The nutmeg bird or spotted munia (_Uroloncha punctulata_) is second only
to the amadavat as an aviary favourite. The two species are almost
invariably caged. This is, perhaps, the reason why I was once gravely
assured by a lady that the spotted munia is the hen; and the amadavat the
cock of one and the same species! Needless to say, the birds, although
relatives, belong to different genera. The stouter bill of the spotted
munia proclaims this. In colour the beak is bluish black or dark slate
colour, and contrasts strongly with the chocolate-brown of the head,
neck, back, wings, and tail. The breast is white with a number of black
rings, which give it the appearance of a nutmeg-grater, hence the popular
name of the bird. Fanciers go one better and call it the spice bird. If
in years to come the former name be forgotten, etymologists will put
their wise heads together and puzzle and wrangle over the derivation of
the name “spice bird”!
The habits of the spotted munia are those of the amadavat. Like the
latter, it seems to thrive in captivity; it also loves warmth, and likes
to go to roost with a warm companion on each side of it. Red and spotted
munias live together very amicably in a cage; but as the latter, owing to
their less showy plumage, are usually in a minority, they have to be
content with outside positions at roosting-time. Sometimes my munias take
it into their tiny heads to sleep on a perch which runs across a corner
of the cage, and is barely long enough to accommodate them all. There are
several other finer and longer perches, but, for some reason or other,
they seem to prefer this one. Possibly its breadth is better adapted to
the grip of their feet than that of any of the others. I may here say, in
parenthesis, for the benefit of those who keep cage birds, that every
cage should contain several perches of varying diameter, so as to permit
the inmates of the cage the luxury of a change of grip.
Well, when a dozen birds persist in roosting on a perch intended only to
seat ten, at least one of them is unable to find room on the perch, and
is obliged either to sleep on the backs of some of his companions or
make-believe that he is roosting on the perch. This latter feat is
accomplished by the bird clutching hold of the two wires between which
the perch passes and maintaining himself at an angle of 45° with the
vertical. In this attitude a bird will sometimes sleep! Of course, its
body is in part resting on that of its neighbour, but, allowing for this,
a more uncomfortable position is inconceivable to a human being. The
spotted munia, however, seems to find it tolerably comfortable.
Birds sleep standing, often on one leg. Did this require any appreciable
muscular effort on the part of the bird there could be no rest in such an
attitude, and the bird would fall off its perch as soon as it went to
sleep. As a matter of fact, the muscles and tendons of a bird’s hind-limb
are so arranged that, to use the words of Mr. F. W. Headley, “when the
leg bends at the ankle, there is a pull upon the tendons, the muscles are
stretched, the toes are bent and grasp the perch on which the bird sits.
Thus he is maintained by his own weight, which bends the leg and so
causes the toes to grip.” Thanks to this feature of their anatomy,
passerine birds are able to sleep on branches of trees out of reach of
prowling beasts of prey.
The great force with which a bird grasps its perch is worthy of note. As
every hawker is aware, a falcon, when carried on the wrist, grips the
leather gauntlet so tightly as to almost stop the circulation of the
blood in the hand of the carrier. A fox cannot open its mouth when once
its snout is in the iron grip of an eagle. Examples of the power of the
grip of the foot of a passerine bird will occur to every one who has had
much to do with our feathered friends. Crows habitually roost in the
topmost branches of trees, which must be very violently shaken in a gale
of wind; yet the birds never seem to lose their hold.
I have said that the habits of the spotted munia are those of the
amadavat; what was said of the latter applies to the former, with one
exception. The spotted munia is no songster. Those who keep the bird must
have seen him go through all the motions of singing, with a considerable
display of energy, but scarcely a sound seems to issue. You may perhaps
hear the feeblest noise, like that made by a wheezy and decrepit
mosquito. When you see the bird’s mandibles moving nineteen to the dozen
with scarcely a sound issuing, you are inclined to think that he is
either playing dumb crambo or that he has taken leave of his senses.
Nothing of the kind. The bird is singing his top notes, which are
doubtless greatly appreciated by his mate. Sound is, as we all know in
this scientific age, vibration appreciable to the ear. Air is the usual
vibrating medium. Only certain vibrations are perceptible to the human
auditory organ. Those having a recurrence of below thirty or above
sixteen thousand per second do not produce the sensation of sound to the
average human ear. There are thus numbers of vibrations continually going
on which are lost to us; to this category belong the vibrations in the
air produced by the vocal cords of the spotted munia. The ear of a bird
is constituted very differently from that of man, so that it is not
surprising if birds can hear certain sounds imperceptible to us human
beings. I may here say that the range of the human ear varies greatly in
different individuals. Some men can hear vibrations of which the
recurrence is but fifteen in the second, while others are said to
appreciate notes caused by forty thousand vibrations per second. I have a
friend who cannot hear a black partridge when it is calling; its notes
are too high for the unusually limited range of his ear. I do not know if
there are any people to whom the note of the nutmeg bird sounds quite
loud; if there be, and these lines meet their eye, I hope they will give
their brethren of more limited capacity the benefit of their experience.