[Illustration]
Such birds as, having wings, fly not, preferring to walk, to run, or to
waddle, as legs and other circumstances may permit or compel--these are
the cursores: such birds also as, having no wings, or none to speak of,
run by compulsion on such legs as they may muster. These are many--so
many that I almost repent me of the heading to this chapter, wherein I
may speak only of the struthiones among the cursores--the curious
cassowary, the quaint kiwi, the raucous rhea, the errant emeu, and the
overtopping ostrich. But the heading is there--let it stand; for in the
name of the cursores I see the raw material of many sad jokes--whereunto
I pray I may never be tempted, but may leave them for an easy exercise
for such as have set out upon the shameless career of the irreclaimable
pun-flinger.
[Illustration: "GET OUT OF THIS!"]
It was some time--years--before I got rid of the impression left upon me
by the first ostrich with which I became acquainted. He lived in an old
picture-book, and would nowadays be considered quite out of fashion by
up-to-date ostriches, having webbed feet and an improper number of toes.
I like to believe that feet of this sort were popular among ostriches at
that time, being loath to destroy early beliefs. From the same cause, I
have other little private superstitions about the ostrich; there was no
ostrich, so far as I can remember, in my Noah's ark, whence I derive my
conviction that the species cannot have existed at the time of the
Deluge, but has been evolved, in the succeeding centuries, by a gradual
approach and assimilation of the several characteristics of the camel
and the goose.
The two ostriches here, at the Zoo, have no pet names bestowed on them
by the keepers. This is inconvenient, not to say unfair. They have been
placed, it will be observed, in the stables hitherto occupied by the
late lamented giraffes. It is a striking and notable instance of care
and the sense of fitness of things on the part of the Society. These
stables, they probably reflected, have all along been fitted with
tenants twenty feet high--queer tenants, which were often called
camelopards. We can't replace these with similar tenants, unfortunately,
but we will do our best with animals as high as possible and with all
available neck; and they shall be camel-geese. And here they are; a few
feet short, unavoidably, but as high as possible; quite the equivalent
of the giraffes so far as concerns the camel, and as much superior as
one may consider a goose to a leopard. And here you may stand and watch
them, or sit. And you may watch, if you please, for the coming of the
giraffes which the Society are now anxious to buy, or for the wandering
wraiths of those dead, dispossessed, and indignant. Meantime inventing
names for the two camel-geese--let us say Atkinson and Pontius Pilate.
[Illustration: ATKINSON DOZES.]
[Illustration: HIGH KICKS.]
I like to stand by Atkinson till he dozes. Atkinson is a fine, big
fellow, and when he squats down his head is in a convenient position for
observation. Presently he gapes; then his eyes shut, and his beak
droops--just a very little. Then the beak droops a little more, and
signs of insecurity appear about the neck. Very soon a distinct
departure from the vertical is visible in that neck; it melts down
ruinously till almost past recovery, and then suddenly springs erect,
carrying an open-eyed head, wherefrom darts a look of indignant
repudiation of any disposition to fall asleep; and so keeps until the
eyes close again. I have waited long, but have never seen Atkinson fall
permanently asleep.
[Illustration: GILLIE CALLUM.]
The possibilities of the ostrich are not properly recognised. He is
domesticated, and bred with the utmost ignominy in a poultry run, and
his tail is pulled out with impunity. I am not quite sure that he
habitually figures on South African dinner tables with his legs skewered
to his ribs, but he has fallen quite low enough for that; submitting
even to the last indignity of being hatched out by a common stove
incubator. Now, the elephant has also been domesticated, but he has also
been allowed to adopt a profession. He dances on a tub and rides a
tricycle at a circus. Nothing of this sort has been attempted with the
ostrich, but much might be done. He would make a first-rate bicyclist,
and could get through much of the business of the "eccentric comedian."
A couple of them would go to make a capital knockabout act. High kicks
of the very highest, floor-strides of the very longest--and there would
be a world of opportunities in the neck. No end of possibilities lie in
the neck--even the "legitimate." You could run in a forty-minute sketch,
wherein two long-separated but faithful lovers should fall against each
other and wind their necks about together like a caduceus, or
barley-sugar--or anything. Also the camel-goose might fling his neck
about the villain, and strangle him. But perhaps, after all, variety
business would suit best. Pontius Pilate in a kilt and philibeg would
bring down the house with a Highland fling or gillie callum. And
Atkinson in a long-stride table chair and banjo act would be comforting
to the perceptions.
[Illustration: LONG SEPARATED.]
Whether the ostrich is actually such an ass as to hide his head with a
notion of concealing himself I don't quite know, but there is certainly
a deal of ass in the camel-goose. A Hottentot will put an ostrich skin
over his head, and walking with his natural shanks exposed get among an
ostrich family and kill them off one after another, to the family's
astonishment. Now, a bird who mistakes a nigger with a mask for an
intimate relation plainly enjoys in his composition a large flavour of
the ass. Not knowing it, however, the camel-goose is just as happy, and
neither experiences the bitterness of being sold nor the sweetness of
selling. I don't believe that Atkinson was even aware of the triumphant
sell which he lately assisted in administering to Mr. Toots, the cat
from the camel-house.
The cat in the ostrich-house is a sly fellow, and I believe he knows why
there are fewer pigeons in the roof of the hippopotamus-house than there
were. He horribly sold Mr. Toots, who was anxious to have a snack of
poultry himself, for a change. "In my house," said this bold, bad cat,
"there are the biggest pigeons you ever saw. Go in and try one, while I
look out for the keeper." And the trustful Mr. Toots went in; and when,
full of a resolve to make it hot for everything feathered in that house,
Mr. Toots bounced into the presence of Atkinson, who is rather more than
seven feet high, he came out anxious for the scalp of that other cat. I
never mention this little adventure to Mr. Toots, who is sensitive, but
all the other Zoo cats chaff him terribly. Even Jung Perchad and the
other elephants snigger quietly as they pass, and Bob the Bactrian, from
the camel-house, laughs outright; it is a horrid, coarse, vulgar,
exasperating laugh, that of Bob's. Atkinson, however, is all unconscious
of the joke, and remains equally affable to cats, pigeons, and human
beings.
[Illustration]
Pontius Pilate is just the sort of camel-gander that _would_ bury its
head to hide itself. Pontius Pilate is, I fear, an ass; also a snob. He
has a deal of curiosity with regard to Atkinson, who is a recent
arrival, and lately belonged to the Queen. Also, he is often disposed to
pay a visit--with his head--to Atkinson's quarters, and take a friendly
snack--at Atkinson's expense; this by an insinuation of the neck out
between his own bars and in between those of Atkinson, adjoining. But he
doesn't understand the laws of space. Having once fetched his neck
around the partition into Atkinson's larder by chancing to poke his head
through the end bars, he straightway assumes that what is possible
between some bars is possible between all; and wheresoever he may now be
standing when prompted by companionable peckishness, straight he plunges
among the nearest bars, being mightily astonished at his inability to
reach next door, if by chance he have dropped among bars far from
Atkinson's. He suspects his neck. Is the ungrateful tube playing him
false? Maliciously shortening? Or are his eyes concerned in fraud? He
loops his head back among his own adjoining bars, with a vague suspicion
that they may be Atkinson's after all; and he stretches and struggles
desperately. Some day Pontius Pilate will weave himself among those
bars, basket fashion, only to be extricated by a civil engineer and a
practical smith. Pontius Pilate is the sort of camel-gander that damages
the intellectual reputation of the species. Of course he would bury his
head to hide himself. Equally of course he would muzzle himself to
prevent you from biting him, or tie his legs together to prevent you
from running and catching him, or anything else equally clever. Pontius
Pilate, I have known you long--even loved you, in a way. But I have
observed you closely, and though, like Dogberry, you may have everything
fine about you, I am impelled sorrowfully to write you down an ass.
The ostrich is one of those birds whose whole command of facial
expression is carried in the neck. He can only express himself through
his features by offering you different views of his head. This is a
great disadvantage. It limits the range. You may express three
sentiments by the back, front, and side of the head, and something by
way of combination in a three-quarter face. Then you stop, and have no
further resource than standing on your head, one of the few things an
ostrich is not clever at. But with such materials as he has, the ostrich
does very well. Observe, his mouth is long, and droops at the corners;
but the corners are wide apart, for there the head is broad.
[Illustration]
Now you may present simple drama by the aid of this mouth--suitably
disposed and ordered by the neck. Take Atkinson, here, whose beak has a
certain tip-tinting distrusted of the teetotaler. Bend his head (only in
theory, because Atkinson won't stand any practical nonsense)--bend his
head to look downward, and let his neck wilt away sleepily. Now, viewed
from the side, where is a more lamentable picture of maudlin
intoxication? What could improve it, except, perhaps, a battered hat,
worn lop-sided, and a cigar-stump? He is a drunken old camel-gander,
coming home in the small hours, and having difficulties with his
latch-key. Straighten Atkinson's neck, open wide his eyes, and take a
three-quarter face view of him. Sober, sour, and indignant, there
stands, not the inebriated Atkinson, but the disturbed Mrs. Atkinson on
the stairs, with a candle, and a nightcap, and a lecture. That awful
mouth actually conjures that candle, that nightcap, and that lecture
into existence--you see and hear them more clearly than you do Atkinson,
although they are not there. But this is an advanced exercise in
struthian expression--a complicated feat, involving various and complex
elements. There is the neck-wilt and the bending of the head; also the
three-quarter face, not a simple element.
[Illustration]
The plain and elementary principles of struthian expression lie in the
mere front and side views. The third simple view, the back, is not
particularly eloquent, although practice might do something even for
that. At the side the ostrich is glum, savage, misanthropical,
depressed--what you will of that sort. Let him but turn and face you--he
can't help a genial grin. All done by the versatile neck, you observe,
which gives the head its position.
[Illustration: GLUM SIDE.]
[Illustration: GENIAL FRONT.]
Man, instigated by woman, has a habit of pulling out the camel-gander's
tail. This ruins the appearance of the site of that tail, without
commensurately improving the head whereunto the tail is transplanted--an
unprofitable game of heads and tails, wherein tails lose and heads don't
win. Even the not over clever ostrich knows better than to wear those
feathers on the wrong end. Perhaps he knows that he is enough of a fool
already.
There is a deal of hidden interest about the ostrich's neck. It is the
cleverest piece of an ostrich--unless you count his stomach; and even in
the triumphs of the stomach the neck takes a great share. When a
camel-goose lunches off a box of dominoes, or a sack of nails, or a
basketful of broken bottles, there is quite as much credit in the feat
due to the neck as to the stomach; with anybody else all the
difficulties of that lunch would begin with the neck--even a thicker
neck. Parenthetically, one remembers that the ostrich's neck is not
always thin. Catch Atkinson here in a roaring soliloquy, and you shall
see his red neck distended as a bladder, with a mighty grumbling and
grunting. This by the way. The neck makes nothing of the domino
difficulty, or the tenpenny nail difficulty, or the door-knob
difficulty, or the broken bottle difficulty--which are not difficulties
to the camel-goose. On the contrary, the neck revels in them and keeps
the dainties as long as possible. Give Pontius Pilate, or Atkinson--I am
quite impartial--an apple. When he swallows it you shall see it, in a
bulge, pass along and _round_ his neck; down it goes and backward, in a
gradual curve, until it disappears among the feathers--corkscrews, in
fact. Observe, I recommend an apple for this demonstration. Dominoes and
clinkers are all very well, but they rattle about inside, and disturb
the visitors; and with an apple you will the more plainly observe that
corkscrew.
[Illustration: HEADS AND TAILS.]
[Illustration: A ROARING SOLILOQUY.]
Not satisfied, you perceive, with enjoying his domino or his door-knob
all the way along that immense neck, the camel-gander must needs indulge
in a spiral gullet. It is mere gluttony. Especially is it wicked of
Atkinson, who has already the longest bird-neck in all these gardens.
Look at the necks of all the cursores. The poor little wingless kiwi,
with a mere nothing of a neck--for a cursore. _He_ does without a spiral
gullet. The festive cassowary--which, by-the-bye, _doesn't_ abound--or
exist--on the plains of Timbuctoo, as the rhyme says--the festive
cassowary, I say, wears his gullet plain. The rusty rhea takes things
below with perfect directness. The lordly emeu gets his dinner down as
quickly as the length of his neck will permit. It is only when one
reaches the top of the cursorean thermometer, all among the boilings, so
to speak, that the ostrich, with the longest neck of all, must poach
another few inches by going in for a spiral. Pontius Pilate is bad
enough, but a spiral for Atkinson!--well, there!
The partiality of the struthians for eccentric refreshments--clinkers,
nut-crackers, and the like--leads many to a superstition that these
things are as nourishing as they are attractive. They're not. Certain
liberal asses have a curious habit of presenting the birds with
halfpence. I scarcely understand why, unless modern environments have
evolved penny-in-the-slotomaniacs. And I am prepared to bet that on
occasions they are less generous with their pence. Nevertheless, they do
it, and it kills the birds. One cassowary who died recently was found to
contain one and eightpence in copper. I suggest that in future the
experimentalizers confine their contributions to bank-notes. I have
taken the trouble to ascertain that these will do no harm while their
disappearance will afford an additional enjoyment to the contributors
commensurate with their higher value.
Perhaps there is something in the habits of the cassowary himself that
explains these offerings. The cassowary always comes to meet you at the
bars with a look of grave inquiry. If you offer no tribute he turns off,
with many cockings of the beak, surprised, indignant, and contemptuous.
Very few people can endure this. They hastily produce anything they
have--anything to conciliate the contemptuous cassowary. And as he takes
it, an expression steals across the cassowary's face which seems to
admit that perhaps the fellow isn't such a shocking outsider after all.
When a man has nothing more nutritive about him, this form of extortion
may produce halfpence.
[Illustration: THE CURSOREAN THERMOMETER.]
The rhea is small potatoes beside the ostrich--merely a smaller and
dingier camel-gander. But the emeu is a fine upstanding fellow, with his
haughty sailing head and his great feather boa.
[Illustration: THE CASSOWARY DISGUSTED.]
He is a friendly and inquisitive chap, and will come stalking down to
the wires to inspect you. If you like to walk up and down outside his
inclosure he will take a turn with you, walking at your side and turning
when you do. He is justly proud of his height and his ruff, but there is
nothing objectionably haughty about the emeu; I have always found him
ready for a quiet chat. He will eat various things, like the ostrich; so
that one regards him with a certain respect, not to say awe, for there
is no telling what wonderful things may or may not be inside him. The
biggest and handsomest emeu here is my particular friend. When he talks
to you or walks by your side he is very fine; but when he walks about a
little way off, with his head to the ground, foraging, he looks rather
like a tortoise on stilts, which is not imposing. Sometimes, when he
thinks nobody is looking, he rushes madly up and down his territory by
way of relieving his pent-up feelings, stopping very suddenly and
looking cautiously about to assure himself that nobody saw him. I call
this emeu Grimaldi; firstly, because Grimaldi is rather a fine name, and
secondly, because when once you have had a view of his head from the
back you can't call him anything else.
[Illustration: THE PROUD EMEU.]
[Illustration: GRIMALDI.]
[Illustration: THE DIET OF WORMS.]
The most extraordinary bird in the world is the kiwi. But it is not the
most extraordinary bird seen by visitors to the Zoo, because they never
see it. The kiwi buries itself asleep all day, and only comes out in the
night to demolish an unpleasant and inconvenient proverb. The kiwi is
the latest of all the birds, but catches the most worms. For this let us
honour the kiwi, and hurl him in the face of the early risers. He stamps
about the ground in the dark night, and the worm, being naturally a
fool, as even the proverb demonstrates, comes up to investigate, and is
at once cured of early rising for ever. The kiwi, having no wings
(unless you count a bit of cartilage an inch or so long, buried under
the down), has the appearance of running about with his hands in his
pockets because of the cold. And being covered with something more like
hair than feathers, is a deal more like a big rat than a bird of any
sort. Indeed, I don't believe the kiwi himself has altogether made up
his mind which to be. Before he decides he will probably become extinct.
Any glimpse his friends have of him here is short. Suddenly brought out
into the day, he stands for a moment, and blinks; then he puts his beak
up and his legs apart, and there is a black streak and a heap of straw
where it vanishes.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_One and Two._