Mr. “did-he-do-it” is a dandy of the first water. I should like to add
“and so is his wife,” for she dresses exactly as he does, and is every
bit as particular regarding her personal appearance, but owing to the
peculiarity of our Anglo-Saxon tongue, it is incorrect to apply the term
“dandy” to a lady, and there appears to be no feminine equivalent of it.
I must therefore be content to say that Mrs. Did-he-do-it is a dressy
little person. Before describing the attire of the Did-he-do-it let me
say that the bird is correctly styled the red-wattled lapwing.
Ornithologists used to call it _Lobivanellus goensis_, but this was found
to be a bit of a mouthful for even an ornithologist; accordingly the bird
is now named _Sarcogrammus indicus_ for short.
The Did-he-do-it belongs to the noble family of plovers. Its head, neck,
and upper back are black, and the under parts are white. A broad white
band runs down each side of the neck from the eye to join the white of
the under parts. The wings are of a beautiful greenish-bronze hue; the
legs are bright yellow. The beak is crimson-red, as is the forwardly
pointing wattle which forms so conspicuous a feature of the bird’s
physiognomy. The lapwing is thus an easy bird to identify. Even if you
cannot see him, you know he is there the moment you hear his loud, shrill
“Did he do it, pity to do it.” The only bird with which he can possibly
be confounded is his cousin, the yellow-wattled lapwing (_Sarciophorus
malabaricus_). This latter, however, has a yellow wattle and one syllable
less in its cry.
The Did-he-do-it is a bird which frequents open plains in the
neighbourhood of water. I have never seen it perched on a tree, and as it
does not possess the luxury of a hind toe, I imagine that, like the old
lady after a rough Channel crossing, it likes to feel itself on “_terra
cotta._”
This bird is not likely to be seen within municipal limits, but it is
fairly abundant outside Madras. It feeds chiefly upon insects and small
crustacea. It is not a gluttonous fowl. “Eha” declares that you never
find it where there is food and that it does without sleep, since you
never catch it napping. Jerdon, however, informs us that in the South of
India it is said to sleep on its back with its legs in the air—a
distinctly undignified position for a dandy. It sleeps thus so as to be
able to catch on its toes the sky in case this should happen to fall
down. As “Eha” says, the chief point about this truly native yarn is that
it is impossible to contradict it, for who has seen a lapwing asleep?
The nesting habits of the Did-he-do-it are most interesting. Strictly
speaking, it does not build a nest. It scrapes a cavity, about a quarter
of an inch deep, in some stony place. This is the nest. Round it there
are a few pieces of _kankar_ or some twigs; whether these are brought
thither by the bird, or have merely been brushed there in the making of
the cavity, I know not. Very frequently the nest is situated in the
ballast of the railway line. Sometimes it is so placed that the footboard
of every carriage passes over the head of the sitting bird. There is no
accounting for tastes! Four eggs are usually laid; they are much more
pointed at one end than at the other, and are invariably placed in the
nest so as to form a star, the blunt ends projecting outwards and the
thin ends nearly meeting at the centre.
Lapwings’ eggs are protectively coloured. Being laid in the open and not
hidden away in a nest, it is important that they should not be
conspicuous, otherwise they would soon be espied and devoured by some
egg-eating creature. Thus they are coloured so as to assimilate with
their surroundings. The ground colour is greenish and is boldly splotched
with sepia, some of the splotches being darker than others. The eggs are
dull and not glossy, hence are very difficult to distinguish from the
stones which lie round about them. From the above description it will be
seen that the Did-he-do-it’s egg is very like that of his cousin the
English plover, whose eggs are held to be so great a delicacy. Why these
eggs are so much esteemed I do not know. I suspect that it is because
they are difficult to find, and so costly. If tripe and onions cost fifty
shillings a pound, this dish would probably form the _pièce de
résistance_ of every millionaire’s banquet.
The eggs of the Did-he-do-it, then, are interesting as forming perfect
examples of protectively coloured objects. As I have previously remarked,
the theory of protective colouration has my deepest sympathy. It is an
unfortunate jade upon which every biologist seems to think that he is
entitled to take free rides; the result is that the poor beast’s ribs are
cutting through its skin! For example, every bird’s egg is supposed to be
protectively coloured—even the gorgeous shining blue egg laid by the
seven sisters, which is, in truth, about as much protectively coloured as
the I Zingari Cricket Club blazer is. The majority of eggs are laid in
nests which are either covered in or more or less well concealed among
foliage, hence there is no necessity for them to be protectively
coloured. Dame Nature is free to exercise on them to the uttermost her
artistic temperament, with the result that there are few things more
beautiful than a collection of birds’ eggs.
So well do the eggs of the lapwing assimilate with their surroundings,
that, if you would discover a clutch of them, your only chance is to
watch the actions of the possessors of the nest. But the Did-he-do-it is
a wily bird, and if you are not very cute he will live up to his name by
“doing you in the eye.” He does not, like babblers and bulbuls, make a
tremendous noise as you approach the nest. He assumes a nonchalant, I
might say jaunty, air, hoping thereby to put the intruder off the scent.
The other day I had the pleasure of circumventing a couple of lapwings.
Feeling tolerably certain that a pair had a nest on a flat piece of
ground near a canal bank, I determined to find that nest. My wife
accompanied me. On arriving at the spot we took cover under some trees
and scanned the horizon with field-glasses, but saw no trace of a
lapwing. I began to think I had made a mistake. After a time we walked on
towards the canal; when we had gone some three hundred yards my wife
noticed a bird on a ridge by the canal. By the aid of glasses I saw it
was a Did-he-do-it. We both dropped down and watched. The bird had
“spotted” us, for he had assumed the air of an old sailor who is smoking
a pipe over a mug of beer, the air of a man without a care in the world.
Presently he quietly disappeared behind the little ridge. We then made a
big detour so as to reach the other side of this. Having arrived there we
sat behind a tree. The lapwing was now eyeing us suspiciously. We
affected to take no notice of him. Presently a second Did-he-do-it came
out from behind a clump of low plants only to disappear into it almost
immediately, and then ostentatiously reappear after a few seconds. Had we
not known the wiles of the lapwing we should have located the nest behind
that clump. But we knew better and waited. One of the birds again
disappeared behind the clump, but emerged at the other side and strolled
along very slowly; presently it came to some stones, where it stood
motionless for a few seconds. It then sat down, or rather slowly sank
into a sitting position. There was no doubt that the bird was now on the
nest. We made for it. As we approached, the bird that was not on the nest
flew off, making a noise with the object of putting us off the scent. The
lapwing on the nest quietly got up and strolled off without a sound. On
arriving at the place where she had been sitting we found three eggs. I
took one of them for a lady who was anxious to have one. Meanwhile both
birds had flown away without making any noise. Having examined the nest,
we returned to our watching place. In about ten minutes the bird was
again sitting quite happily. She had not missed the egg.