“Gentlemen,” said a Cambridge professor to his class, “I regret that
owing to the forgetfulness of my assistant, I am unable to show you a
specimen of the shell of the mollusc of which we are speaking. You have,
however, but to step into the parlour of any seaside lodging-house and on
the mantelpiece you will see two of the shells in question.” Every
undergraduate immediately knew what the shell was like; so will my
readers at once recognise the bird of which I write when I inform them
that the amadavat is the little red bird with white spots that occurs in
every aviary in India. The bird is, indeed, not all red, but the bill is
bright red and there are patches of this colour all over the plumage—more
in the cock than in the hen, and more in the former in the breeding
season than at other times. Thus the general effect is that of a red
bird; hence the native name _Lal munia_, which, being interpreted, is the
red munia. This is the proper English name of the bird, although fanciers
frequently call it the red waxbill. Men of science know it as
_Sporæginthus amandava_. I may say here that the name avadavat or
amadavat is derived from Ahmedabad, whence great numbers used to be
exported, for the bird is a great favourite in England.
It is the cage bird of India _par excellence_. Hundreds of thousands of
amadavats must at this moment be living in captivity. The bird takes to
cage life as a Scotsman to whisky. Within five minutes of capture the
little creature is contentedly eating its seed and singing quite gaily.
This is no exaggeration. I was recently out with a friend when we came
upon a small boy catching munias. We saw captured a fine cock which my
friend purchased for two annas. Not happening to have a cage in his
pocket, he put the tiny creature into a fold of his handkerchief and
placed the remainder of the handkerchief in his pocket. While we were
walking home our captive began twittering in answer to his companions who
were still free. If this be not philosophical behaviour, I do not know
what is.
Nothing is easier than to catch munias. All that is required is the
common, pyramidal-shaped, four-anna wicker cage in which birds are
usually carried about in India. To the base of one of the walls of this a
flap is attached by a hinge. The flap is the same size and shape as the
wall of the cage, and composed of a frame over which a narrow-meshed
string net is stretched. A string is fastened to the apex of the flap.
The cage, with a captive bird inside, is placed in the open so that the
flap rests on the ground. On this some groundsel is thrown. In a few
minutes a passing amadavat is attracted to the cage by the song of the
bird inside. The new-comer at once begins to feed on the groundsel. Then
the bird-catcher, who is seated a few yards away, pulls the string
sharply, so that the flap closes over the side of the cage and thus the
bird is secured. It is then placed inside the cage and the flap again
set. In this manner a dozen or more amadavats can be captured in an hour.
As nine red munias are sold for a rupee, and as they will live for years
in captivity and cost next to nothing to keep, it is not surprising that
they are popular pets.
Moreover, the amadavat is no mean songster. “Eha” is, I think, a little
severe on the bird when he states that “fifty in a cage make an admirable
chorus.” The bird is small, so is its voice, but what there is of the
latter is exceedingly sweet. Were its notes only louder the bird would be
in the first rank as a songster. A rippling stream of cheery twitters
emanates unceasingly from a cage of munias. The birds seem never to tire.
The cock frequently utters, in addition to this perpetual twitter, a
warble of five or six notes. The birds love to huddle together in a row
on a perch and twitter in chorus. Suddenly the chorus ceases; one of the
birds raises his head above the level of the others and sings a solo,
while the rest listen in silence with the air of connoisseurs. When he
has finished, another bird has a “turn,” then another. The whole
performance always puts me in mind of one of those impromptu concerts
which soldiers are so fond of getting up.
Quite apart from their song, munias afford him who keeps them much
pleasure, because they are most amusing birds to watch. They are very
fond of heat. They are happiest when the thermometer stands at about a
hundred. When they huddle together for the sake of warmth, all are
content except the two end birds, who are kept warm only on one side. No
bird, therefore, likes to be an outside one of a row. If two or three,
sitting close together, are joined by another, this last does not take up
a position at the end of the line. He knows a trick worth two of that. He
perches on the backs of two in the middle and tries to wedge himself in
between them. Sometimes he succeeds. Sometimes he does not. When he does
succeed he frequently upsets the equilibrium of the whole row.
Needless to say, the birds roost huddled together, and at bed-time there
is great manœuvring to avoid an outside position. Each tries to get
somewhere in the middle, and, in order to do so, adopts one of two
methods. He either flops on top of birds already in position, and, if he
cannot wedge himself in, sleeps with one foot on the back of one bird and
the other on its neighbour’s back. The birds do not seem to mind being
sat upon in this way. The other method is for the two outer birds to
press inwards until one of those in the middle of the row is squeezed so
hard as to lose its foothold and be violently ejected upwards. The bird
thus jockeyed out of its position then hops to one end and in its turn
begins to push inwards, and so the process continues until the birds grow
too sleepy to struggle any more. All this contest is conducted without a
sound. There is no bickering or squabbling. The only thing I know like it
is the contest in the dining-room of an Indian hotel, when two “boys,”
each belonging to a different master, seize a dish simultaneously. Each
is determined to secure that dish, and neither dares utter a sound for
fear of angering his _Sahib_. Thus they struggle in grim silence.
Eventually one is victorious and walks off in triumph with the dish. The
defeated servant at once accepts the situation; so is it with a munia
ejected from a central position.
Although amadavats are widely distributed in India and fairly common in
most parts of the country, they usually escape notice on account of their
small size. When flying overhead they are probably mistaken for sparrows.
Moreover, they do not often visit gardens; they prefer open country.
Amadavats belong to the finch family, to the great tribe which includes
the sparrow, the canary, and the weaver-bird. By their coarse, stout
beak, tapering to a point, you may know them. The use of this big beak is
to husk grain. Finches do not gobble up their seed whole as pigeons or
fowls do; they carefully husk each grain before swallowing it. Hence the
meal of a bird of this family is a somewhat protracted affair. He who
keeps an aviary should remember this and provide his birds with several
seed-boxes, otherwise one or two bullies (for there are bullies even
among tiny birds) are apt to monopolise the food.
He should also bear in mind that Nature does not provide her feathered
children with teeth. Seed-eating birds, therefore, habitually swallow
small stones and pieces of grit. These perform the function of millstones
inside the bird. From this it follows that it is cruel to keep
seed-eating birds without supplying them with sand and grit.
The bone of a cuttle-fish, tied to the wall of the cage, is much
appreciated by all the finch tribe and helps to keep them in condition.
The nest of the amadavat is a large ball of fibrous material, somewhat
carelessly put together, with a hole at one side by way of entrance.
Winter is the season in which to look for the nests, but they are not
easy to find, being well concealed in low bushes. Six pure white
glossless eggs are usually laid.