Peewits, besides those aerial antics which are of love, or appertaining
to love, have some other and very strange ones, of the same nature,
which they go through with on the ground. A bird, indulging in these,
presses his breast upon the ground, and uses it as a pivot upon which
he sways or rolls, more or less violently, from side to side. The
legs, during this process, are hardly to be seen, but must, I suppose,
support the body, which is inclined sharply upwards from the breast.
The wings project like two horns on either side of the tail, which
is bent down between them, in a nervous, virile manner. All at once,
a spasm or wave of energy seems to pass through the bird, the tail
is bent, still more forcibly, down, the body and wings remaining as
before; and, with some most energetic waggles of it, from side to
side, the generative act appears to be performed. That, at any rate, is
what it looks like--the resemblance could hardly be more exact.
What is the meaning of this strange performance? The cock bird, say
the handbooks, is displaying before the hen. But where is the hen? In
nine cases out of ten she is not there; and this, and, still more, the
peculiarity of the actions, have convinced me that a wish to please
is not the real motive of them. Again, it is assumed that the cock
bird, only, rolls in this way. But is this the case? Some further
observations, as recorded by me in my field notes, may serve to answer
this question. “Two peewits have just paired.” I noticed no prior
antics, but, immediately after coition, one of the two--I am not quick
enough with the glasses to say which--runs a little way over the sand,
and commences to roll. In a moment or two, the other runs up, looking
most interested, and, on the first one’s rising and standing aside,
immediately sits along, in the exact spot where it was, and in the same
sort of attitude, though without rolling. Then this bird rises also,
and both stand looking at the place where they have just lain, and
making little pecks at it--or just beside it--with their bills. One of
the two then walks a little away, so that I lose her, whilst the other
one, on which I keep the glasses, and which I now feel sure is the
male, rolls, again, in the same place, and in the most marked manner.
Then, rising, he runs, for some way, with very short precise little
steps, which have a peculiar character about them. His whole pose and
attitude is, also, peculiar. The head and beak are pointed straight
forward, in a line with the neck, which is stretched straight out, to
its fullest extent, the crest lying flat down upon it. In this strange,
set attitude, and with these funny little set, formal steps, he
advances, without a pause, for some dozen or twenty yards, then stops,
resumes his ordinary demeanour, and, shortly, flies off. In a little
while the same thing occurs again, and, though still not quick enough
with the glasses to be quite certain which bird it is that leads the
way, immediately after the nuptial rite has been accomplished, I yet
think it is the male; and he rolls now in two different places, making
a run to some distance, in the way described, after the first time of
doing so. It is only on the second occasion that the other bird runs up
to him. The actions of the two are, then, as before, except that the
last comer--the female, as I think--rolls this time, slightly, also. It
is in a very imperfect and, as one may say, rudimentary manner, but I
catch the characteristic, though subdued, motion with the tail.
My glass is now upon a peewit standing negligently on the warrens,
when another one, entering its field, flies right down upon and pairs
with this bird, without having previously alighted on the ground.
Immediately afterwards he (the male) makes his funny little run
forward, starting from by the side of the female, and, at the end of
it, pitches forward and commences to roll. The female, shortly, comes
up to him, with the same interested manner as on the other occasions,
and, on his moving his length forward, and sinking down again, she sits
in the spot where he has just rolled, pecking on the ground, as before
described, whilst he rolls, again, just in front of her. The two birds
then rise, and stand together, making little desultory pecks. After a
while the hen walks away, leaving the cock, who rolls a little more
before following her. A strange performance this rolling is, when seen
quite plainly through the glasses. The whole body is lifted up, so that
the bird often looks not so much sitting as standing on his breast,
the rest of him being in the air. The breast is, thus, pressed into
the sand, whilst a rolling or side-to-side movement of it, varying in
force, helps to make a cup-shaped hollow. This curious raised attitude,
however, alternates with a more ordinary sitting posture, nor is the
rolling motion always apparent. After each raising of the wings and
tail, they are depressed, then again raised, and so on, whilst, at
intervals, there is the curious waggle of the tail, before described,
suggesting actual copulation.
In none of the above instances did I walk to examine the place where
the birds had rolled after they had left them. They would, indeed,
have been difficult to find, but upon another occasion, when the
circumstances made this easy, I did so, and found just such a little
round basin in the sand as the eggs are laid in. No eggs, however,
were ever laid here, whilst the bird was afterwards to be seen rolling
in other parts. It is easy, under such circumstances, to keep one
peewit--or at least one pair of them--distinct from others, for they
appropriate a little territory to themselves, which they come back to
and stand about in, however much they may fly abroad. And here the
birds return, in my experience, spring-time after spring-time, to lay
their eggs, so that I judge them to pair for life. It is well known
that the peewit does produce hollows in the way described--as, indeed,
he could hardly avoid doing--and as he is constantly rolling in various
places numbers of such little empty cups are to be found about the
bird’s breeding haunts. Mr. Howard Saunders, in his “Manual of British
Birds,” says, alluding to the spring-tide activities of the peewit,
“The ‘false nests’ often found are scraped out by the cock in turning
round, when showing off to the female.” I have shown what the bird’s
movements on these occasions really are. They have upon them, in my
opinion, the plain stamp of the primary sexual impulse, and it is out
of this that anything which can be looked upon as in the nature of a
conscious display must have grown. There is, indeed, evidence to show
that one bird performing these actions may be of interest to another,
but in spite of this and of the bright colour of the under tail-coverts
(which I have seen apparently examined, even touched, by one peewit,
whilst another, their owner, was rolling), it may be said that, in the
greater number of cases, the performing bird is paid no attention to,
and does not, itself, appear to wish to be, being often, to all intents
and purposes, alone. What relation, then, do such actions, which are
not confined to the peewit, bear to the more pronounced and undoubted
cases of sexual display? They are, I believe, the raw material out of
which these latter have arisen--sometimes, at least, if not always. I
have, also, shown that it is not the male peewit, only, that rolls.
As usual, it has been assumed that this is so, because here, as in
other cases, it is impossible, in field observation, to distinguish
the one sex from the other, and to assume is a much easier process
than to find out. Immediately after coition, however, one has both the
male and the female bird before one, and under these circumstances
I have seen them both act in the same way, as just described. It is
true that the actions of the female were less pronounced than those of
the male, but it does not follow that this is always the case, and,
moreover, it is of no great importance if it is. The essential fact
is that both the sexes go through the same movements, and, therefore,
if these movements are, as I believe them to be, the basis of sexual
display, one can see why, in some cases, there might be an inter-sexual
display, and, as a consequence, an inter-sexual selection. But I
leave this question, which has been profoundly neglected, to come to
another. In the passage I have quoted, the term “false nest” is put in
inverted commas, showing, I suppose, that it has often been used, and,
consequently, that the close resemblance of the false nest to the real
one has been generally recognised. I suggest that the false nest _is_
the real one--by which I mean that there is no essential difference in
the process by which each is produced; and, further, that the origin of
nest-building generally, amongst birds, has been the excited nervous
actions to which the warmth of the sexual feelings give rise, and the
activity of the generative organs.
My theory is based upon two assumptions, neither of which, I think, is
in itself improbable. The first of these assumptions is that birds,
in early times, made no nests, and the second that the eggs were
originally laid upon the ground only. Assuming this, and that these
ancient birds, like many modern ones, gave themselves up, during the
breeding time, to all sorts of strange, frenzied movements over the
ground, I suppose the eggs to have been laid in some place which had
been the scene of such movements. For, by a natural tendency, birds,
like other animals, get to connect a certain act with a certain place,
or with certain places. Thus they are wont to roost in the same tree,
and often on the same bough of it, to bathe in the same pool or bend
of the stream, &c. &c. In accordance with this disposition, their
antics, or love-frenzies, would have tended to become localised also;
the places where they had been most frequently indulged in would have
called up, by association, the nuptial feelings, and, consequently,
the eggs would have been more likely to have been laid in such places
than in other ones having no special significance. Like every other act
that is often repeated, this one of laying in a certain spot would have
passed into a habit, and thus the place of mutual dalliance--perhaps
of pairing, also--would have become the place of laying, therefore
the potential nest. Having got thus far, let us now suppose that one
chief form of these frenzied movements, which I suppose to have been
indulged in by both sexes, was a rolling, buzzing, or spinning round
upon the ground, by which means the bird so acting produced, like the
peewit, a greater or lesser depression in it. If the eggs were laid in
the depression so formed, they would then have been laid in a nest,
but such nest would not have been made with any idea of receiving the
eggs, or sheltering the young. Its existence would have been due to
excited and non-purposive movements, springing out of the violence of
the sexual emotions. Now, however, comes a further stage, which, it
might well be thought, could only have grown out of deliberate and
intelligent action--I mean at every slight step in the process--on
the part of the bird. I allude to the lining of grass, moss, sticks,
or even stones or fragments of shells, with which many birds that lay
their eggs in a hollow, made by them in the ground, further improve
this. That the nature and object of this process is now, through
memory, more or less understood by many birds, I, for one, do not
doubt; but, as every evolutionist will admit, it is the beginnings of
anything, which best explain, and are most fraught with significance.
Is it possible that even the actual building of the nest may have had a
nervous--a frenzied--origin? Lions and other fierce carnivorous animals
will, when wounded, bite at sticks, or anything else lying within their
reach. That a bird, as accustomed to peck as a dog or a lion is to
bite, should, whilst in a state of the most intense nervous excitement,
do the same, does not appear to me to be more strange, or, indeed, in
any way peculiar; and that such a trick would be inherited, and, if
beneficial, increased and modified, who that has Darwin in his soul can
doubt? Now if a bird, whilst ecstatically rolling on the ground, were
to pick up and throw aside either small sticks or any other loose-lying
and easily-seized objects--such as bits of grass or fibrous roots--I
can see no reason why it should not, by stretching out its neck to such
as lay just within its reach, and dropping them, again, when in an
easier attitude, make a sort of collection of them close about it--of
which, indeed, I will quote an instance farther on. Then if the eggs
were laid where the bird had rolled, they would be laid in the midst of
such a collection.
Now, I submit that these curious actions of the peewit, during the
breeding time, support the theory of the origin of nest-building, which
I have here roughly sketched, if not entirely, at least to a certain
extent. They point in that direction. Here we have movements, on the
part of both the male and female bird, which are, obviously, of a
sexual character, having upon them, I would say, the plain stamp of
the primary sexual instinct. They are most marked--or, at any rate,
most elaborate--immediately after the actual pairing, commencing,
then, in the curious little run and set attitude of the male. Out
of, and as a result of, these movements, a depression in the ground,
greatly resembling--if not, as I believe, identical with--that in
which the eggs are laid, is evolved, and in or about this is shown a
tendency to collect sticks, grass, or other loose substances. But how
different are these collecting movements to those which we see in a
bird whose nest-building instinct has become more highly developed!
They seem to be but just emerging from the region of blind forces, to
be only half-designed, not yet fully guided by a distinct idea of doing
something for a definite end. Yet it is just _these_ actions that most
resemble those which seem so purposive, in the ordinary building of a
nest. All the others seem to me to belong to that large and important
class of avine movements, which may be called the sexually ecstatic, or
love-mad, group. Nor can these two classes of actions be separated from
each other. The motion by which the hollow is produced is accompanied
by--if it may not rather be said to be a part of--that most pronounced,
peculiar, and, as it seems to me, purely sexual one of the tail, or
rather of the anal parts; and there is, moreover, the very marked and
distinctive run, with the set, rigid attitude--that salient feature of
a bird’s nuptial antics--which immediately precedes the rolling, in the
same way that the run precedes the jump in athletics. All this set of
actions must be looked upon as so many parts of one and the same whole
thing, and to explain such whole thing we must call in some cause which
will equally account for all its parts. The deliberate intention of
making a nest will not do this, for many of the actions noted do not
in the least further such a plan. On the other hand, sexual excitement
may just as well produce rolling on the ground--as, indeed, it does
in some other birds--and, perhaps, even pecking round about on it, as
it may the stiff, set run, and those other peculiar movements. And if
some of many movements, the cause of all of which is sexual excitement,
should be of such a nature as that, out of them, good might accrue to
the species, why should not natural selection seize hold of these, and
gradually shape them, making them, at last, through the individual
memory, intelligent and purposive? since, by becoming so, their ability
might be largely increased, and their improvement proceed at a quicker
rate. I believe that in these actions of the peewit, which sometimes
appear to me to stand in the place of copulation, and at other times
commence immediately after it, with a peculiar run, and then go on,
without pause or break, to other motions, all of which--even the
curious pecking which I have noticed--have, more or less, the stamp
of sexual excitement upon them, though some may, in their effects,
be serviceable--I believe, I say, that in all these actions we see
this process actually at work; and I believe, also, that in the
nest-building of species comparatively advanced in the art, we may
still see traces of its early sexual origin. I have been, for instance,
extremely struck with the movements of a hen blackbird upon the nest
that she was in course of constructing. These appeared to me to partake
largely of an ecstatic--one might almost say a beatific--nature, so
that there was a large margin of energy, over and above the actual
business of building--at least it struck me so--to be accounted for. I
was not in the least expecting to see this, and I well remember how it
surprised and struck me. The wings of this blackbird were half spread
out, and would, I think, have drooped--an action most characteristic
of sexual excitement in birds--had not the edge of the nest supported
them, and I particularly noted the spasmodic manner in which the tail
was, from time to time, suddenly bent down. It is true that it then
tightly clasped--as one may almost call it--the rim of the nest,
pressing hard against it on the outer side. But though such action
may now have become part of a shaping process, yet it was impossible
for me, when I saw it, not to think of the peewit, in which something
markedly similar could have answered no purpose of this kind. Were the
latter bird, instead of rolling on the ground, to do so in a properly
constructed nest, of a size suitable to its bulk, the tail, being bent
forcibly down in the way I have described, would compress the rim of
it, just as did that of the blackbird. And were the blackbird to do
what I have seen it do, on the bare ground, and side by side with the
peewit, a curious parallel would, I think, be exhibited. As far as
I have been able to see, the actions of rooks on the nest are very
similar to those of the blackbird, and a black Australian swan, that I
watched in the Pittville Gardens at Cheltenham, went through movements,
upon the great heap of leaves flung down for it, which much resembled
those of the peewit upon the ground. By what I understand from the
swan-keeper at Abbotsbury, the male of the mute swan acts in much the
same way. Of course what is wanted is extended observation of the way
in which birds build their nests--that is to say, of their intimate
actions when on them, either placing the materials or shaping the
structure. If the origin of the habit has been as I imagine, one might
expect, here, to see traces of it, in movements more or less resembling
those to which I have drawn attention.
I have noticed the curious way in which both the male and female
peewit--after movements which appear to me to differ considerably from
the more characteristic love-antics of birds in general--peck about
at bits of grass, or any other such object growing or lying within
their reach; and I have speculated on the possibility of actions like
these, though at first of a nervous and merely mechanical character,
having grown, at last, into the deliberate and intentional building
of a nest. Whether, in the case of the peewit, we see quite the first
stage of the process, I will not be certain; but we see it, I believe,
in another of our common British birds, viz. the wheat-ear. My notes on
the extraordinary behaviour of two males of this bird, whilst courting
the female, I have published in my work, “Bird Watching,”[21] from
which I will now quote a few lines bearing upon this point: “Instead of
fighting, however, which both the champions seem to be chary of, one
of them again runs into a hollow, this time a very shallow one, but in
a manner slightly different. He now hardly rises from the ground, over
which he seems more to spin, in a strange sort of way, than to fly; to
buzz, as it were, in a confined area, and with a tendency to go round
and round. Having done this a little, he runs from the hollow, plucks a
few little bits of grass, returns with them into it, drops them there,
comes out again, hops about as before, flies up into the air, descends,
and again dances about.” Now, here, a bird brings to a certain spot,
not unlike such a one as the nest is usually built in--approaching
it, at any rate--some of the actual materials of which the nest is
composed, and I ask if, under the circumstances, it can possibly be
imagined that such bird really is building its nest, in the ordinary
purpose-implying sense of the term. As well might one suppose--so it
seems to me--that a man, in the pauses of a fierce sword-and-dagger
fight with a rival suitor, should set seriously to work house-hunting
or furniture-buying. These wheat-ears, I should mention, had been
following each other about, for the greater part of the afternoon,
and though, as hinted, not exactly fire-eaters, had yet several times
closed in fierce conflict. The manner in which the grass was plucked by
one of them, partook of the frenzied character of their whole conduct.
How difficult, therefore, to suppose that here, all at once, was a
deliberate act, having to do with the building of a nest, before,
apparently, either of the two rivals had been definitely chosen by the
hen bird! Yet, when once the object had been seized, associations may
have been aroused by it.
Facts of this kind appear to me to prove, at least, the possibility
of a process so elaborate, and, seemingly, so purposive as that of
building a nest, having commenced in mere mechanical, unintelligent
actions. As further evidence of this, and also of the passing of such
actions into a further stage--that of actual construction, more or
less combined with intelligence--I will now quote from an interesting
account, by Mr. Cronwright Schreiner, of the habits of the ostrich,
as farmed in South Africa, which was published in the _Zoologist_ for
March 1897, but which I had not read at the time these ideas first
occurred to me:--
“_The Nest Made by the Pair Together._--The cock goes down on to his
breast, scraping or kicking the sand out, backwards, with his feet....
The hen stands by, often fluttering and clicking her wings, and helps
by picking up the sand, with her beak, and dropping it, irregularly,
near the edge of the growing depression.” (Compare the actions, as I
have noted them, of both the male and female peewit.)
“_The Little Embankment Round the Nest._--The sitting bird, whilst on
the nest, sometimes pecks the sand up, with its beak, nearly as far
from the nest as it can reach, and drops it around the body. A little
embankment is thus, gradually, formed.... The formation ... is aided
by a peculiar habit of the birds. When the bird on the nest is much
excited (as by the approach of other birds, or people) it snaps up the
sand, spasmodically, without rising from the nest, and without lifting
its head more than a few inches from the ground. The bank is raised
by such sand as falls inward. The original nest is, merely, a shallow
depression.”
Remarks follow on the use of the bank, which has become a part--and
an important part--of the nest. We, however, are concerned with
the origin both of it and the depression. It seems clear, from the
account, that the former is made, in part at least, without the bird
having the intention of doing so; whilst, to make the latter, the
cock assumes the attitude of sexual frenzy (described in the same
paper, and often witnessed by myself), an attitude which does not
seem necessary for mere scratching, nor, indeed, adapted for it. Why
should a bird, possessing such tremendous power in its legs--moving
them so freely, and accustomed to kick and stamp with them--have to
sink upon its breast in order to scratch a shallow depression? Surely,
considering their length, they could be much less conveniently used,
for such a purpose, in this position, than if the bird stood up. If
the scratching, however, has grown out of the sexual frenzy, we can,
then, well understand the characteristic posture of the latter being
continued. I suspect, myself, that the breast of the bird still helps
to make the depression, as in courtship it must almost necessarily
do--for the ostrich rolls, on such occasions, in much the same way as
the peewit.
These nesting habits of the ostrich[22] seem to me to support my idea
of the origin of nest-making. How strange, if “spasmodic” and “excited”
actions have had nothing to do with it, that they should yet help,
here, to make the nest! How strange that the cock ostrich, only, should
make the depression, assuming that attitude in which he rolls when
courting--or, rather, desiring--the hen, if this has no connection with
the fact that it is he only (or he pre-eminently) who, in the breeding
time, acts in this manner! In most birds, probably--though this has
been taken too much for granted--those frenzied movements arising out
of the violence of sexual desire, are more violent and frenzied in the
male than in the female. In this way we may see, upon my theory, the
reason why the cock bird so often helps the hen in making the nest; nor
is it more difficult to suppose that the hen, in most cases, may have
been led to imitate him, than it is to suppose the converse of this.
We might expect, however, that as the process became more and more
elaborate and intelligent, the chief part in it would, in the majority
of instances, be taken by the female, as is the case; for as soon as a
nest had come to be connected, in the bird’s mind, with eggs and young,
then her parental affection (the “στοργἡ” of Gilbert White), by being
stronger than that of the male, would have prompted her to take the
lead. I can see no reason why acts which were, originally, nervous,
merely--spasmodic, frenzied--should not have become, gradually, more
and more rational. Natural selection would have accomplished this; for,
beneficent as actions, blindly performed, might be to an animal, they
would, surely, be more so, if such animal were able, by the exercise of
its intelligence, to guide and shape them, in however small a degree.
Thus, not only would those individuals be selected, who performed an
act which was advantageous, but those, also, whose intelligence best
enabled them to see to what end this act tended, and, so, to improve
upon it, would be selected out of these. Such a process of selection
would tend to develop, not only the general intelligence, but, in a
more especial degree, intelligence directed along certain channels, so
that the latter might be out of proportion to the former, and this is
what one often seems to see in animals.
Thus, as it appears to me, instead of instinct having commenced in
intelligence, which has subsequently lapsed, the latter may often have
grown gradually out of the former, blind movements, as we may call
them, coming, at length, to have an aim and object, and so to be
rational ones. It may be asked, by what door could this intelligence,
in regard to actions originally not guided by it, have entered? I
reply, by that of memory. A bird does not make a nest or lay eggs once
only, but many times. Therefore, though the actions by which the nest
is produced, on the first occasion, may have no object in them, yet
memory, on the next and subsequent ones, will keep telling the bird
for what purpose they have served. Such individuals as remembered
this most strongly, and could best apply their recollections, would
have an advantage over the others, for their actions would now be
rational, and, being so, they would be able to modify and improve
them. Their offspring would inherit this stronger memory and these
superior powers, and also, probably, a tendency to use them both, in
the same special direction. Whether knowledge itself may not, in some
sort of way, be inherited, is, also, a question to be asked. If a bird
instinctively builds a nest, may it not instinctively know why it does
so? If there is any truth in these views, we ought to see, in some
of the more specialised actions of animals--and, more particularly,
of birds--a mingling, in various proportions, of intelligence and
blind, unreasoning impulse. This, to my mind, is just what we do see,
in many such; as, for instance, in the courting or nuptial antics,
in those other ones, perhaps more extraordinary, which serve to
draw one’s attention from the nest or young, and, finally, in the
building of the nest. Not only do the two elements seem mingled and
blended together, in all of these, but they are mingled in varying
proportions, according to the species. No one who has seen both a snipe
and a wild duck “feign,” as it is commonly called, being disabled,
can have helped noticing that far more of intelligence seems to
enter into the performance of the latter bird, than into that of the
former. The moor-hen is not a bird that is known in connection with
any special ruse or device for enticing intruders from its young, but
I have seen one fall into a sort of convulsion, on the water, upon my
appearing, very suddenly, on the bank of a little stream where she
was swimming, with her young brood. The actions of a snipe, startled
from its eggs, were much more extraordinary, and equally, as it seemed
to me, of a purely nervous character.[23] Here, surely, we must have
the raw material for that remarkable instinct, so highly developed in
some birds, by which they attract attention from their young, towards
themselves. But, if so, this instinct is not lapsed intelligence,
but, rather, hysteria become half-intelligent. The part which mere
muscular-nervous movements may have played, under the agency of natural
selection, in the formation of some instincts, has not, I think, been
sufficiently considered.
There is another class of facts which, I think, may be explained on
the above view of the origin of the nest-building instinct. Some birds
pair, habitually, on the nest, whilst a few make runs, or bowers, for
the express purpose, apparently, of courting, and where pairing, not
improbably, may also take place. Now, if the ancient nest had been,
before everything, the place of sexual intercourse, we can understand
why it should, in some cases, have retained its original character, in
this respect.
What, now, is the real nature of those frenzied motions in birds,
during the breeding season, before they have passed, either into what
may properly be called courting antics, or the process of building a
nest? I have described what the peewit actually does, and I suggest
that the rolling of a single bird differs only, in its essential
character, from actual coition, by the fact of its being singly
performed, and that, thus, the primary sexual instinct (_der thierische
Trieb_) directly gives birth to the secondary, nest-building one. It
is true that the pairing, when I saw it, did not take place on the
same spot where the rolling afterwards did. Nevertheless, the distance
was not great, and it varied considerably. The run, which preceded
the rolling, commenced immediately on the consummation of the nuptial
rite, as though arising from the excitation of it--as may be seen with
other birds; and if this run, which varied in length, were to become
shorter and ultimately to be eliminated altogether, the bird would
then be pairing, rolling, and at last, as I believe, laying its eggs
in one and the same place.[24] Supposing this to have been originally
the case, then the early nest would have been put to two uses, that of
a thalamum and that of a cradle, and to these two uses it is in some
cases put now, as I have myself seen. That out of one thing having
two uses--“the bed contrived a double debt to pay”--there should have
come to be two things, each having one of these uses--as, _e.g._, the
nest proper and the bower--or that the one use should have tended to
eclipse and do away with the other, is, to my idea, all in the natural
order of events; but this I have touched upon in a previous chapter.
To conclude, in the peewit movements of a highly curious nature
immediately succeed, and seem thus to be related to, the generative
act, and whilst these movements in part resemble that act, and bear,
as a whole, a peculiar stamp, expressed by the word “sexual,” some of
them, not separable from the _tout ensemble_, of which they form a
part, suggest, also, the making of a nest; and, moreover, something
much resembling a peewit’s nest is, by such movements, actually made.
Taking all this together, and in conjunction with the breeding and
nesting habits of the ostrich and some other birds, we have here, as
it seems to me, an indication of some such origin of nest-building,
amongst birds, as that which I have imagined. That the art is now,
speaking generally, in such a greatly advanced state is no argument
against its having thus originated, since there is no limit to what
natural selection, acting in relation to the varying habits of each
particular species, may have been able to effect. Certainly, the actual
evidence on which I found my theory, though it does not appear to me
to be weak in kind, is very scanty in amount. To remedy this, more
observation is wanted, and what I would suggest is that observant men,
with a taste for natural history, should, all over the world, pay
closer attention to the actual manner in which birds do all that they
do do, in the way of courting, displaying, anticking, nest-building,
enticing one from their young, fighting, &c. &c.--all those activities,
in fact, which are displayed most strongly during the breeding season.
I do not at all agree with a certain reviewer of mine, that the
scientific value of such observations has been discounted by Darwin--as
if any man, however great, could tear all the heart out of nature!
On the contrary, I believe that the more we pry the more will truth
appear, and I look upon mere general references, such as one finds in
the ordinary natural history books, as mere play-work and most sorry
reading for an intellectual man. What is the use of knowing that some
bird or other goes through “very extraordinary antics in the season of
love”? This is not nearly enough. One requires to know what, exactly,
these antics are, the exact movements of which they consist--the
minutest details, in fact, gathered from a number of observations. When
one knows this one may be able to speculate a little, and what interest
is there, either in natural history or anything else, if one cannot
do that? _Mere_ facts are for children only. As they begin to point
towards conclusions they become food for men.
In the study of bird-life nothing perhaps is more interesting than
the antics of one sort or another which we see performed by different
species, and the nature and origin of which it is often difficult to
understand. As has been seen, I account for some of these through
natural selection acting upon violent nervous movements, the result
either of sexual or some other kind of emotion--as, for instance,
sudden fright when the bird is disturbed on the nest, or elsewhere,
with its young, producing a sort of hysteria or convulsion; others I
believe to be due to what instinct, generally, is often supposed to
be, namely, to the lapse of intelligence. I believe that if a certain
action or set of actions is very frequently repeated, it comes to
be performed unintelligently; nay, more, that there is an imperious
necessity of performing it, independently of any good which it may do.
It is watching birds fighting which has led me to this conclusion. Far
from doing the best thing under the circumstances, they often appear
to me to do things which lead to no particular result, neglecting,
through them, very salient opportunities. A striking instance of
this, though not quite of the kind that I mean, is offered by the
stock-dove, for when these birds fight, they constantly interrupt
the flow of the combat, by bowing in the most absurd way, not to one
another, but generally, so to speak, for no object or purpose whatever,
apparently, but only because they must do so. The fact is, the bow
has become a formula of courtship, and as courting and fighting are
intimately connected, the one suggests the other in the mind of the
bird, who bows, all at once, under a misconception, and as not being
able to help it. But though there is no utility here, it may be said
that there is a real purpose, though a mistaken one, so that the bird
is not acting automatically. It is in the actual movements of the
fight itself--in the cut and thrust, so to speak--that I have been
struck by the automatic character impressed upon some of them. This
was especially the case with a pair of snipes that I watched fighting,
by the little streamlet here, one morning, perhaps for half-an-hour.
They stood facing each other, drawn up to their full height, and, at
or about the same instant, each would give a little spring into the
air, and violently flap the wings. I would say that they struck with
them--that manifestly was what they should have done, the _rationale_
of the action--but the curious point is that this did not seem to be
necessary, or, at any rate, it was often, for a considerable space of
time, in abeyance. The great thing appeared to be to jump, and, at
the same time, to flap the wings, and as long as the birds did this,
they seemed satisfied, though there was often a foot or more of space
between them. Sometimes, indeed, they got closer together, and then
they had the appearance of consciously striking at one another; but
having watched them attentively, from beginning to end, I came to the
conclusion that this was more apparent than real, and that, provided
the wings were waved, it mattered little whether they came in contact
with the adversary’s person, or not. For when these snipes jumped wide
apart, or, at any rate, at such a distance that each was quite beyond
the other’s reach, they did not seem to be struck with the futility
of hitting out, under these circumstances, or to be greatly bent on
closing, and putting an end to such a fiasco. Far from this, they went
on in just the same way, and, for one leap in which they smote each
other, there were, perhaps, a dozen in which they only beat the air. I
do not mean to suggest that the birds were not actually and consciously
fighting, but it certainly did seem to me that their principal
fighting action--the blow, with the leap in the air, namely--had
become stereotyped and, to some extent, dissociated from the idea
of doing injury, in which it had originated. It seemed, in fact, to
be rather an end in itself, than a means to an end. Another and very
noticeable point, which helped to lead me to this view, was that,
except in this way, which, as I have said, was mostly ineffective,
the birds seemed to have no idea of doing each other harm. Often they
would be side by side, or the beak of the one almost touching the back
or shoulder of the other. Yet in this close contiguity, where the one
bird was often in a position very favourable, as it seemed, for a
non-specialised attack, no such attack was ever made; on the contrary,
to go by appearances, one might have thought them both actuated by a
quite friendly spirit. After about half-an-hour’s conflict of this
description, these snipes flew much nearer to me, so that I could see
them even more distinctly than I had done before. I thought, now,
that I saw a perplexed, almost a foolish, look on the part of both of
them, as though they had forgotten what, exactly, was the object which
had brought them into such close proximity; and then, each seeming to
remember that to jump and flap the wings was the orthodox thing to do,
they both did it, in a random and purposeless sort of way, as though
merely to save the situation. This was the last jump made, and then the
_affaire_ appeared to end by the parties to it forgetting what it was
about, or why there had been one. My idea is that such oblivion may
prevail, at times, during the actual combat, which becomes, then, a
mere set figure, an irrational dance or display, into which it might,
by degrees, wholly pass.
There was another point of interest in this interesting spectacle. The
birds, when they were not actually springing or flapping, mutually
chased, or, rather, followed and were followed by, each other. But
this, too, seemed to have become a mere form, for I never saw either of
them make the slightest effort to dash at and seize the other, though
they were often quite at close quarters and never very far apart. When
almost touching, the foremost bird would turn, upon which the other
did also, as a matter of course, but instead of running, walked away
in a formal manner, and with but slightly quicker steps. The whole
thing had a strange, formal look about it. When this following or
dogging--chasing it cannot properly be called--passed into the kind of
combat which I have described, it was always in the following manner.
The bird behind, having pressed a little upon the one in front, instead
of making a dash at him--as would have seemed natural, but which I
never once saw--jumped straight into the air, flapping its wings, and
the other, turning at the same instant, did likewise, neither blow,
if it could indeed be called one, taking effect. The two thus fronted
one another again, and the springing and flapping, having recommenced,
would continue for a longer or shorter period. When these snipes
leaped, their tails were a little fanned, but not conspicuously so.
Another thing I noticed was, that the bird retreating often had its
tail cocked up perpendicularly, whereas this was not the case with the
one following.
Both the two points that struck me in the fighting of these snipes,
viz. the apparent inability to fight in any but one set way, and the
formal, alternate following of, and retreating from one another, I have
noticed, also, in the fighting of blackbirds, and other birds, whilst
the last has been pushed to quite a remarkable extreme in the case of
the partridge. Pairs of these birds may be seen, as early as January,
running up and down the fields--often along a hedge, or, here, a row
of pine trees--as though to warm themselves, but really in pursuit of
one another, though the interval between them is often so great that,
but for both turning at the same precise instant of time, one would
think they were acting independently. This interval may be as much as
a hundred yards, or even more, and it is often exactly maintained for
a very long time. At any moment the two birds, whilst thus running at
full speed, may turn, and the chase is then continued in exactly the
same way, except that it is now in an opposite direction, and that the
pursuer and pursued have changed parts. Apollo--one might say, were
the sport of an amorous nature--has become Daphne, Daphne Apollo; for
as each turns, each becomes actuated by the spirit that, but a second
before, had filled the other--a complete _volte face_ upon either
side, both spiritually and corporeally. Keepers have, in fact, told me
that it is the male and female partridge, who thus chase one another;
but this, from my own observation, I do not believe. Often, indeed,
the birds will get out of sight before the interval between them
has been lessened, or the pursued one will fly off, followed by his
pursuer, without anything in the nature of a combat having occurred.
At other times, however, the distance separating the two is gradually
diminished, the turns, as it lessens, become more and more frequent,
and, at length, a sort of sparring scuffle takes place, in which beak
as well as claw is used. One of the birds has been run down, in fact,
but the odd thing is that, as soon as it escapes, it turns round again,
upon which the other does also, and the scene that I have described
recommences. Now why should a bird that has just had the disadvantage
in a struggle, and is being pursued by the victor, turn so boldly round
upon him, and why--this in a much higher degree--should that victor,
with the prestige of his victory full upon him, turn, the instant the
bird he has vanquished does, and run away from him like a hare? In
all this there appears to me to be something unusual, suggesting that
what was, originally, an act of volition, is now no longer so, but
has become an automatic reaction to an equally automatic stimulus.
The will, as it appears to me, except, of course, in _los primeros
movimientos_, has almost dropped out of use, so that when the drama has
once commenced, all the rest follows of itself. I have said that the
two birds turn simultaneously. Strictly speaking, I suppose that one
of them--the pursued one probably--makes the initial movement towards
doing so: but so immediate is the action of the other upon it, that
it often looks as though both had swung round at the same instant of
time. This, surely, at a distance of fifty or a hundred yards, is, in
itself, a very remarkable thing, though, as far as I can make out,
these curious chases have not attracted much attention. If we wish to
see their real origin, we must watch the fighting of other species.
In all, or nearly all, birds, there is a mixture of pugnacity and
timidity. The former urges them to rush upon the foe, the latter to
turn tail and retreat, whenever they are, themselves, rushed upon.
Thus, in most combats, there is a good deal of alternate advancing and
retreating, but this is no more than what one might expect, and has a
quite natural appearance. In various species, however, the tendency
is exaggerated in a greater or less degree, until, in the partridge,
we find it developed to a quite extraordinary extent; whilst there is
something--a sort of clockwork appearance in the bird’s actions, due,
I suppose, to the wonderful simultaneousness with which they turn, and
the length of time for which they keep at just the same distance from
one another, with a wide gap between them--which strikes one as very
peculiar.
Do we not see in these varying degrees of one and the same thing,
commencing with what is scarce noticeable, and ending in something
extremely pronounced, the passage, through habit and repetition, of a
rational action into a formal one? Do we not, in fact, see one kind of
_antic_, with the cause of it? A natural tendency has led to a certain
act being so frequently performed that it has become, at last, a sort
of set figure that can no longer be shaken off. As, in the case of the
partridge, this figure is gone through over and over again, sometimes
for an hour or more together, I believe that it will, some day, either
quite take the place of fighting, with this species, or become a thing
distinct and apart from it; so that its original meaning being no
longer recognisable, it will be alluded to as “one of those odd and
inexplicable impulses which seem, sometimes, to possess birds,” &c.
&c.--so difficult to explain, in fact, that some naturalists would
prefer not to try to. For myself, I like trying, and I see, in the
curiously set and formal-looking combats of many birds, a possible
origin of some of those so-called dances or antics which do not seem
to bear any special relation to the attracting or charming of the
one sex by the other. The whole thing, I believe, is this. Anything
constantly gone through, in a particular manner, becomes a routine,
and a routine becomes, in time, automatical, the more so, probably, as
we descend lower in the scale of life. Whilst the actions get more and
more fixed, the clear purpose that originally dictated them, becomes,
first, subordinated, then obscured, finally forgotten, and intelligence
has lapsed. We have, then, an antic, but when this has come about,
change is likely to begin. For the actions being not, now, of any
special use, there will be nothing to keep them fixed, and as muscular
activity goes hand in hand with mental excitement, such excitement
will, probably, give rise to other actions, which, having no definite
object, and being of an energetic character, must often seem grotesque.
Movements, indeed, appear odd in proportion as we can see no meaning
in them. There being, now, such antics, accompanied with excitement,
it is probable that excitement of any kind will tend to produce them,
and, the strongest kind of excitement being the sexual one, they are
likely to become a feature of the season of love. Moreover, the most
vigorous birds will be the best performers in this kind, and if these
be the males, then, whether they win the females by their vigour, or
whether the females choose them for the result of it--their antics
namely--in either case these will increase. For my part, I believe that
the one sex will, generally, take an interest in what the other does,
which would lead to more and more emulation, and more and more choice.
Thus, however any antic may have originated, it seems to me very
probable that it will, ultimately, become a sexual one, and it will
then often be indistinguishable from such as have been entirely sexual
in their origin. Examples of the latter would be, in my view, those
frenzied motions, springing from the violence of the sexual passion,
which, by their becoming pleasing to the one sex, when indulged in
by the other, have been moulded, by this influence, into a conscious
display. Inasmuch, however, as, upon my supposition, almost any action
can become an antic, and as a long time may then elapse before it is
employed sexually, it is natural that we should find, amongst birds, a
number of antics which are not sexual ones, and which neither add to,
nor detract from, the evidence for or against sexual selection.
It may be said that the snipes which I saw fighting were only one pair.
Still they were a pair of snipes, and as representative, I suppose,
as any other pair of the same bird. No doubt there would be degrees
of efficiency and formality, but this would not affect the general
argument. Wherever, in nature, any process is going on, some of the
individuals of those species affected by it will be more affected than
others.
[Illustration: COAL-TIT]