More than fifty species of bulbul are found in India—bulbuls of all sorts
and conditions, of all shapes and sizes, from the brilliant green bulbuls
(which, by the way, strictly speaking, are not bulbuls at all) to the
dull-plumaged but blithe white-browed member of the community, so common
in Madras; from the rowdy black bulbuls of the Himalayas to the highly
respectable and well-behaved red-vented bulbuls. He who would write of
them is thus confronted with an _embarras de richesses_. The problem that
he has to solve is, which of the many species to take as his theme.
The polity of birds is said to be a republic. The problem may, therefore,
well be elucidated on democratic principles. The first and foremost of
these—the main plank of every demagogue’s platform—is, of course, “one
bulbul, one vote.” The second is like unto the first, “every bulbul for
itself.” Therefore, on being asked to elect a representative to be the
subject-matter of this paper, each will vote for his own species, and the
result of the poll will be: Bulbuls of the genus _Molpastes_ first, those
of the genus _Otocompsa_ a good second, and the rest a long way behind.
Let us then conform to the will of the majority and consider for a little
these two species of bulbul, which resemble one another very closely in
their habits.
_Molpastes_ is a bird about half as big again as the sparrow, but with a
longer tail. The whole head is black and marked by a short crest. There
is a conspicuous crimson patch of feathers under the tail. The remainder
of the plumage is brown, but each feather on the body is margined with
creamy white, so that the bird is marked by a pattern that is, as “Eha”
points out, not unlike the scales on a fish. Both ends of the tail
feathers are whitish.
_Otocompsa_ is a more showy bird. The crest is long and projects forward
over the forehead. The crimson patch, so characteristic of bulbuls, also
exists in this species. There is a similar patch on each side of the
head—whence the bird’s name, the red-whiskered bulbul. There is also a
white patch on each cheek. The white throat is separated from the whitish
abdomen by a conspicuous dark brown necklace. This bird must be familiar
to every one who has visited Coonoor or any other southern hill station.
The less showy variety—the red-vented bulbul, as it is called—is common
in and about Madras.
It will be noticed that I have refrained from giving any specific name to
either of these two genera. This is due to the fact that these bulbuls
are widely distributed and fall into a number of local races, each of
which has some little peculiarity in colouring. For this reason, bulbuls
are birds after the heart of the museum ornithologist. They afford him
ample scope for species-making.
[Illustration: THE BENGAL RED-WHISKERED BULBUL. (OTOCOMPSA EMERIA)]
If you go from Madras to the Punjab you will there meet with a bulbul
which you will take for the same species as the bulbul you left behind in
Madras. But if you look up the birds in an ornithological text-book you
will find that they belong to different species. The Punjab bulbul is
known as _Molpastes intermedius_, while the Madras bird is called _M.
hæmorrhous_. The only difference in appearance between the two species is
that in the Madras bird the black of the head does not extend to the
neck, whereas in the Punjab bird it does. Similarly, there is a Burmese,
a Tenasserim, a Chinese, and a Bengal red-vented bulbul.
Now, I regard all these different bulbuls as local races of one species,
which might perhaps be called _Molpastes indicus_; and I think that I am
justified in holding this view by the fact that the bulbuls you come
across at Lucknow do not fit in with the description of any of these
so-called species. The reason is that the Bengal and the Madras races
meet at Lucknow, and of course interbreed. The result is a cross between
the two races.
In addition to the above there are some _Molpastes_ which have white
cheeks and a yellow patch under the tail. In all, nine or ten Indian
“species” of _Molpastes_ have been described.
The same applies in a lesser degree to _Otocompsa_. This is a widely
distributed species, but is not so plastic as _Molpastes_. There is the
Bengal red-whiskered bulbul (_Otocompsa emeria_), which is
distinguishable from the southern variety (_O. fuscicaudata_) by having
white tips to the tail feathers, and the dark necklace interrupted in the
middle. There is also an _Otocompsa_ with a yellow patch under the tail.
This division of a species or genus into a number of races or nearly
allied species is interesting as showing one of the ways in which new
species arise in Nature quite independently of natural selection. It is
unreasonable to suppose that the extension into the neck of the black of
the head in the Punjab bulbul and its non-extension in the Madras bulbul
are due to the action of natural selection in each locality, that a
bulbul with black in its neck is unfitted for existence in Madras.
Whenever a group of animals becomes isolated from its fellows, it almost
invariably develops peculiarities which are of no help to it in the
struggle for existence. Thus isolation is the cause of the origin of
dialects and languages. A dialect is an incipient language, even as a
race is a potential species.
But let us return to our bulbuls. The habits of both _Otocompsa_ and
_Molpastes_ are so similar that we can speak of them together. They are
what Mr. Finn calls thoroughly nice birds. They are, none of them, great
songsters, but all continually give forth exceedingly cheery notes. The
twittering of the red-whiskered bulbuls is not the least of the charms of
our southern hill stations.
Bulbuls feed on insects and berries, so are apt to be destructive in
gardens. They built nests of the orthodox type—cups of the description
always depicted on Christmas cards. These are built anywhere, without
much attempt at concealment. Rose bushes are a favourite site, so are
crotons, especially if they be in a verandah. A pair of bulbuls once
built a nest in my greenhouse at Gonda. Among the fronds of a fern
growing in a hanging basket did those unsophisticated birds construct
that nest. Every time the fern was watered the sitting bird, nest, and
eggs received a shower-bath!
Sometimes bulbuls do by chance construct their nest in a well-concealed
spot, but then they invariably “give the show away” by setting up a
tremendous cackling whenever a human being happens to pass by.
I have had the opportunity of watching closely the nesting operations of
seven pairs of bulbuls; of these only one couple succeeded in raising
their brood. The first of these nests was built in a croton plant in a
verandah at Fyzabad. One day a lizard passed by and sucked the eggs. The
next was the nest at Gonda already mentioned. In spite of the numerous
waterings they received, the eggs actually yielded young bulbuls; but
these disappeared when about four days old. The _mali_ probably caused
them to be gathered unto their fathers. The third nest was situated in a
bush outside the drawing-room window of the house in which I spent a
month’s leave at Coonoor. This little nursery was so well concealed that
I expected the parents would succeed in rearing their young. But one
morning I saw on the gravel path near the nest a number of tell-tale
feathers. Puss had eaten mamma bulbul for breakfast! The fourth nest—but
why should I detail these tragedies? Notwithstanding all their nesting
disasters, bulbuls flourish so greatly as to severely shake one’s faith
in the doctrine of natural selection.
In conclusion, a word or two must be said concerning bulbuls in
captivity. These birds make charming pets, but as their diet is largely
insectivorous, they cannot be fed on seed. They become delightfully tame.
One I kept used to fly on to my shoulder whenever it saw me, and open its
mouth, flutter its wings, and twitter, which was its way of asking to be
fed. It _would_ insist on using my pen as a perch, and as one’s
handwriting is not improved by an excitable bulbul hopping up and down
the penholder, I was obliged to shut the bird up in a cage when I wanted
to write. The bulbul used to resent this, and did not hesitate to tell me
so. In young birds the tail is very short, and the patch of feathers
under it is pale red instead of being bright crimson.
Natives of India keep bulbuls for fighting purposes. These birds are not
caged, but are tied to a cloth-covered perch by a long piece of fine
twine attached to the leg. Bulbuls, although full of pluck, are not by
nature quarrelsome. In order to make them fight they are kept without
food for some time. Then two ravenous birds are shown the same piece of
food. This, of course, leads to a fight, for a hungry bulbul is an angry
bulbul.