Having discoursed upon the adjutant, it seems but fitting that we should
turn our attention to another long-shanked gentleman—the sarus. The
adjutant is, as we have seen, a stork, while the sarus is a crane. I do
not know whether this conveys very much information to the average mind.
Most people will, I imagine, “give it up” if asked, “What is the
difference between a stork and a crane?” Yet there are considerable
differences between the two; they belong to different families, and, like
rival tradesmen of the same name, “have no connection with one another.”
I do not propose to detail the anatomical differences between storks and
cranes, for the excellent reason that I myself do not know them all, nor
have I the least intention of acquiring such knowledge. It forms part of
the dry bones of science, and these are best left to museum
ornithologists to squabble over. There are, however, one or two simple
points which suffice to enable us to distinguish at a glance a crane from
a stork. The hind toe of the stork is well developed, while that of the
crane is small and does not touch the ground; the consequence is that the
stork likes to rest on trees, while the crane prefers to stand on _terra
firma_ on its flat feet. The nostrils of the crane are half-way down the
beak, while they are at the base in the bill of the stork. The crane
nests on the ground; the stork builds in a tree. Young storks are
helpless creatures, while little cranes hop and run about from the moment
they leave the egg. Lastly, the crane has a voice, a fine loud voice, a
voice that can be heard a mile away, a voice like a trumpet, for its
windpipe is coiled. King stork, on the other hand, has no voice; when he
wants to make a joyful noise he is obliged to clap together his great
mandibles.
Cranes have been favourites with man from time immemorial. The result is
that ancient and mediæval writers have plenty to say about them. Now the
naturalist of old considered himself in honour bound to attribute some
wonderful characteristic to every beast of which he wrote. If he did not
know of any clever thing done by any creature, he invented something for
it to do. This method had the advantage of making natural history a very
exciting and interesting study. Cranes were supposed to perform all
manner of tricks with stones. As we have seen, they are blessed with
powerful voices, and, like other loud-voiced people, find it difficult to
keep silent. They are fully persuaded that silence is golden; but, when
it comes to acting up to this belief, the flesh proves itself very frail.
Thus it came to pass that the sagacious birds, when migrating, used to
stop up their mouths with stones. As they are far too well-bred to speak
with the mouth full, they were able to maintain a decorous silence when
travelling.
I can cite plenty of authority for this statement. There is, in
particular, no less a personage than “Robert Tanner, Gent. Practitioner
in Astrologie and Physic.” “The cranes,” he writes, “when they fly out of
Cilicia, over the mountain Taurus, carried in their mouths a pebble
stone, lest by their chattering they should be seized upon by eagles.”
The cranes had yet another use for their stones. When the main body were
resting at night, sentinels were posted to guard against surprise, so
that the company could go to sleep in security. To ensure necessary
vigilance, the sentinels stood on one foot and held in the other a large
stone. If they inadvertently nodded, their muscles relaxed and the stone
dropped. This, of course, used to wake them up. Even Alexander the Great
was glad to learn a lesson from the cranes. He used to go to roost with,
not a stone in his hands, but a silver ball, as more befitting his royal
dignity. On the slightest movement the ball would fall and he wake up.
Thus it was that he never overslept himself. We do not do such heroic
things nowadays; nor do cranes.
Cranes are birds which will not stand nonsense. The pigmies used to go
egg-collecting among them; the result of this was, to translate Homer:—
When inclement winters vex the plain,
With piercing frosts, or thick descending rain,
To warmer seas the cranes embodied fly,
With noise and order, through the midway sky:
To pigmy nations wound and death they bring.
Notice that as the cranes were on the war-path there was no necessity for
them to fill their mouths with stones; they wanted all their lung power
to bark at their pigmy foes.
Having considered cranes as they are not, it behoves us to glance at them
as they are. The sarus is a handsome creature. It stands over five feet
high. The general colour of the plumage is a beautiful French grey. The
head and long neck are devoid of feathers, but are covered with numerous
tiny crimson warts or papillæ. These assume a deeper hue at the breeding
season, which occurs from July to September. There is a patch of grey on
the sides of the head. The throat and a ring round the nape are covered
with black hairs.
Saruses feed upon vegetable substances, insects, earthworms, frogs,
lizards, and other small reptiles, with an occasional snake thrown in by
way of condiment. “This,” remarks Babu Ram Brama Sanyal, “shows the kind
of accommodation they must have.”
Saruses are not gregarious birds, but hunt in couples and are said to
mate for life. It is further asserted that when one of a pair is killed
the other pines away and dies. I believe this to be true, although I
cannot vouch for it, and am certainly not going to put the statement to
the test by shooting one of a pair: for these cranes are such tame,
confiding birds that to shoot them savours strongly of murder.
According to Jerdon, a young sarus is not bad eating, but old birds are
worthless for the table. Lucky old birds! Saruses thrive very well in
captivity. As they habitually indulge in all manner of eccentric dances
they make most amusing pets. They are usually gentle and let strangers
caress them and tickle their heads. But I always let others try this on
for the first time with a strange crane, because some birds resent this
head-tickling and, to again quote from the worthy Babu above mentioned,
“appear to exist only as it were for pecking at everything, bird, beast,
and man: children being the special object of their wrath.”
There are two cranes in the “Zoo” at Lahore; they are a most mischievous
couple. They used to be kept with the ducks and geese, and amused
themselves by rooting up all freshly planted rushes. At feeding time it
was their habit to hop from one dish of food to another with outstretched
wings and thus frighten off the ducks and secure the lion’s share for
themselves. They were then removed to the enclosure where the adjutants
are. They started playing tricks on these, but the adjutant has a
powerful beak which he is quite ready to use when necessity arises. The
result is that the saruses are not on speaking terms with the adjutants.
Unlike the adjutant, whose nest is a huge platform of sticks placed on
the top of a very lofty tree, the sarus builds its nursery on the ground.
This takes the form of a large cone, several feet in diameter at the base
and two or three feet high. It is composed of reeds, rushes, and straw,
and placed by preference in shallow water. Great care is taken to keep
the eggs above water level. If, as is apt to happen in India, heavy rain
comes on after the completion of the nest, the parents speedily set to
work to raise the eggs by adding more material to that upon which they
rest.