and very pretty did the eight little heads look. But these rows were
subjected to constant disturbance, and were continually being broken up
and re-formed. The disturbances came both from within and from without.
One of a row, usually the outside one (outside berths are not appreciated
by the bird-folk), would suddenly determine to better his position, which
he would seek to do by hopping on to his neighbour’s back, and trying to
wedge himself in between him and the next bird. This would be resented by
the aforesaid neighbour, who would try to shake off the intruder, and the
struggle that ensued would, as often as not, result in the break-up of
the whole row. Birds that had not already found suitable perches would
join rows already in existence. This was a constant source of
disturbance. Perhaps four bee-eaters would be sitting on a bough which
their weight caused to hang horizontally, then a fifth bird would take it
into his little head to alight at the extreme tip of the branch, and bear
it down to such an extent that those already on it had to grip hard to
maintain their equilibrium. It must be very disconcerting and annoying to
a sleepy little bird when the angle of its perch is suddenly changed by
fifteen or twenty degrees!
While I was watching all this some village boys caught sight of me, and,
with the curiosity so characteristic of the Punjabi, came up to see what
I was looking at. Shortly after their arrival one of them showed his
country manners by clearing his throat with such violence as to frighten
all the bee-eaters out of the tree in which they were settling down for
the night! Some flew to a neighbouring tree, but the majority circled in
the air with loud twitterings. Within less than three minutes, however,
all were back again, trying to find suitable perches. Before they had
half settled down a boy again disturbed them. This was obviously done to
annoy me, so I sent the urchins about their business. All the bee-eaters
were back again almost immediately. By this time the sun had disappeared
below the horizon, a fact which the birds seemed to appreciate, judging
by the celerity with which they settled down. It soon grew so dark that I
could scarcely distinguish the birds from the foliage which they resemble
so much in hue. But for the black streak through the eye I should not
have been able to do so. I now crept up under the tree, and was able, by
looking up, to distinguish little groups of bee-eaters huddled together.
I noticed several couples, two rows of three, four rows of four, and one
of five. The tails projected from behind, and by counting these I was
able to determine the number in a row. I noticed that the tails were not
parallel; some were crossed by others, showing that the birds do not
roost so closely packed as they appear to be when looked at from the
front. Birds are composed largely of feathers, so that it is easy for
them to have the appearance of being packed like sardines in a tin when
in reality they have plenty of room.
All the birds in a row faced the same way, but some rows looked one way
and others another.
Bee-eaters do not sleep with the head under the wing, as some birds do,
but are content to allow it to drop into their downy shoulders.
The little company did not all roost at the same elevation, but none
slept on the lowest branches, nor could I distinguish any on the highest
boughs. I should say that all the birds roost in the middle zone of the
tree. The branches selected were not necessarily those where the foliage
was thickest, nor, so far as I could make out, where the sleeping birds
would be best protected from dew and rain. As it rained very heavily in
the night in question, some of those bee-eaters must have had a nocturnal
shower-bath.
X
OWLS
It is the misfortune of owls that they are universally unpopular. They
are heartily detested by their fellow-birds, who never miss an
opportunity of mobbing them. They are looked upon with superstitious
dread by the more ignorant classes all the world over. Jews and Gentiles,
Christians and heathens, alike hate them. Owls are thought to be “death
birds,” “foul precursors of the fiend,” “birds whose breath brings
sickness, and whose note is death,” death’s dreadful messengers, Satan’s
_chapprassis_, the devil’s poultry. Poets join with the vulgar _plebs_ in
showering abusive epithets upon them. Owls are gibbering, moping, dull,
ghastly, gloomy, fearful, cruel, fatal, dire, foul, baleful, boding,
grim, sullen birds, birds of mean degree and evil omen. The naturalist
is, however, above the vulgar and ill-founded prejudice against the
“sailing pirates of the night.” To him, owls are birds of peculiar
fascination and surpassing interest. They are of peculiar fascination
because he has learned comparatively little about their habits. We day
folk have but a slender knowledge of the lives of the creatures of the
night. To most of us owls are _voces, et præterea nihil_—voices which are
the reverse of pleasant. Owls are of surpassing interest to the
naturalist on account of their perfect adaptation to a peculiar mode of
life.
The owl is a bird of prey which seeks its quarry by night, a “cat on
wings,” as Phil Robinson hath it. A master of the craft of night-hunting
must of necessity possess exceptional eyesight. His sense of hearing too
must be extraordinarily acute, for in the stillness of the night it is
the ear rather than the eye that is relied upon to detect the presence of
that which is sought. Another _sine qua non_ of owl existence is the
power of silent progression. Were the flight of owls noisy, like that of
crows and other large birds, their victims would hear them coming, and so
be able to make good their escape. He who hunts in the night has to take
his quarry by surprise. Everyone must have noticed the great staring orbs
of the owl. Like the wolf in the story of Little Red Riding Hood, it has
large eyes in order the better to see its victim. The eye of the owl is
both large and rounded, and the pupil is big for the size of the eye in
order to admit as much moonlight as possible. The visual organs of the
owl are made for night work, and so are unsuited to the hours of
sunlight. Ordinary daylight is probably as trying to the owl as the glare
of the noonday sun in the desert is to human beings. But it is not
correct to speak of the owl as blind during the day. He can see quite
well. He behaves stupidly when evicted from his shady haunts in the
daytime because he is momentarily blinded, just as we human beings are
when we suddenly plunge from the darkened bungalow into the midday sun of
an Indian June. I have seen owls of various species either sitting on a
perch or flying about quite happily at midday.
The chief reason why most owls are so strictly nocturnal is because they
are intensely unpopular among the birds of the day. These give them a bad
time whenever they venture forth. In this the crows take the lead. Crows,
like London cads, are intensely conservative. They hate the sight of any
curious-looking or strangely dressed person. Put on a Cawnpore tent club
helmet, and walk for a mile in the East End of London, and you will learn
the kind of treatment to which owls are subjected by their fellow-birds
when they venture forth by day. Mr. Evans, writing of the owl in his
volume, _The Songs of Birds_, says: “There is some sad secret, which we
do not know, which no bird has yet divulged to us, and which seems to
have made him an outcast from the society of birds of the day. He is
branded with perpetual infamy.” I trust that Mr. Evans will not take it
ill if I state that there is no secret in the matter. Diurnal birds are
not aware that the country is full of owls, so that when one of these
appears they regard it as an intruder, a new addition to the local fauna,
to extirpate which is their bounden duty. When a cockatoo escapes from
its cage the local birds mob it quite as viciously as they do the owl.
Another peculiarity of the owl lies in the position of its eyes. These
are forwardly directed. In most birds the eyes are placed at the side of
the head, so that owls alone among the feathered folk can truly be said
to possess faces. The position of a bird’s eyes is not the result of
chance or accident. A creature whose eyes are forwardly directed can see
better ahead of him than he could were they placed at the sides of the
head, but he cannot see what is going on behind his back. Animals whose
eyes are at the side of the head have a much wider range of vision, for
the areas covered by their visual organs do not overlap. Such creatures
cannot see quite so well things in front of them, but can witness much of
what is going on behind them. They are therefore better protected from a
rear attack than they would be did their eyes face forwards. The result
of this is that, if we divide birds and beasts into those which hunt and
those which are hunted, we notice that in the latter the tendency is for
the eyes to be placed at the sides of the head. They thereby enjoy a
wider range of vision, while in the former the tendency is for the eyes
to be so situated as to enable them best to espy their quarry. Compare
the position of the eyes in the tiger and the ox, in the eagle and the
sparrow. The tiger and eagle have little fear of being attacked, so have
thrown caution to the winds and concentrated their energies to equipping
themselves for attack. In owls the eyes are more forwardly directed than
in the diurnal birds of prey, because they have to hunt their quarry
under more difficult conditions. Even when its ears inform the owl that
there is some creature near by, it requires the keenest eyesight to
detect what this is. The position of a bird’s eyes is determined by
natural selection. With colour and such-like trifles natural selection
has but little to do. It works on broad lines. It determines certain
limits within which variations are permissible; it does not go into
details. So far as it is concerned, an organism may vary considerably,
provided the limits it defines are not transgressed. This statement will
not meet with the approval of ultra-Darwinians, but I submit that it is
nevertheless in accordance with facts. If we try to account for every
trivial feature in every bird and beast on the principle of natural
selection, we soon find ourselves lost in a maze of difficulties.
It is because the eyes of owls are forwardly-directed that they are such
easy birds to mob. They can see only in one direction—a limitation which
day-birds have discovered. The result is that when the owls do venture
forth during the daytime, they come in for rough handling. The position
of the eyes in the owl would lead us to infer that the bird has but few
enemies to fear, and, so far as I am aware, there is no creature which
preys on them, except, of course, the British gamekeeper. Why, then, are
owls not more numerous than they are in those countries where there are
no gamekeepers to vex their souls? The population of owls must of course
be limited by the abundance of their quarry. But there is more than
enough food to satisfy the hunger of the existing owls. What, then, keeps
down their numbers? Mr. F. C. Selous has asked a similar question with
regard to lions in Africa. Even before the days of the express rifle
lions were comparatively scarce, while the various species of deer roamed
about the country in innumerable herds. The answer must, I think, be
found in the intensity of the struggle for existence. Nature balances
things with such nicety that the beasts of prey have their work cut out
to secure their food. The quarry is there in abundance; the difficulty is
to catch it. If this be so, it follows that the weaker, the less swift,
the less skilled of the predaceous creatures must starve to death. In
that case the lot of birds and beasts of prey is a less happy one than
that of their victims. These latter are usually able to find food in
abundance, and death comes suddenly and unexpectedly upon them when they
are in the best of health. How much better is such an end than death due
to starvation?
In most birds the opening of the auditory organ is small; in owls it is
very large and is protected by a movable flap of skin, which probably
aids the bird in focussing sounds. In many species of owl the two
ear-openings are asymmetrical and differ in shape and size. This
arrangement is probably conducive to the accurate location of sound. Want
of space debars me from further dilating upon the wonderful ear of the
owl.
In conclusion, mention must be made of the flexible wing feathers, and
their soft, downy edges. Air rushing through these makes no sound. Hence
the ear may not hear, but
“The eye
May trace those sailing pirates of the night,
Stooping with dusky prows to cleave the gloom,
Scattering a momentary wake behind,
A palpable and broken brightness shed,
As with white wings they part the darksome air.”
XI
A BUNDLE OF INIQUITY
The common squirrel of India is a fur-covered bundle of iniquity. He is a
bigger rascal than either the crow or the sparrow. I am aware that these
statements will not be believed by many residents of Northern India. I am
sorry, but the truth must be told. Let those who will imagine _Sciurus
palmarum_ to be a pretty, fluffy little creature, as charming as he is
abundant. I know better. I have sojourned in Madras. In Northern India
the little striped squirrel is merely one of the many tribes that live on
your frontier; in South India he is a stranger who dwells within your
gates. We who are condemned to residence in the plains of Northern India
keep our bungalows shut up during the greater part of the year in order
to protect ourselves from the heat, or the cold, or the dust, or whatever
climatic ill happens to be in season. And when the weather does permit us
to open our doors we have to guard them by means of _chiks_ from the
hordes of insects that are always ready to rush in upon us. Thus we keep
the squirrel at arm’s length. In Madras you lead a very different life.
The gentle breeze is always welcome, you rarely, if ever, close the doors
of your bungalow, for extremes of temperature are unknown. Nor are you
obliged to protect every aperture by means of a _chik_. There is thus no
barrier between the squirrel and yourself. The result is that the
impudent little rodent behaves as though he believed that men build their
bungalows chiefly for his benefit. Not content with living rent-free in
your house during the nesting season, he expects you to furnish his
quarters for him, and to provide him with food. As I have hinted
elsewhere, Indian bungalows are constructed in such a manner as to lead
one to infer that there is a secret compact between the builders and the
fowls of the air. The rafters rarely fit properly into the walls, and the
spaces left make ideal nesting sites for sparrows and squirrels. These
last, although devoid of wings, are such adepts at climbing that there
are few spots in any building to which they are unable to gain access.
In Madras punkahs are up all the year round, and, as usually they are
pulled only at meal times, squirrels regard them as paths leading to
their nests. Running up the hanging rope, walking, Blondin-like, along
the leathern thongs that lead to the punkah, jumping from these on to the
top of the punkah frame, climbing up the rope to a rafter, and marching
along this to the nest, are feats which the little striped rodent
performs without effort.
In default of a suitable cavity, the squirrel constructs, among the
branches of a tree, a large globular nest, which has the appearance of a
conglomeration of grass, straw, and rubbish, but it contains a cosily
lined central cavity. Any available soft material is used to make the
interior of the nest warm and comfortable. When squirrels are nesting it
is not safe to leave any balls or skeins of wool lying about the
bungalow. The fluffy little creatures sometimes display considerable
ingenuity in adapting materials for use in nest construction. One rascal
of my acquaintance destroyed a nearly new grey _topi_, finding the felt
covering and the pith “the very thing” for nest-lining.
Books on natural history inform us that the food of this species of
squirrel consists of seeds, fruits, and buds, with an occasional insect
by way of condiment. This is the truth, but it is not the whole truth.
The above list does not by any means exhaust the menu of _Sciurus
palmarum_. My experience shows him to be nearly as omnivorous as the
myna. Occasionally I fall asleep again after my _chota hazri_ has been
brought. In Madras I was sometimes punished for my laziness by the
disappearance of the toast or the butter. Needless to state that theft
had been perpetrated, and that the crows and the squirrels were the
culprits.
On one occasion I feigned sleep in order to see what would happen. For a
little all was still; presently a squirrel quietly entered the room, took
a look round, then climbed up a leg of the table and boldly pulled a
piece of toast out of the rack which was within a couple of feet of my
face. It was no easy matter for the little thief to climb down the leg of
the table with his big load. A loud thud announced that the toast had
fallen on to the floor. The squirrel scampered away in alarm, leaving his
booty behind him. In a few seconds his head appeared at the doorway;
having regarded me attentively with his bright little eye, and satisfied
himself that all was well, he advanced to the toast and bore it off. But,
alas, the way of transgressors is hard! A “lurking, villain crow,” who
had been watching the theft from the verandah, pounced upon the thief,
and bore off his ill-gotten toast. The wrath of the squirrel was a sight
for the gods. His whole frame quivered as he told that crow what he
thought of him.
_Sciurus palmarum_ is very fond of bread and milk, and will, in order to
obtain this, perform deeds of great daring. I once kept a grackle, or
hill-myna. This bird, when not at large, used to dwell in a wicker cage.
In a corner of this cage a saucer of bread-and-milk was sometimes placed.
The squirrels soon learned to climb up the leg of the table on which the
cage stood, insert their little paws between the bars, and abstract the
bread-and-milk, piece by piece. In order to frustrate them, I placed the
saucer in the middle of the cage. Their reply to this was to gnaw through
a bar, and boldly enter the cage. They grew so audacious that they used
to walk into the cage while I was present in the room; but, of course,
the least movement on my part was the signal for them to dash away into
the verandah. On one occasion I was too quick for a squirrel who was
feeding inside the grackle’s cage. I succeeded in placing my hand in
front of the gnawed-through bar before he could escape. He dashed about
the cage like a thing demented, and so alarmed the myna that I had to let
him out. In half an hour he was again inside the cage!
The little striped squirrel feeds largely on the ground. As every
Anglo-Indian knows, it squats on its hind legs when eating, and nibbles
at the food which it holds in its fore-paws. In this attitude its
appearance is very rat-like, its tail not being much _en évidence_. It is
careful never to wander far away from trees, in which it immediately
takes refuge when alarmed. It does not always wait for the seeds, etc.,
upon which it feeds, to fall to the ground: it frequently devours these
while still attached to the parent plant. Being very light, it can move
about on slender boughs. It is able to jump with ease from branch to
branch, but in doing so causes a great commotion in the tree; its
arboreal movements seem very clumsy when compared with those of birds of
the same size.
Squirrels are sociably inclined creatures; when not engaged in rearing up
their families they live in colonies in some decayed tree. At sunrise
they issue forth from the cavity in which they have slept, and bask for a
time in the sun before separating to visit their several feeding-grounds;
at sunset they all return to their dormitory. Before retiring for the
night they play hide-and-seek on the old tree, chasing each other in and
out of the holes with which it is riddled.
Young squirrels are born blind and naked, and are then ugly creatures.
Their skin shows the three black longitudinal stripes—the marks of
Hanuman’s fingers—which give this creature its popular name. The hair
soon grows and transforms the squirrels.
A baby _Sciurus_ makes a charming pet. The rapid movements are a
never-failing source of amusement. It is feeding out of your hand when it
takes alarm at apparently nothing, and, before you can realise what has
happened, it has disappeared. After a search it is found under the sofa,
on the mantelpiece, or out in the garden. I know of one who took refuge
in its owner’s skirts. She had to retire to her room and divest herself
of sundry garments before she could recover it. Once, in trying to catch
a baby squirrel that was about to leap off the table, I seized the end of
its tail; to my astonishment the squirrel went off, leaving the terminal
inch of its caudal appendage in my hand, nor did the severance of its
note of interrogation seem to cause it any pain. A squirrel’s tail, like
a lamp brush, is composed mainly of bristles.
XII
THE INTERPRETATION OF THE ACTIONS OF ANIMALS
The proper interpretation of the actions of animals is one of the
greatest of the difficulties which confront the naturalist. We all know
how liable a man’s actions are to be misinterpreted by his fellow-men,
whose thoughts and feelings are similar to his. How much more must we be
liable to put false constructions on the acts of those creatures whose
thoughts are not our thoughts and whose feelings are not our feelings?
The natural tendency is, of course, to assign human attributes to
animals, to put anthropomorphic interpretations on their actions, to
endow dumb creatures with mental concepts like those of man—in short, to
credit them with reasoning powers similar to those enjoyed by human
beings. That this is incorrect is the opinion of all who have made a
study of the question, and yet even such seem unable completely to divest
themselves of the tendency to regard animals as rather simple human folk.
I do not wish to speak dogmatically upon this most difficult subject. Let
it suffice that it is my belief that animals do not possess the mental
powers popularly ascribed to them. My object is not to argue, but to
record some instances showing how liable we are to misinterpret animal
actions.
Some time ago, while walking near the golf-links at Lahore, I noticed a
rat-bird, or common babbler (_Argya caudata_, to give it its proper
name), with a green caterpillar hanging from its beak. The succulent
insect was, of course, intended for a young bird in a nest near by. Being
in no hurry, I determined to find that nest. Under such circumstances,
the easiest way is to sit down and wait for the parent bird to indicate
the position of the nursery. The bird with the caterpillar had seen me,
so, instead of flying with it to the nest, moved about from bush to bush
uttering his or her note of anger (I do not pretend to be able to
distinguish a cock from a hen rat-bird). In a few minutes the other
parent appeared on the scene, also with something in its beak. Observing
that all was not well, it too began to “beat about the bush,” or rather
from one bush to another. Meanwhile, both swore at the ungentlemanly
intruder. However, I had no intention of moving on before I found that
nest. After a little time the patience of the second bird became
exhausted; it flew to a small bush, into which it disappeared, to
reappear almost immediately with an empty beak. I immediately advanced on
that bush, of which the top was not three feet above the ground. In the
bush I found a neatly constructed, cup-shaped nest, which contained five
young rat-birds. I handled these, taking one ugly, naked fellow in my
hand in full view of the parents, who were swearing like bargees. I was
careful to make certain that the mother and father could see what I was
doing, for I was anxious to find out how far their laudable attempts at
the concealment of the nest from me were due to the exercise of
intelligence. Having replaced the baby bird in the nest, I returned to
the place where I had waited for the parents to direct me to their
nursery, and watched their future actions. If they had been acting
intelligently, they would reason thus, “The great ogre has found our nest
and seen our little ones. If he wants them we are powerless to prevent
him taking them. The game of keeping their whereabouts hidden from him is
up. There is nothing left for us to do but to continue to feed our chicks
in the ordinary way without further attempt at concealment.” If, however,
they were acting blindly, merely obeying the promptings of the instinct
which teaches them not to feed their young ones in the presence of
danger, they would be as unwilling now to visit the nest as they were
after they first caught sight of me. They pursued the latter course, thus
demonstrating that this seemingly most intelligent behaviour is prompted
by instinct.
It is a well-known fact that some birds, such as the partridge, whose
young are able to run about when first hatched, behave in a very clever
manner in presence of danger. The mother bird acts as though her wing was
broken, and flutters away from the intruder with what appears to be a
great and painful effort. By this means she draws the attention of the
enemy to herself; meanwhile her chicks are able to hide themselves in
whatever cover happens to be convenient. If anything looks like an
intelligent act this surely does. But in this case appearances are
deceptive. It sometimes happens that a hen partridge acts in this manner
before her eggs are hatched. Under such circumstances the pretence of a
broken wing is not only useless, but positively harmful, since it
probably directs the attention of the intruder to her white eggs. This
feigning of injury would thus appear to be a purely instinctive act, a
course of behaviour dictated by natural selection. Mr. Edmund Selous
discusses the origin of this peculiar habit in that admirable book
entitled _Bird Watching_, to which I would refer those who are interested
in the matter. Instances such as these, of acts which are only apparently
purposeful, could easily be multiplied. They should prevent our rushing
to the conclusion that because a cat, or dog, or horse behaves in a
sensible manner under certain conditions, it is exercising intelligence.
Natural selection has brought instinct to such perfection that many
instinctive actions are very difficult to distinguish from those which
are intelligent.
XIII
AT THE SIGN OF THE FARASH
The farash tree (_Tamarix articulata_), regarded from the point of view
of a human being, is everything that a tree should not be. Its wood has
little or no commercial value, being of not much use even as fuel. Its
needle-like leaves afford no shade. It has a dusty, dried-up, funereal
appearance. During the day it absorbs a large amount of the sun’s heat,
which it emits, with interest, at night-time, so that if, on a
hot-weather evening, you happen to pass near a farash tree you cannot
fail to notice that the temperature of the air immediately surrounding it
is considerably higher than it is elsewhere. Each farash tree becomes,
for the time being, a natural heating stove. In appearance the farash is
not unlike a stunted casuarina tree. It is what botanists call a
xerophile; it is addicted to dry, sandy soil, and is found only in the
more desert-like parts of Sind and the Punjab. The one redeeming feature
of the farash tree is the shelter it affords to the fowls of the air. Its
wood is so soft and so liable to decay that the tree seems to have been
evolved chiefly for the benefit of those birds which nest in holes. The
interior of every aged farash is as full of cavities as a honeycomb. A
grove of farash trees is a veritable bird hotel; it might with truth be
called _L’Hôtel des Oiseaux_. Like many of the hotels built for the
accommodation of human beings, the Farash Hotel is almost deserted at
some periods of the year and overcrowded at others. It has its “season.”
During the winter months many of its rooms remain untenanted. The more
commodious ones, however, are occupied all the year round; some by
spotted owlets (_Athene brama_), and others by the little striped
squirrel (_Sciurus palmarum_). The spotted owlets do not, like most
birds, visit the farash merely for nesting purposes; they live in it,
lying up in their inner chamber during the day, immune from the attacks
of crows, kites, drongos, and other birds that vex the souls of little
owls. No matter at what season of the year you call at the hotel, you
will find Mr. and Mrs. Spotted Owlet at home during the daytime. If you
tap on the trunk, which is tantamount to knocking at the door or shouting
“_Koi hai_,” you may expect to see appear at the door of the suite
occupied by the owlets a droll little face, that will bow to you, but
with such grimaces as to leave no doubt that you are unwelcome.
The squirrels are winter residents in the hotel; they like to dwell in it
throughout the year, but are not always permitted to do so. Numbers of
them are ejected every February by the green parrot (_Palæornis
torquatus_). The green parrot is a bully, and is neither troubled by the
Nonconformist conscience, nor hampered by the Ten Commandments; so that,
when he has set his heart on a certain suite in the hotel, he proceeds to
install himself therein, regardless of the vested interests of the
squirrels. The “season” may be said to begin with the arrival of the
green parrots. These rowdy creatures make things “hum,” and must cause
considerable annoyance to the more respectable birds that stay in the
hotel. The green parrot is to bird gentlefolk what the Italian
organ-grinder is to the musical Londoner—an ill that has to be endured.
The little coppersmith (_Xantholæma hæmatocephala_) takes up its quarters
in the bird hotel early in the season. It is very particular as regards
its accommodation. It holds, and rightly holds, that rooms which have
already been lived in are apt to harbour parasites and carry disease, so
insists on hewing out a chamber for itself. Owing to the industry of both
the cock and the hen, the excavation of their retort-shaped nesting
chamber occupies surprisingly little time, and the neat, circular
front-door that leads to it compares very favourably with the irregular,
broken-down-looking entrance to the quarters occupied by the parrots or
owlets. As often as not the coppersmith excavates its nest in a
horizontal bough, in which case the entrance is invariably made on the
under surface, with the object of preventing rain-water coming into the
room.
Another regular patron of the Farash Hotel is the beautiful golden-backed
woodpecker (_Brachypternus aurantius_). This bird usually arrives later
in the season than the coppersmith, but, like it, disdains a room which
has been occupied by others. It is not, as a rule, so industrious as the
coppersmith, for it usually selects for the site of its abode a part of
the tree that is more or less hollow, and proceeds, by means of its
pick-like beak, to cut out a neat round passage or tube leading to the
ready-made cavity.
The most flashy of the _habitués_ of the hotel is the Indian roller
(_Coracias indica_), or “blue jay,” as he is more commonly called. Like
“loud” human beings, the roller bird is excessively noisy. When there are
both green parrots and blue jays in the hotel it becomes a veritable
bear-garden, resembling the hotels in Douglas, a town of the Isle of Man.
During the summer months these are filled with holiday-makers from the
Lancashire mills, who seem to spend the greater part of the night in
playing hide-and-seek, hunt the slipper, “chase me,” and such-like
delectable games in the corridors and public rooms. There is, however,
this difference between the rowdiness of the Lancashire “tripper” and
that of the parrots and “jays”—the former is chiefly nocturnal, whereas
the latter is strictly diurnal. The blue jays indulge in their
screechings and caterwaulings, their aerial gymnastics, their “tricks i’
the air,” only during the hours of daylight. Not that the hotel is quiet
at night. Far from it. The spotted owlets take care of that. The blue jay
is not particular as to the nature of his accommodation; any kind of hole
is accepted, provided it be fairly roomy. He is quite content with a
depression in the broken stump of an upright bough. Sometimes the bird
places in its quarters a little furniture, in the shape of a lining of
feathers, grass, and paper. More often the bird scorns such luxuries, and
is content with the hard bare wood.
When a pair of blue jays first takes up its quarters in the hotel a great
secret is made of the fact. Anyone who did not know the birds might think
they were trying to avoid their creditors. This is not the case. The fact
is that the nest contains some eggs which the owners imagine every other
creature wants to steal. When, however, the young ones hatch out, the
parents forget all about the necessity for concealing the whereabouts of
the nest, so taken up are they with the feeding of their young ones.
The hoopoe (_Upupa indica_) is another bird that must be numbered among
the _clientèle_ of the hotel. It is just the kind of visitor that a hotel
proprietor likes. It is not in the least particular as to its quarters.
Any tumble-down room will do, the filthier the better! All that it
demands is that the front-door shall be a mere chink, only just large
enough to admit of its' slender body. It then feels that its house is its
castle; no enemy can possibly enter it.
The common myna (_Acridotheres tristis_) is another bird which habitually
patronises the Farash Hotel. It is even less particular than the hoopoe
as to the nature of its quarters—anything in the shape of a hole does
quite well. Having secured accommodation, it proceeds to throw into it,
pell-mell, a medley of straws, sticks, rags, bits of paper. That is its
idea of house-furnishing. So untidy is the myna that you can sometimes
discover the room it occupies by the pieces of furniture that stick out
of the window! The mynas arrive later than most of the birds which nest
in the farash, hence they find all the more desirable suites occupied.
This does not distress the happy-go-lucky creatures in the least. They
are probably the most contented of all the members of the little colony
that lives in the _Hôtel des Oiseaux_. _Summæ opes, inopia cupiditatum._
XIV
THE COOT
The coot (_Fulica atra_) is a rail which has taken thoroughly to the
water. It has, in consequence, assumed many of the characteristics of a
duck. We may perhaps speak of it as a pseudo-duck. Certain it is that
inexperienced sportsmen frequently shoot and eat coots under the
impression that they are “black duck.” Nevertheless, there is no bird
easier to identify than our friend, the bald coot. In the hand it is
quite impossible to mistake it for a duck. Its toes are not joined
together by webs, but are separated and furnished with lobes which assist
it in swimming. Its beak is totally different from that of the true
ducks. But there is no necessity to shoot the coot in order to identify
it. Save for the conspicuous white bill, and the white shield on the
front of the head, which constitutes its “baldness,” the coot is as black
as the proverbial nigger-boy. Thus its colouring suffices to
differentiate it from any of the ducks that visit India. Further, as
“Eha” truly says, “its dumpy figure and very short tail seem to
distinguish it, even before one gets near enough to make out its uniform
black colour and conspicuous white bill.” The difficulty which the coot
experiences in rising from the water is another easy way of identifying
it. Ducks rise elegantly and easily; the coot plunges and splashes and
beats the water so vigorously with wings and feet that it appears to run
along the surface for a few yards before it succeeds in maintaining
itself in the air. But, when fairly started, it moves at a great pace, so
that, as regards flight, it may well say, even at the risk of
perpetrating a pun, _Il n’y a que le premier pas qui coute_. During the
efforts preliminary to flight the bird presents a very easy mark; hence
its popularity among inexperienced sportsmen. Now, since the coot is, to
use a racing term, so indifferent a starter, raptorial birds must find it
a quarry particularly easy to catch. Therefore, according to the rules of
the game of natural selection, as drawn up by the learned brotherhood of
zoologists, the coot ought to be as difficult to see as a thief in the
night, and should spend its life skulking among rushes, in order to
escape its foes. As a matter of fact it is as conspicuous as a
lifeguardsman in full uniform, and, so far from having the habits of a
skulker, it seems to take a positive delight in exposing itself, for, as
Jerdon says, “It is often seen in the middle of some large tank far away
from weeds or cover.”
Someone has suggested that the coot is an example of warning colouration,
that it is unpalatable to birds of prey, and that its black livery and
white face are nature’s equivalent to the druggist’s label bearing the
legend “Poison.” Unfortunately for this suggestion, certain sportsmen, as
we have seen, never lose an opportunity of dining off roast coot, and
appear to be none the worse for the repast. Moreover, Mr. Frank Finn, who
holds that no man is properly acquainted with any species of bird until
he has partaken of the flesh thereof, informs us that “coots are edible,
but need skinning, as the skin is tough and rank in taste.” Miss J. A.
Owen has a higher opinion of the flavour of the bird. She maintains that
coots are “very good for eating, but they are not often used for the
table, chiefly because they are so difficult to pluck, except when quite
warm.” Further, low-caste Indians appear to be very partial to the flesh
of our pseudo-duck. One of the drawbacks to water-fowl shooting in this
country is the constant wail of the boatmen, “_Maro wo chiriya, sahib,
ham log khate hain_” (Shoot that bird, sir, we people eat it). Neither
expostulations nor threats will stay the clamour. The sportsman will
enjoy no peace until he sacrifices a coot. If, then, human beings of
various sorts and conditions can and do eat the coot, it is absurd to
suppose that the creature is unpalatable to birds of prey, some of which
will devour even the crow. It is true that I do not remember ever having
seen an eagle take a coot, but how few of us ever do see raptorial
creatures seize their victims? What is more to the point, some observers
have seen coots attacked by birds of prey. We are, therefore, compelled
to regard the bald coot as a ribald fellow, who makes merry at the
expense of modern zoologists by setting at naught the theory of natural
selection as it has been developed of late.
Some may, perhaps, accuse me of never missing an opportunity to cast a
stone at this hypothesis. To the charge I must plead guilty; but at the
same time I urge the plea of justification. The amount of nonsense talked
by some naturalists in the name of natural selection is appalling. The
generally accepted conception of the nature of the struggle for existence
needs modification. Natural selection has of late become a kind of fetish
in England. So long as biologists are content to fall down and worship
the golden calf they have manufactured, it is hopeless to look for rapid
scientific progress. The aspersions I cast on Wallaceism are either
justified or they are not. If they are justified, it is surely high time
to abandon the doctrine of the all-sufficiency of natural selection to
account for the whole of organic evolution. If, on the other hand, they
are not justified, why do not the orthodox biologists arise and refute my
statements and arguments? It is my belief that the black livery of the
coot is not only not the product of natural selection, but is positively
harmful to its possessor; that the coot would be an even more successful
species than it now is, if, while retaining all its habits and other
characteristics, it had a coat of less conspicuous hue. I maintain that
many organisms possess characters which are positively injurious to them,
and yet manage to survive. Natural selection has to take animals and
plants as it finds them—their good qualities with the bad. If a species
comes up to a certain standard, that species will be permitted to
survive, in spite of some defects. By the ill-luck of variation the coot
has acquired black plumage, but this ill-luck is out-weighed by its
good-luck in possessing some favourable characters.
The first of these favourable attributes is a good constitution. Thanks
to this the coot is able to thrive in every kind of climate: in foggy,
damp England; in the hot, steamy swamps of Sind, and in cold Kashmir. In
this respect it enjoys a considerable advantage over the ducks, inasmuch
as it is not exposed to the dangers and tribulations of the long
migratory flight.
Another valuable asset of the coot is a good digestion. Creatures which
can live on a mixed diet usually do well in the struggle for existence.
Then, the coot is a prolific bird. It brings up several broods in the
year, and its clutch of eggs is a large one. The nest is usually well
concealed among reeds and floats on the surface of the water, so is
difficult of access to both birds and beasts of prey. Moreover, the
mother coot carefully covers up the eggs when she leaves the nest.
Another useful characteristic of the coot is its wariness. Many
water-fowl go to sleep in the daytime, but the coot appears to be always
watchful. This perhaps explains its popularity with ducks and other water
birds, although I should be inclined to attribute it to the extreme
amiability of the coot. Nothing seems to ruffle him, except the approach
of a strange male bird to the nest. Whatever be the reason therefor, the
general popularity of the coot among his fellow-water-fowl is so well
established that in England many sportsmen encourage coot on to their
waters in order to attract other water-fowl. Thus, a strong constitution,
a good digestion, prolificness, and wariness, enable the coot to thrive,
in spite of its showy livery. The first three of the above
characteristics enable the species to contend successfully with climate
and disease, which are checks on the increase of organisms far more
potent than predaceous animals. It is also possible—but this has yet to
be demonstrated—that the coot, although edible, is not considered a
delicacy by birds of prey, and so is taken when nothing more dainty is
obtainable. If this be the case, it could, of course, minimise the
disadvantages of the coot’s conspicuousness. But even then there is no
evading the fact that the blackness of the coot is an unfavourable
characteristic.
XV
THE BEAUTIFUL PORPHYRIO
The bald coot is, as we have seen, a rail that has taken thoroughly to an
aquatic life. The purple coot may be described as a rail, which, while
displaying hankerings after a life on the liquid element, has not
definitely committed itself to the water. The porphyrio, then, is a rail
which, to use a political expression, is “sitting on the fence.” The
indecision of Mr. Porphyrio has somewhat puzzled ornithologists. These
seem to be unable to come to an agreement as to what to call him. Jerdon
dubs him a coot, Blanford a moor-hen. The New Zealanders term him a
swamp-hen, and their name is better than that given him by either Jerdon
or Blanford, as denoting that the bird is neither a coot nor a moor-hen.
But, perhaps, the classical name best suits a bird which is arrayed in
purple and fine linen. For the fine linen, please look under the tail, at
what Dr. Wallace would call the bird’s recognition mark, although I am
sure it will puzzle that great biologist to say what use so uniquely
plumaged a bird as the porphyrio can have for a recognition mark. As well
might Napoleon have worn a red necktie, to enable his friends to
recognise him when they met him! But this is a digression.
The Greeks were well acquainted with a near relative of the Indian
porphyrio, which they kept in confinement. “For a wonder,” writes Finn,
“they did not keep it to eat, but because they credited it with a strong
aversion to breaches of the conjugal tie in its owner’s household.” He
adds: “Considering the state of morality among the wealthier Romans, I
fear that accidents must often have happened to pet porphyrios.”
The purple moor-hen is a study in shades of art blue—a bird which should
appeal strongly to Messrs. Liberty and Co. Its bill, which is not flat
like that of a duck, but rounded, is bright red, as is the large
triangular shield on the forehead. Its long legs and toes are a paler
red. The plumage is thus described by Blanford: “Head pale, brownish
grey, tinged with cobalt on cheeks and throat, and passing on the nape
into the deep purplish lilac of the hind neck, back, rump, and upper
tail-coverts; wings outside, scapulars and breast light greenish blue;
abdomen and flanks like the back; the wing and tail-coverts black, blue
on the exposed portions; under tail-coverts white.”
So striking a bird is this coot, that it cannot fail to arrest one’s
attention. Many sportsmen seem unable to resist the temptation of
shooting it. Mr. Edgar Thurston informs me that a cold weather never
passes without some sportsman sending him a specimen of _Porphyrio
poliocephalus_ for the Madras Museum. They come across the bird when out
snipe-shooting, and, thinking it a rare and valuable species, pay it the
very doubtful compliment of shooting it. As the museum has now a
sufficient stock of stuffed porphyrios to meet its requirements for the
next few decades, I hope that sportsmen in that part of the world will in
future stay their hand when they come across the beautiful swamp-hen.
Rush-covered marshes, lakes, and _jhils_, which are overgrown with reeds
and thick sedges, form the happy hunting-grounds of this species. Its
long toes enable it to run about on the broad floating leaves of aquatic
plants. They also make it possible for the bird to cling to the stems of
reeds and bushes. Very strange is the sight it presents when so doing—a
bird as big as a fowl behaving like a reed warbler. The long toes of the
porphyrio are not webbed, but are provided with narrow lobes which enable
it to swim, though not with the same ease as its cousin, the bald coot.
In places where it is abundant the purple swamp-hen is very sociable, and
keeps much more to cover than does the coot. When flushed, it flies well
and swiftly, with its legs pointing backwards—the position so
characteristic of the legs of the heron during flight. Its diet is
largely vegetarian, and it is said to commit much havoc in paddy fields.
The harm it does is probably exaggerated, for the purple coot flourishes
in many districts where no paddy is grown.
This species has one very unrail-like habit, that of taking up its food
in its claws. Its European cousin, _P. veterum_, was seen by Canon
Tristram “to seize a duckling in its large foot, crush its head and eat
its brains, leaving the rest untouched.” This behaviour Legge stigmatises
as cannibalism! There is no evidence that the purple moor-hen is a
cannibal, but it is not safe to keep the bird in the same enclosure as
weaker birds.
Its voice is not melodious; indeed, it is scarcely more pleasant to
refined ears than the wail of the street-singer.
Purple coots breed in company. The nest is a platform made of reeds and
rushes, or, when these are not available, of young paddy plants, erected
on a tussock of long grass projecting out of the water, usually some way
from the edge of the _jhil_. Hume’s observations led him to lay down two
propositions regarding the nesting habits of this species. First, “that
all birds in the same swamp both lay and hatch off about the same time.”
Secondly, “that in two different _jhils_ only a dozen miles apart, and,
apparently, precisely similarly situated, there will be a difference of
fifteen days or more in the period of the laying of the two colonies.”
Neither of these statements appears to hold good of the purple coot in
Ceylon, for, according to Mr. H. Parker, “they do not breed there
simultaneously.” “Young birds, eggs in all stages of incubation and
partly built nests are all found in the same tank. In some cases the eggs
are laid at considerable intervals. I have met with a nestling, partly
incubated eggs of different ages and fresh eggs in the same nest.” Widely
distributed species not infrequently display local variations in habit.
Such local peculiarities are of considerable interest, for they must
sometimes form the starting-points for new species. They are also
responsible for some of the discrepancies which occur in the accounts of
the species by various observers. The nesting season is from June to
September; August for choice, in India. The eggs are pale pink, heavily
splashed with red, quite in keeping with the beautiful plumage that
characterises the adult bird. Sometimes the eggs of purple coots are
placed under the barn-door fowl. Young porphyrios hatched under such
conditions become quite tame and form a pleasing addition to the
farmyard.
XVI
THE COBRA
According to my dictionary, the cobra di capello (_Naia tripudians_) is a
reptile of the most venomous nature. This, like many other things the
dictionary says, is not strictly true. There exist snakes whose bite is
far more poisonous than that of the cobra. The common krait, for example,
is four times as venomous, and yet the bite of this little reptile is
mild as compared with that of the sea snake, which should be carefully
distinguished from the sea-serpent of the “silly season.” But let us not
quarrel with the writer of the dictionary; he did his best. The cobra is
quite venomous enough for all practical purposes to merit the title of
“the most venomous.” A fair bite kills a dog in from five minutes to an
hour. Notwithstanding the lethal nature of his bite, the cobra is said by
all who know him intimately to be a gentle, timid creature. Sulkiness is
his worst vice. In captivity he sometimes sulks to such a degree as to
starve to death unless food be pushed down his gullet! The cobra is a
reptile who prefers retiring gracefully to facing the foe. It is only
when driven into a corner that he strikes, and then apparently he does so
with the utmost reluctance. Nicholson writes: “A cobra standing at bay
can be readily captured; put the end of a stick gently across his head
and bear it down to the ground by a firm and gradual pressure. He will
not resist. Then place the stick horizontally across his neck and take
him up. You must not dawdle about this; sharp is the word, when dealing
with snakes, and they have as much respect for firm and kind treatment as
contempt for timidity and irresolution.” “There is very little danger,”
he adds, “about handling this snake; nerve is all that is required.” I
have no doubt that this is all true. It is certainly borne out by the
nonchalance with which an Indian, who is accustomed to snakes, will put
his hand into a basket of cobras and pull one out. There are, however,
some things the doing of which I prefer to leave to others, and one of
these is the handling of venomous snakes. There is always the colubrine
equivalent of the personal equation to be taken into consideration.
People whose fondness for playing with fire takes the form of
snake-charming will do well to operate upon light-coloured specimens, for
experience has taught those who handle snakes that dark-coloured
varieties are worse-tempered than those of paler hue. In some
unaccountable manner blackness seems to be correlated with evil temper.
Another word of warning. A snake has a longer reach than might be
anticipated. On one occasion, wishing to show how the cobra strikes, I
walked up to within a yard or two of one standing at bay and threw a clod
of earth at him. He struck, and his head came unpleasantly near to my
legs!
The cobra is a species of considerable interest to the zoologist. In the
first place, several varieties exist. Some cobras have no figure marked
on the hood, others display a pattern like a pair of spectacles, while
others show a monocle. These are known respectively as the anocellate,
the binocellate, and the monocellate varieties. The binocellate form is
most frequently met with. It is found all over India. It is the only
variety that occurs in Madras, and the one most commonly found in Bombay
and North-Western India. The great majority of the cobras that dwell in
Central India belong to the anocellate variety. This form is also found
on the frontier from Afghanistan to Sikkim. The monocellate variety is
the common cobra of Bengal, Burma, and China.
There can be but little doubt that the cobra is a form undergoing active
evolution. _Naia tripudians_ appears to be splitting up into three
species. The spectacled cobra is probably the ancestral form. The black
anocellate variety seems best adapted to the climatic conditions of the
Central Provinces, while the pale, binocellate form thrives in Southern
India. It is possible that these external characteristics are in some way
correlated with adaptability to particular environments. Curiously
enough, brown, yellow, and black varieties of the African cobra (_Naia
haje_) exist. Some species of birds display a similar phenomenon. The
coucal or crow-pheasant, for example, is divided up into three local
races. Most naturalists are agreed that geographical isolation has been
an important factor in the making of some species. Exactly why this
should be so has yet to be explained.
Another interesting feature of the genus _Naia_ is the dilatable neck or
hood. Of what use is this to its possessor? Zoologists, or at least those
of them who sit at home in easy chairs and formulate theories, have an
answer to this question. They assert that the hood has a protective
value. A cobra when at bay raises the anterior portion of its body,
expands its hood, and hisses. This is supposed to terrify those animals
which witness the demonstration. Thus Professor Poulton writes: “The
cobra warns an intruder chiefly by attitude and the broadening of its
flattened neck, the effect being heightened in some species by the
‘spectacle.’” Unfortunately for this hypothesis, no creature, with the
possible exception of man, appears to be in the least alarmed at this
display. Dogs regard it as a huge joke. Of this I have satisfied myself
again and again, for when out coursing at Muttra we frequently came
across cobras, which the dogs used invariably to chase, and we sometimes
found it very difficult to keep the dogs off, since they seemed to be
unaware that the creature was venomous. Colonel Cunningham’s experience
has been similar. He writes: “Sporting dogs are very apt to come to grief
where cobras abound, as there is something very alluring to them in the
sight of a large snake when it sits up nodding and snarling; and it is
often difficult to come up in time to prevent the occurrence of
irreparable mischief.” He also states that many ruminants have a great
animosity to snakes and are prone to attack any that they may come
across. We must further bear in mind that even if the cobra does bite his
adversary, this will avail him nothing, for the bite itself, though
painful, is not sufficiently so to put a large animal _hors de combat_
immediately. It does not profit the cobra greatly that his adversary dies
after having killed him.
Thus, it seems to me that neither the hood nor the venom is protective.
Indeed, it is difficult to understand how it is that the poison fangs
have been evolved. The venom, of course, soon renders a small victim
quiescent and so makes the swallowing of it easier than would otherwise
be the case. But non-venomous snakes experience no difficulty in
swallowing their prey. Moreover, in order that natural selection can
explain the genesis and perfecting of an organ it is not sufficient to
show that the perfected organ is of use. We must demonstrate that from
its earliest beginning the organ in question has all along given its
possessor sufficient advantage in the struggle for existence to effect
his preservation when his fellows have been killed.
XVII
THE MUNGOOSE
From the cobra it is a natural step to his foe—the mungoose. This
creature—the ichneumon of the ancients—occupies a most important place in
the classical and mediæval bestiaries. Every old writer gives a graphic
account, with variations according to taste, of the “mortall combat”
between the aspis and the ichneumon. But the noble creature was not
content with fighting a mere serpent, it used to pit itself against the
leviathan. Pliny tells us that the crocodile, having gorged himself,
falls asleep with open mouth in order that the little crocodile bird may
enter and pick his teeth. Then the watchful ichneumon “whippeth” into the
monster’s mouth and “shooteth” himself down his throat as quick as an
arrow. When comfortably inside, the ichneumon sups off the bowels of his
host, and, having satisfied his hunger, eats his way out through the
crocodile’s belly, so that, to use the words of the learned Topsell, who
gallantly gives _place aux dames_, “Shee that crept in by stealth at the
mouth, like a puny thief, cometh out at the belly like a conqueror,
through a passage opened by her own labour and industrie.”
In these degenerate days the mungoose does not perform such venturesome
exploits; nevertheless, he still has a “bold and sanguinary disposition.”
Sterndale’s tame mungoose once attacked a greyhound. Although in the wild
state he does nothing so quixotic as to assail large snakes, the mungoose
is a match for the cobra. The natives of India declare that, when bitten
by his adversary, he trots off into the jungle and there finds a root or
plant which acts as an antidote to poison, so that he may claim to be the
discoverer of the anti-venom treatment for snake-bite. We may term this
the anti-venom theory to account for the immunity of the mungoose. It
bears the stamp of antiquity, but is unsupported by any evidence. In this
respect it is not much worse off than some modern zoological theories.
The other hypothesis we may call the-prevention-is-better-than-cure
theory. It attributes the immunity of the mungoose to his remarkable
agility. He does not allow the cobra to “have a bite,” and even if the
latter does succeed in striking, the chances are that its fangs will be
turned aside by the erected hair of the mungoose or fail to penetrate his
tough skin. Blanford states that although it has been repeatedly proved
that the little mammal dies if properly bitten by a venomous snake, it is
less susceptible to poison than other animals. He adds: “I have seen a
mungoose eat up the head and poison glands of a large cobra, so the
poison must be harmless to the mucous membrane of the former animal.”
Eight species of mungoose occur in the Indian Empire. The only one which
is well known is the common mungoose, which Jerdon calls _Herpestes
griseus_. It is, I believe, now known as _Herpestes mungo_. During the
last century it has been renamed some eight or nine times.
It is not necessary to describe the mungoose. The few Anglo-Indians who
have not met him in the wild state must have frequently seen him among
the “properties” of the individual who calls himself a snake-charmer.
The mungoose lives in a hole excavated by itself. It is diurnal in
habits, and feeds largely on animal food. Jerdon states that it is “very
destructive to such birds as frequent the ground. Not infrequently it
gets access to tame pigeons, rabbits, or poultry, and commits great
havoc. . . . I have often seen it make a dash into a verandah where some
cages of mynas, parrakeets, etc., were daily placed, and endeavour to
tear them from their cage.” But birds are not easy for a terrestrial
creature to procure, so that its animal food consists chiefly of mice,
small snakes, lizards, and insects. Jerdon states that “it hunts for and
devours the eggs of partridges, quail, and other ground-laying birds.” I
am inclined to think that the carnivorous propensities of the mungoose
have been exaggerated, for its food seems to contain a considerable
admixture of vegetable substances. In captivity it will eat bread and
bananas, although it requires animal food in addition. McMaster records
the case of a mungoose killed near Secunderabad, of which the stomach
contained a quail, a portion of a custard apple, a small wasp’s nest, a
blood-sucker lizard, and a number of insects—quite a _recherché_ little
repast!
In Lahore I, or rather my wife, made the discovery that the mungoose is
very fond of bird-seed. A certain individual contrived to spend the
greater part of the day in our bungalow. He was probably attracted in the
first instance by the amadavats. Finding that these were secure in their
strongly-made cage, he turned his attention to their seed, and found that
it was good. When he had devoured all that had fallen to the ground he
would endeavour by means of his claws to extract seed from within the
cage. This used to alarm the birds terribly; one night their flutterings
woke me up. It takes an amadavat a long time to learn that it is safe in
its cage. It is not until after months of captivity that it will sit on
the floor of its house and gaze placidly at the hungry shikra which has
alighted on the top. For this reason we did not encourage that mungoose.
I may say that we distinctly discouraged it by throwing things at it, or
chasing it out of the bungalow whenever we saw it. But it soon became so
bold that, unless we ran out of the bungalow after it, it used to remain
in hiding in the verandah, and, a few seconds after all was quiet, its
little nose would appear at the doorway.
The impudence of the Indian house-crow is great, that of the sparrow is
colossal, that of the striped squirrel staggering, but the impudence of
all these is surpassed by that of the mungoose. Small wonder, then, that
it makes an excellent pet. McMaster kept one that died of grief when
separated from him. But, in order to tame a mungoose, the animal must be
captured while young. Babu R. P. Sanyal, in his useful _Handbook on the
Management of Animals in Captivity_, writes: “Adult specimens seldom
become tame enough even for exhibition in a menagerie; they either remain
hidden away in the straw or snap at the wire, uttering a querulous yelp,
possibly expressive of disgust, at the approach of man. They have been
known to refuse nourishment and to starve to death.”
A mungoose (_Herpestes ichneumon_) allied to our Indian species is common
in Egypt, where it is known as Pharaoh’s rat or Pharoe’s mouse. It is
frequently trained by the inhabitants to protect them from rats and
snakes.
The mungoose is a ratter without peer. Bennet, in his _Tower Menagerie_,
states that “the individual now in the Tower actually, on one occasion,
killed no fewer than a dozen full-grown rats, which were loosed to it in
a room 16 feet square, in less than a minute and a half.” The Egyptian
species eats crocodiles’ eggs, so that Diodorus Siculus remarks that but
for the ichneumon there would have been no sailing on the Nile. The
Indian species seems to display no penchant towards crocodiles’ eggs.
XVIII
THE SWAN
“With that I saw two swannes of goodly hewe
Come softly swimming downe the lee;
Two fairer birds I yet did never see;
The snow, which does the top of Pindus strew,
Did never whiter shew.”
When I speak of “the swan,” I mean the bird called by ornithologists the
mute swan (_Cygnus olor_), the swan of the poets that warbles sublime and
enchanting music when it is about to shuffle off its mortal coil, the
tame swan of Europe, the swan that used to take Siegfried for cheap trips
down the river, the swan that “graces the brook,” the swan of the
“stately homes of England,” the swan I used to feed as a youngster on the
Serpentine, not the black fellow in St. James’s Park, the swan that
hovers expectantly in the offing while you are having tea in a boat on
the Thames. This is, of course, by no means the only species of swan.
There are plenty of others—white ones, black ones, black-and-white
ones—for the family enjoys a wide distribution. Nevertheless, I propose
to confine myself to this particular swan. I have excellent reasons for
doing so. As it is the only swan with which I have had much to do, I can,
like the Cambridge Don who declared that the Kaiser was quite the
pleasantest Emperor he had ever met, say that _Cygnus olor_ is the most
agreeable of my swan acquaintances. This may sound like flattery, like
the fulsome praise of the penny-a-line puffer. It is nothing of the kind.
It is barely complimentary. Among the blind the one-eyed is king, unless,
of course, he lives in a republic. “You are the best of a very bad lot,”
were the encouraging words with which a prize for arithmetic was once
handed to me. The mute swan is the most agreeable of a bad-tempered clan.
Swans are overrated birds. They cannot hold a candle to their despised
cousins, the geese. I am sorry to have to say this, to thus shatter
another idol of the poets, to expose yet another of what the Babu would
call their “bull cock” stories. I am the more sorry as I am fully aware
that this will bring down upon me the thunderous wrath of the literary
critic, whose devotion to the British bards is truly affecting. Let me,
therefore, by way of trimming, say that there is some justification for
idolising the swan. The bird is as beautiful as the heroine in a
three-volume novel. He is dignified and stately, full of “placid beauty.”
“Proudly and slow he swims through the lake in the evening stillness. No
leaf, no wave, is moving: the swan alone goes on his solitary course,
floating silently like a bright water spirit. How dazzlingly his snowy
whiteness shines! How majestically the undulating neck rises and bends!
With what lightness and freedom he glides buoyantly away, the pinions
unfurled like sails! Each outline melts into the other; every attitude is
full of feeling, in every movement is nobility: an ever-changing play of
graceful lines, as though he knew that the very stream tarried to
contemplate his beauty.”
But his splendour is not without alloy. It is marred by the tiny, black,
beady eye, which gives the bird an evil-tempered, sinister expression.
This expression is in keeping with the character of the swan. Cygnus is a
bully. He delights to tyrannise over the ducks who so often keep him
company in captivity. The domineering behaviour of an old swan that used
to live in the Zoological Gardens at Lahore was amusing to watch. The
water-fowl are fed twice daily, the food being placed in a series of
dishes so that all can eat at once. The swan used to appropriate the
first dish to be filled, and no duck or goose durst approach that dish.
Having taken the edge off his appetite, the swan would waddle to the next
plate, and drive away the ducks that were eating out of it. He would then
pass on to dish number three, and so on all along the line, his idea
being, apparently, to cause the maximum of annoyance to his neighbours
with the minimum of trouble to himself. There were great rejoicings among
the ducks when that old swan died.
An angry swan is capable of inflicting a nasty blow with its powerful
wings. It is said to be able to use these with such force as to break a
man’s arm. Mr. Kay Robinson denies this, and declares that the wing of a
swan is not a formidable weapon. Personally, I always give the wing the
benefit of the doubt and an angry swan a wide berth.
Considering its size, the swan has a very small brain; hence it is not
overburdened with intelligence. Mr. H. E. Watson relates how one day when
shooting in Sind he came across five swans on a tank. “They let the boat
get pretty close,” he writes, “and I shot one. The other four flew round
the tank a few times and then settled on it again. I went up in the boat
and fired again, but without effect. They flew round, and then settled
again. The third time I shot another; the three remaining again flew
round and settled, and the fourth time I fired I did not kill. Exactly
the same thing happened the fifth time; the birds flew round and round,
and settled close to me, and I shot a third. The remaining two flew a
little distance, and settled, but I thought it would be a pity to kill
them . . . so I began to shoot ducks, and then the two remaining swans
flew by me, one on the right and one on the left, so that I could easily
have knocked them over with small shot.” What a pity swans are such rare
visitors to India! What grand birds they must be for an indifferent shot.
One swan on a small _jhil_ would give a really bad gunner a whole
morning’s shooting; it would circle round and round the sportsman at
short range, letting him blaze off to his heart’s content until it fell a
victim to its trustfulness! Try to imagine the so-called stupid goose
behaving in this manner.
The swan is a very silent bird in captivity, for this reason it is called
the mute swan. The only noise I have ever heard it make is a hiss when it
is angry. At the breeding season it is said to trumpet sometimes. The
ancients believed that the swan, though mute throughout life, sings most
sublimely at the approach of death; it then sings, not a funeral dirge,
but a jolly, rollicking song. This presented an excellent opportunity for
moralising. Mediæval authors were always on the look out for such
opportunities. The swan, wrote the author of the _Speculum Mundi_, “is a
perfect emblem and pattern to us, that our death ought to be cheerful,
and life not so dear to us as it is.” This practice of singing before
death has, like the crinoline, quite gone out of fashion. The mute swan
can never have been so great a musician as some of his brethren, since
the French horn which he carries in his breast-bone is not nearly so well
developed as it is in either the hooper or the black swan. Let me here
say, _en passant_, that both ancient and mediæval writers declined to
believe in the existence of a black swan; they regarded it as “the very
emblem and type of extravagant impossibility.” The phœnix, the dragon,
and the mermaid they could believe, but they felt that they must really
draw the line at a black swan.
A swan’s nest is a bulky structure composed of rushes, reeds, and other
aquatic plants; it is placed on the ground near the water’s edge. Six or
seven large greenish-white eggs are laid. The breeding season is from
March to May. Swans do not, of course, breed in India. Indeed, it is only
on rare occasions that they visit that country, and then they do not
venture farther south than Sind.
XIX
KITES OF THE SEA
“Graceful seagulls, plumed in snowy white,
Follow’d the creaming furrow of the prow,
With easy pinion, pleasurably slow;
Then on the waters floated like a fleet
Of tiny vessels, argosies complete,
Such as brave Gulliver, deep wading, drew
Victorious from the forts of Blefuscu.”
Of all the methods of obtaining food to which birds resort, none makes
greater demands on their physical powers than that which we human beings
term scavenging—the seeking-out and devouring of the multifarious edible
objects left, unclaimed by the owners, on the face of the land or the
sea. No bird can eke out an existence by scavenging unless it be endowed
with wonderful power of flight, the keenest eyesight, and limitless
energy, to say nothing of the ability and the will to fight when
necessity arises. Thus it happens that it is to the despised scavengers
that we must direct our eyes if we would behold the perfection of flight.
The vultures, the kites, and the gulls are verily the monarchs of the
atmosphere.
Bird scavengers are of two kinds—specialists and general practitioners.
The former confine themselves to one particular kind of food—the bodies
of dead animals. Of such are the vultures. In the polity of the feathered
folk might is right, so that these great birds enjoy the prerogative of
picking and choosing their food. The lesser fry have to be content with
that which the vultures do not require, with the crumbs that fall from
the vulturine table; they are ready to devour “anything that is going.”
All is grist that comes to their mill.
The kites and gulls are the chieftains of the clan of general scavengers.
The sway of the former extends over the land: the latter have dominion
over the seas. Kites cannot swim; their operations are in consequence
necessarily confined to the land, and to water in the neighbourhood of
_terra firma_. Sea-gulls, on the other hand, are as buoyant as corks, and
have webbed feet; they are, further, no mean swimmers, and are eminently
adapted to a seafaring life. They are birds of powerful flight, and
almost as much at home on land as at sea. They confine their attention
mainly to the sea, not because they are compelled by their structure to
do so, but because they encounter less opposition there.
Among birds, similarity in feeding habits often engenders similarity in
appearance—a professional likeness grows up among those that pursue the
same calling. The likeness between swifts and swallows is a remarkable
instance of this. The separate sphere of influence occupied by kites and
gulls sufficiently explains the dissimilitude of their plumage. In nearly
all other respects the birds closely resemble one another. In habits,
gulls are marine kites. Grandeur of flight is the most marked attribute
of each. They do not cleave the air at great velocity, like swifts or
“green parrots.” It is the effortlessness, the perfect ease with which
kites and sea-gulls perform their aerial movements for hours at a time,
rather than phenomenal speed, that compels our admiration. A dozen gentle
flaps of the wings in a minute suffices to enable a gull to keep pace
with a fast steamship.