just as you would
twist a piece of string round and round your hand if you were going
to pull it hard--then takes hold of it with his beak, just above the
ground, and gives quite a tremendous spring backwards. You may guess
what happens. The long peg does not come out of the ground, but the
ribbon is drawn quite tight round the poor bird's own neck, and the
sharp edges almost cut his head off.
Now is not _that_ a most cruel trick to play upon a bird who only wants
to keep his drawing-room in proper order? How would your dear mother
like to be treated in such a way for being _neat_ and _tidy_, which I
am sure she is? But we are going to stop it--this cruel trick of the
wicked little demon--for it was he who thought of it and taught it to
the Malays. It is not _their_ fault, you must not be angry with them,
any more than with the poor women whose hearts the same demon has
frozen. We are going to stop it, and you know how. The Malay only kills
the poor Argus Pheasant to sell his feathers. If _they_ were not wanted
he would leave him alone, to be happy and beautiful, and to dance in
a nice tidy drawing-room. So just ask your mother to promise never to
wear a hat--or anything else--that has a feather, or even a little
piece of a feather, of an Argus Pheasant in it.
That was going to be the end of the chapter, but there is just
something which I have forgotten. I am sure you will have been
wondering why this beautiful pheasant is called the Argus Pheasant,
and what the word Argus means. Well, I will give you an explanation.
Argus was the name of a wonderful being--a kind of monster--who had a
hundred eyes, and who lived a long time ago. But he offended the great
god Jupiter, who had him killed, and then Jupiter's wife--the goddess
Juno--whose servant he was, put all his eyes into the tail of the
peacock--for the peacock was her favourite bird. That is one story; but
another one says that she did _not_ put them _all_ there, but only the
bright ones. The soft ones--those pretty ones that I have been telling
you about--she put into the wings of another bird, that she liked
quite as well, if not better, and that bird became, at once, the Argus
Pheasant. But now if Argus had only a hundred eyes, how is it that
there are two hundred, or more, in the wings of the Argus Pheasant, to
say nothing of those in the tail of the peacock? That shows, _I_ think,
quite clearly that he must, really, have had a great many more; and so,
now, when people talk to you of Argus and his hundred eyes, you can
say, "A hundred, indeed! Why, he must have had _three_ hundred at the
very least." And then you can tell them why.