As I write my tympanic membranes are being somewhat rudely shaken by the
clamorous voices of a brood of young blue jays, which are in a nest
somewhere in one of the chimneys of my bungalow.
From the point of view of the blue jays the site they have chosen for
their nursery is an admirable one; indeed, had the architect of the
bungalow received a handsome “tip” he could not have provided the birds
with more comfortable accommodation.
The shaft of the chimney is not straight, as, in my humble opinion, it
should be. At a few feet from the top it is bent at a right angle, and
runs horizontally for a short distance before it again assumes what I
consider to be its normal course.
The architect was, however, not such a fool as he may appear, for it is
quite impossible to clean properly the chimney of his design; it must
therefore take fire sooner or later, and the fire may spread and result
in the destruction of the house. The re-erection thereof would of course
mean more work for the said architect.
The blue jays are as satisfied as the designer with the chimney, because
the horizontal portion forms a shelf upon which they can lay their eggs.
These are visible neither from above nor from below, and they are as
inaccessible as invisible, for the chimney is so narrow as to baffle all
attempts at ascent or descent on the part of human beings.
The blue jays make good to my ear what they deny my eye. The young
hopefuls utter unceasingly a loud cry resembling that of some creature in
distress. This is what I have to listen to all the time I am in the
bungalow. Outside, the parent birds make the welkin ring with their
raucous voices. Never were father and mother prouder of their offspring
or fonder of proclaiming the fact. When not cumbered about much serving
they squat either on the roof or on a blue gum tree hard by, and, at
regular intervals, utter a short, sharp, harsh “Tshow.” This is
emphasised by a jerk of the tail; the blue jay does nothing without first
consulting its caudal appendage.
On the occasions when I made vain attempts to obtain a look at the young
birds the parents took to their wings, and, as they sped through the air,
uttered cries so harsh and dry-sounding as to make me feel quite thirsty!
The blue jay is so familiar to us Anglo-Indians as to need no
description. We have all admired the bird as it lazily sailed through the
air on outstretched pinions of pale blue and rich ultramarine. We have,
each of us, watched it perched on a railing looking out for its insect
quarry. It is then comparatively inconspicuous, its neck and wing coverts
being the hue of a faded port-wine stain. We have seen it pounce upon
some object too small for us to distinguish, and either devour it then
and there or bear it off in triumph.
We all know that the bird is not a jay at all, that its proper name is
the Indian roller (_Coracias indica_), that it is related to the
kingfisher family, and that it is called a jay merely on account of its
gaudy plumage.
Next to its colour the most striking thing about the blue jay is its
wonderful power of flight. Ordinarily the bird is content to flap along
at an easy pace, but, when it likes, it can move for a little as though
it were shot out of a catapult; moreover, it is able to completely change
its course with startling rapidity; hence even the swiftest birds of prey
find it no child’s play to catch a roller bird. A good idea of its aerial
performances may be obtained by watching it attack a kite that persists
in hovering about in the neighbourhood of the nest. Blue jays, like
king-crows and doves, are exceedingly short-tempered when they have
young.
This species seems to indulge in very little sleep; it is up betimes, and
may be seen about long after every other day bird, with the possible
exception of the king-crow, is fast asleep.
The blue jay is a good friend to the gardener, since it feeds exclusively
on insects and small animals. Jerdon cites as the chief articles of its
diet, large insects, grasshoppers, crickets, mantidæ, and beetles, with
an occasional field-mouse or shrew. To this list he might have added
frogs and small snakes.
[Illustration: THE INDIAN ROLLER, OR “BLUE JAY.” (CORACIAS INDICA)]
At most seasons of the year the blue jay strikes one as a rather sluggish
bird, being content to squat on a perch for a great part of the day and
wait patiently for quarry to come its way. At the breeding season,
however, it becomes very sprightly. It is then more than usually
vociferous and indulges in a course of aerial gymnastics. It may be seen
at these throughout the month of March, now towering high above the
earth, then dropping headlong down, to suddenly check itself and sail
away, emitting the while the hoarsest and wheeziest notes imaginable, and
behaving generally like the proverbial March hare. These performances are
either actual love-making or a prelude to it. By the end of March the
various birds have sorted themselves out, and then the billing and cooing
stage begins.
At this season the birds are invariably found in pairs; the cock and hen
delight to sit side by side on some exposed branch. Like the young
couples that moon about Hyde Park on Sundays, blue jays do not mind
spooning in public. As the sexes dress alike it is not possible to say
which of a couple is the cock and which is the hen. Under such
circumstances naturalists always assume that the bird which makes the
advances is the cock. I am not at all sure that this assumption is
justified. Among human beings the ladies very frequently set their caps
at the men. Why should not the fair sex among birds do likewise?
In many species the sexes dress differently, and it is then easy to
discover which sex “makes the running,” and in such cases this is by no
means always the cock. I have seen one hen paradise flycatcher drive away
another and then go and make up to a cock bird. Similarly I have seen two
hen orioles behave in a very unladylike manner to one another, all
because they both had designs on the same cock. He sat and looked on from
a distance at the contest, and would assuredly have purred with delight
had he known how to do so! But of this more anon. The blue-jay lovers sit
on a branch, side by side, and gaze upon one another with enraptured
eyes. Suddenly one of them betakes itself to some other tree, uttering
its hoarse screeches as it flies. Its companion follows almost
immediately and then begins to bow and scrape, puff out its neck, slowly
wave its tail, and utter unmusical cries. The bird which is being thus
courted adds its voice to that of its companion. The raucous duet over,
silence reigns for a little. Then one of the birds moves on, to be
followed by its companion, and the above performance is repeated, and
will continue to be repeated dozens of times before the birds give
themselves over to family cares.
The greatest admirer of the blue jay could not call its nest a work of
art. The eggs are laid in a hole in a tree or building. Usually the hole
is more or less lined by a promiscuous collection of grass, tow,
feathers, and the like, but sometimes the birds are content to lay their
eggs in the bare cavity.
The blue jay, although so brazen over its courtship, strongly objects to
having its family affairs pried into, so if you would find its nursery
you must, unless you are lucky, exercise some patience. The birds
steadfastly refuse to visit the nest when they know they are being
watched. If patience be a virtue great, the blue jay is a most virtuous
bird, for, if it is aware that it is being observed, it will take up a
perch and sit there for hours, mournfully croaking, rather than betray
the whereabouts of its eggs or young. Most of the nests I have seen have
been discovered by accident. For example, when going along a road I have
had occasion to look round suddenly at some bird flying overhead and
caught sight of a roller entering a hole in a tree.
Some days ago I was out with a friend, when we saw a hoopoe, with food in
its mouth, disappear into a hole in the wall of a Hindu temple. The
aperture was about seven feet from the ground, so, in order to look into
it, I mounted my friend’s back. While I was investigating the hoopoe’s
hole, a blue jay flew out of another hole in the wall within a yard of my
face!
Like Moses of old, I turned aside to investigate this new wonder, and
found that the hole went two and a half feet into the wall, and that its
aperture was a square six inches in both length and breadth. The floor of
this little alcove was covered with earth and tiny bits of dirty straw,
which may or may not have been put there by the blue jay. On this lay a
clutch of four glossy white eggs, nearly as large as those laid by the
degenerate Indian _murghi_. Fortunately for those blue jays I am not an
egg collector. As it was, I did remove one of them for a lady who was
anxious to have it, but this was not missed. Birds cannot count.