SOME BIRD ADVENTURES
Visit to a river on the pampas--A first long walk--Waterfowl--My first
sight of flamingoes--A great dove visitation--Strange tameness of the
birds--Vain attempts at putting salt on their tails--An ethical
question: When is a lie not a lie?--The carancho, a vulture-eagle--Our
pair of caranchos--Their nest in a peach tree--I am ambitious to take
their eggs--The birds' crimes--I am driven off by the birds--The nest
pulled down.
Just before my riding days began in real earnest, when I was not yet
quite confident enough to gallop off alone for miles to see the world
for myself, I had my first long walk on the plain. One of my elder
brothers invited me to accompany him to a water-course, one of the
slow-flowing shallow marshy rivers of the pampas which was but two
miles from home. The thought of the half-wild cattle we would meet
terrified me, but he was anxious for my company that day and assured
me that he could see no herd in that direction and he would be careful
to give a wide berth to anything with horns we might come upon. Then I
joyfully consented and we set out, three of us, to survey the wonders
of a great stream of running water, where bulrushes grew and large
wild birds, never seen by us at home, would be found. I had had a
glimpse of the river before, as, when driving to visit a neighbour, we
had crossed it at one of the fords and I had wished to get down and
run on its moist green low banks, and now that desire would be
gratified. It was for me a tremendously long walk, as we had to take
many a turn to avoid the patches of cardoon and giant thistles, and by
and by we came to low ground where the grass was almost waist-high and
full of flowers. It was all like an English meadow in June, when every
grass and every herb is in flower, beautiful and fragrant, but tiring
to a boy six years old to walk through. At last we came out to a
smooth grass turf, and in a little while were by the stream, which had
overflowed its banks owing to recent heavy rains and was now about
fifty yards wide. An astonishing number of birds were visible--chiefly
wild duck, a few swans, and many waders-ibises, herons, spoonbills,
and others, but the most wonderful of all were three immensely tall
white-and-rose-coloured birds, wading solemnly in a row a yard or so
apart from one another some twenty yards out from the bank. I was
amazed and enchanted at the sight, and my delight was intensified when
the leading bird stood still and, raising his head and long neck
aloft, opened and shook his wings. For the wings when open were of a
glorious crimson colour, and the bird was to me the most angel-like
creature on earth.
What were these wonderful birds? I asked of my brothers, but they
could not tell me. They said they had never seen birds like them
before, and later I found that the flamingo was not known in our
neighbourhood as the water-courses were not large enough for it, but
that it could be seen in flocks at a lake less than a day's journey
from our home.
It was not for several years that I had an opportunity of seeing the
bird again; later I have seen it scores and hundreds of times, at rest
or flying, at all times of the day and in all states of the
atmosphere, in all its most beautiful aspects, as when at sunset or in
the early morning it stands motionless in the still water with its
clear image reflected below; or when seen flying in flocks--seen from
some high bank beneath one--moving low over the blue water in a long
crimson line or half moon, the birds at equal distances apart, their
wing-tips all but touching; but the delight in these spectacles has
never equalled in degree that which I experienced on this occasion
when I was six years old.
The next little bird adventure to be told exhibits me more in the
character of an innocent and exceedingly credulous baby of three than
of a field naturalist of six with a considerable experience of wild
birds.
One spring day an immense number of doves appeared and settled in the
plantation. It was a species common in the country and bred in our
trees, and in fact in every grove or orchard in the land--a pretty
dove-coloured bird with a pretty sorrowful song, about a third less in
size than the domestic pigeon, and belongs to the American genus
_Zenaida._ This dove was a resident with us all the year round, but
occasionally in spring and autumn they were to be seen travelling
in immense flocks, and these were evidently strangers in the land and
came from some sub-tropical country in the north where they had no
fear of the human form. At all events, on going out into the
plantation I found them all about on the ground, diligently searching
for seeds, and so tame and heedless of my presence that I actually
attempted to capture them with my hands. But they wouldn't be caught:
the bird when I stooped and put out my hands slipped away, and flying
a yard or two would settle down in front of me and go on looking for
and picking up invisible seeds.
My attempts failing I rushed back to the house, wildly excited, to
look for an old gentleman who lived with us and took an interest in me
and my passion for birds, and finding him I told him the whole place
was swarming with doves and they were perfectly tame but wouldn't let
me catch them--could he tell me how to catch them? He laughed and said
I must be a little fool not to know how to catch a bird. The only way
was to put salt on their tails. There would be no difficulty in doing
that, I thought, and how delighted I was to know that birds could be
caught so easily! Off I ran to the salt-barrel and filled my pockets
and hands with coarse salt used to make brine in which to dip the
hides; for I wanted to catch a great many doves--armfuls of doves.
In a few minutes I was out again in the plantation, with doves in
hundreds moving over the ground all about me and taking no notice of
me. It was a joyful and exciting moment when I started operations, but
I soon found that when I tossed a handful of salt at the bird's tail
it never fell on its tail--it fell on the ground two or three or four
inches short of the tail. If, I thought, the bird would only keep
still a moment longer! But then it wouldn't, and I think I spent quite
two hours in these vain attempts to make the salt fall on the right
place. At last I went back to my mentor to confess that I had failed
and to ask for fresh instructions, but all he would say was that I was
on the right track, that the plan I had adopted was the proper one,
and all that was wanted was a little more practice to enable me to
drop the salt on the right spot. Thus encouraged I filled my pockets
again and started afresh, and then finding that by following the
proper plan I made no progress I adopted a new one, which was to take
a handful of salt and hurl it at the bird's tail. Still I couldn't
touch the tail; my violent action only frightened the bird and caused
it to fly away, a dozen yards or so, before dropping down again to
resume its seed-searching business.
By-and-by I was told by somebody that birds could not be caught by
putting salt on their tails; that I was being made a fool of, and this
was a great shock to me, since I had been taught to believe that it
was wicked to tell a lie. Now for the first time I discovered that
there were lies and lies, or untruths that were not lies, which one
could tell innocently although they were invented and deliberately
told to deceive. This angered me at first, and I wanted to know how I
was to distinguish between real lies and lies that were not lies, and
the only answer I got was that I could distinguish them by not being
a fool!
In the next adventure to be told we pass from the love (or tameness)
of the turtle to the rage of the vulture. It may be remarked in
passing that the vernacular name of the dove I have described is
_Torcasa,_ which I take it is a corruption of Tortola, the name first
given to it by the early colonists on account of its slight
resemblance to the turtle-dove of Europe.
Then, as to the vulture, it was not a true vulture nor a strictly true
eagle, but a carrion-hawk, a bird the size of a small eagle, blackish
brown in colour with a white neck and breast suffused with brown and
spotted with black; also it had a very big eagle-shaped beak, and
claws not so strong as an eagle's nor so weak as a vulture's. In its
habits it was both eagle and vulture, as it fed on dead flesh, and was
also a hunter and killer of animals and birds, especially of the
weakly and young. A somewhat destructive creature to poultry and young
sucking lambs and pigs. Its feeding habits were, in fact, very like
those of the raven, and its voice, too, was raven-like, or rather like
that of the carrion-crow at his loudest and harshest. Considering the
character of this big rapacious bird, the _Polyborus tharus_ of
naturalists and the _carancho_ of the natives, it may seem strange
that a pair were allowed to nest and live for years in our plantation,
but in those days people were singularly tolerant not only of
injurious birds and beasts but even of beings of their own species
of predaceous habits.
On the outskirts of our old peach orchard, described in a former
chapter, there was a solitary tree of a somewhat singular shape,
standing about forty yards from the others on the edge of a piece of
waste weedy land. It was a big old tree like the others, and had a
smooth round trunk standing about fourteen feet high and throwing out
branches all round, so that its upper part had the shape of an open
inverted umbrella. And in the convenient hollow formed by the circle
of branches the _caranchos_ had built their huge nest, composed of
sticks, lumps of turf, dry bones of sheep and other animals, pieces
of rope and raw hide, and any other object they could carry. The nest
was their home; they roosted in it by night and visited it at odd
times during the day, usually bringing a bleached bone or thistle-
stalk or some such object to add to the pile.
Our birds never attacked the fowls, and were not offensive or
obtrusive, but kept to their own end of the plantation furthest away
from the buildings. They only came when an animal was killed for meat,
and would then hang about, keeping a sharp eye on the proceedings and
watching their chance. This would come when the carcass was dressed
and lights and other portions thrown to the dogs; then the _carancho_
would swoop down like a kite, and snatching up the meat with his beak
would rise to a height of twenty or thirty yards in the air, and
dropping his prize would deftly catch it again in his claws and soar
away to feed on it at leisure. I was never tired of admiring this feat
of the _carancho_, which is, I believe, unique in birds of prey.
The big nest in the old inverted-umbrella-shaped peach tree had a
great attraction for me; I used often to visit it and wonder if I
would ever have the power of getting up to it. Oh, what a delight it
would be to get up there, above the nest, and look down into the great
basin-like hollow lined with sheep's wool and see the eggs, bigger
than turkey's eggs, all marbled with deep red, or creamy white
splashed with blood-red! For I had seen _carancho_ eggs brought in by
a gaucho, and I was ambitious to take a clutch from a nest with my own
hands. It was true I had been told by my mother that if I wanted wild
birds' eggs I was never to take more than one from a nest, unless it
was of some injurious species. And injurious the _carancho_ certainly
was, in spite of his good behaviour when at home. On one of my early
rides on my pony I had seen a pair of them, and I think they were our
own birds, furiously attacking a weak and sickly ewe; she had refused
to lie down to be killed, and they were on her neck, beating and
tearing at her face and trying to pull her down. Also I had seen a
litter of little pigs a sow had brought forth on the plain attacked by
six or seven _caranchos_, and found on approaching the spot that they
had killed half of them (about six, I think), and were devouring them
at some distance from the old pig and the survivors of the litter. But
how could I climb the tree and get over the rim of the huge nest? And
I was afraid of the birds, they looked so unspeakably savage and
formidable whenever I went near them. But my desire to get the eggs
was over-mastering, and when it was spring and I had reason to think
that eggs were being laid, I went oftener than ever to watch and wait
for an opportunity. And one evening just after sunset I could not see
the birds anywhere about and thought my chance had now come. I managed
to swarm up the smooth trunk to the branches, and then with wildly
beating heart began the task of trying to get through the close
branches and to work my way over the huge rim of the nest. Just then I
heard the harsh grating cry of the bird, and peering through the
leaves in the direction it came from I caught sight of the two birds
flying furiously towards me, screaming again as they came nearer. Then
terror seized me, and down I went through the branches, and catching
hold of the lowest one managed to swing myself clear and dropped to
the ground. It was a good long drop, but I fell on a soft turf, and
springing to my feet fled to the shelter of the orchard and then on
towards the house, without ever looking back to see if they were
following.
That was my only attempt to raid the nest, and from that time the
birds continued in peaceful possession of it, until it came into some
person's mind that this huge nest was detrimental to the tree, and was
the cause of its producing so little fruit compared with any other
tree, and the nest was accordingly pulled down, and the birds forsook
the place.
In the description in a former chapter of our old peach trees in their
blossoming time I mentioned the paroquets which occasionally visited
us but had their breeding-place some distance away. This bird was one
of the two common parrots of the district, the other larger species
being the Patagonian parrot, _Conarus patagonus_, the _Loro
barranquero_ or Cliff Parrot of the natives. In my early years this
bird was common on the treeless pampas extending for hundreds of miles
south of Buenos Ayres as well as in Patagonia, and bred in holes it
excavated in cliffs and steep banks at the side of lakes and rivers.
These breeding-sites were far south of my home, and I did not visit
them until my boyhood's days were over.
In winter these birds had a partial migration to the north: at that
season we were visited by flocks, and as a child it was a joy to me
when the resounding screams of the travelling parrots, heard in the
silence long before the birds became visible in the sky, announced
their approach. Then, when they appeared flying at a moderate height,
how strange and beautiful they looked, with long pointed wings and
long graduated tails, in their sombre green plumage touched with
yellow, blue, and crimson colour! How I longed for a nearer
acquaintance with these winter visitors and hoped they would settle on
our trees! Sometimes they did settle to rest, perhaps to spend half a
day or longer in the plantation; and sometimes, to my great happiness,
a flock would elect to remain with us for whole days and weeks,
feeding on the surrounding plain, coming at intervals to the trees
during the day, and at night to roost. I used to go out on my pony to
follow and watch the flock at feed, and wondered at their partiality
for the bitter-tasting seeds of the wild pumpkin. This plant, which
was abundant with us, produced an egg-shaped fruit about half the size
of an ostrich's egg, with a hard shell-like rind, but the birds with
their sharp iron-hard beaks would quickly break up the dry shell and
feast on the pips, scattering the seed-shells about till the ground
was whitened with them. When I approached the feeding flock on my pony
the birds would rise up and, flying to and at me, hover in a compact
crowd just above my head, almost deafening me with their angry
screams.
The smaller bird, the paroquet, which was about the size of a turtle-
dove, had a uniform rich green colour above and ashy-grey beneath,
and, like most parrots, it nested in trees. It is one of the most
social birds I know; it lives all the year round in communities and
builds huge nests of sticks near together as in a rookery, each nest
having accommodation for two or three to half-a-dozen pairs. Each pair
has an entrance and nest cavity of its own in the big structure.
The only breeding-place in our neighbourhood was in a grove or remains
of an ancient ruined plantation at an estancia house, about nine miles
from us, owned by an Englishman named Ramsdale. Here there was a
colony of about a couple of hundred birds, and the dozen or more trees
they had built on were laden with their great nests, each one
containing as much material as would have filled a cart.
Mr. Ramsdale was not our nearest English neighbour--the one to be
described in another chapter; nor was he a man we cared much about,
and his meagre establishment was not attractive, as his old slatternly
native housekeeper and the other servants were allowed to do just what
they liked. But he was English and a neighbour, and my parents made it
a point of paying him an occasional visit, and I always managed to go
with them--certainly not to see Mr. Ramsdale, who had nothing to say
to a shy little boy and whose hard red face looked the face of a hard
drinker. _My_ visits were to the paroquets exclusively. Oh, why,
thought I many and many a time, did not these dear green people come
over to us and have their happy village in our trees! Yet when I
visited them they didn't like it; no sooner would I run out to the
grove where the nests were than the place would be in an uproar. Out
and up they would rush, to unite in a flock and hover shrieking over
my head, and the commotion would last until I left them.
On our return late one afternoon in early spring from one of our rare
visits to Mr. Ramsdale, we witnessed a strange thing. The plain at
that place was covered with a dense growth of cardoon-thistle or wild
artichoke, and leaving the estancia house in our trap, we followed the
cattle tracks as there was no road on that side. About half-way home
we saw a troop of seven or eight deer in an open green space among the
big grey thistle-bushes, but instead of uttering their whistling
alarm-cry and making off at our approach they remained at the same
spot, although we passed within forty yards of them. The troop was
composed of two bucks engaged in a furious fight, and five or six does
walking round and round the two fighters. The bucks kept their heads
so low down that their noses were almost touching the ground, while
with their horns locked together they pushed violently, and from time
to time one would succeed in forcing the other ten or twenty feet
back. Then a pause, then another violent push, then with horns still
together they would move sideways, round and round, and so on until we
left them behind and lost sight of them.
This spectacle greatly excited us at the time and was vividly recalled
several months afterwards when one of our gaucho neighbours told us of
a curious thing he had just seen. He had been out on that cardoon-
covered spot where we had seen the fighting deer, and at that very
spot in the little green space he had come upon the skeletons of two
deer with their horns interlocked.
Tragedies of this kind in the wild animal world have often been
recorded, but they are exceedingly rare on the pampas, as the smooth
few-pronged antlers of the native deer, _corvus campestris_, are not
so liable to get hopelessly locked as in many other species.
Deer were common in our district in those days, and were partial to
land overgrown with cardoon thistle, which in the absence of trees and
thickets afforded them some sort of cover. I seldom rode to that side
without getting a sight of a group of deer, often looking exceedingly
conspicuous in their bright fawn colour as they stood gazing at the
intruder amidst the wide waste of grey cardoon bushes.
These rough plains were also the haunt of the rhea, our ostrich, and
it was here that I first had a close sight of this greatest and most
unbird-like bird of our continent. I was eight years old then, when
one afternoon in late summer I was just setting off for a ride on my
pony, when I was told to go out on the east side till I came to the
cardoon-covered land about a mile beyond the shepherd's ranch. The
shepherd was wanted in the plantation and could not go to the flock
just yet, and I was told to look for the flock and turn it towards
home.
I found the flock just where I had been told to look for it, the sheep
very widely scattered, and some groups of a dozen or two to a hundred
were just visible at a distance among the rough bushes. Just where
these furthest sheep were grazing there was a scattered troop of
seventy or eighty horses grazing too, and when I rode to that spot I
all at once found myself among a lot of rheas, feeding too among the
sheep and horses. Their grey plumage being so much like the cardoon
bushes in colour had prevented me from seeing them before I was right
among them.
The strange thing was that they paid not the slightest attention to
me, and pulling up my pony I sat staring in astonishment at them,
particularly at one, a very big one and nearest to me, engaged in
leisurely pecking at the clover plants growing among the big prickly
thistle leaves, and as it seemed carefully selecting the best sprays.
What a great noble-looking bird it was and how beautiful in its loose
grey-and-white plumage, hanging like a picturesquely-worn mantle about
its body! Why were they so tame? I wondered. The sight of a mounted
gaucho, even at a great distance, will invariably set them off at
their topmost speed; yet here I was within a dozen yards of one of
them, with several others about me, all occupied in examining the
herbage and selecting the nicest-looking leaves to pluck, just as if I
was not there at all! I suppose it was because I was only a small boy
on a small horse and was not associated in the ostrich brain with the
wild-looking gaucho on his big animal charging upon him with a deadly
purpose. Presently I went straight at the one near me, and he then
raised his head and neck and moved carelessly away to a distance of a
few yards, then began cropping the clover once more. I rode at him
again, putting my pony to a trot, and when within two yards of him he
all at once swung his body round in a quaint way towards me, and
breaking into a sort of dancing trot brushed past me.
Pulling up again and looking back I found he was ten or twelve yards
behind me, once more quietly engaged in cropping clover leaves!
Again and again this bird, and one of the others I rode at, practised
the same pretty trick, first appearing perfectly unconcerned at my
presence and then, when I made a charge at them, with just one little
careless movement placing themselves a dozen yards behind me.
But this same trick of the rhea is wonderful to see when the hunted
bird is spent with running and is finally overtaken by one of the
hunters who has perhaps lost the bolas with which he captures his
quarry, and who endeavours to place himself side by side with it so as
to reach it with his knife. It seems an easy thing to do: the bird is
plainly exhausted, panting, his wings hanging, as he lopes on, yet no
sooner is the man within striking distance than the sudden motion
comes into play, and the bird as by a miracle is now behind instead of
at the side of the horse. And before the horse going at top speed can
be reined in and turned round, the rhea has had time to recover his
wind and get a hundred yards away or more. It is on account of this
tricky instinct of the rhea that the gauchos say, "El avestruz es el
mas _gaucho_ de los animales," which means that the ostrich, in its
resourcefulness and the tricks it practises to save itself when
hard pressed, is as clever as the gaucho knows himself to be.