Fly-catchers form a most interesting group of birds. It is, I maintain,

quite impossible for any man possessed of a logical mind to contemplate

this family without discovering that the theory of natural selection is

utterly inadequate to account for the variety of animal life that exists

upon the earth. The habits of practically all the fly-catchers are

identical. They all dwell in an arboreal habitat; nevertheless, the

various species display great dissimilarity in outward appearance. Some

species are brightly plumaged, others are as dully clad as a bird can

possibly be. Some have crests and long tails, others lack these

ornaments. The adult cock paradise fly-catcher, with his long, white,

satin-like tail feathers, is the most striking of birds, while the brown

fly-catcher is less conspicuously attired than a hen sparrow. This is not

the only difficulty presented to the theory of natural selection by

fly-catchers. In some species, as, for example, the paradise fly-catcher,

the sexes are altogether dissimilar in appearance, while in others the

most practised eye cannot distinguish between the cock and the hen. Nor

does there appear to be any connection between nesting habits and the

presence or absence of sexual dimorphism. The fan-tail fly-catchers, in

which the sexes are alike, and the paradise fly-catchers, in which they

differ widely, both build little cup-shaped nests in the lower branches

of trees, and in both the cock shares with the hen the duty of

incubation. Again, the verditer and the white-browed blue fly-catchers

build their nests in holes in trees; yet in the former both sexes are

blue, while in the latter the cock only is blue.

Further, in the fly-catchers we see every gradation of sexual dimorphism,

from a difference so slight as to be perceptible only when the sexes are

seen side by side, to a difference so great as to make it difficult to

believe that the sexes belong to one and the same species. It must,

therefore, be obvious to any sane person that neither natural nor sexual

selection can be directly responsible for the colouration of many species

of fly-catcher.

Another interesting characteristic of the fly-catchers is the total

absence of green in the plumage of any of them. They are birds of a

variety of colours; they display many shades of blue, yellow, orange,

red, grey, and brown, also black and white; but not one carries any green

feathers. Yet they are essentially arboreal birds, so that green would be

a very useful colour to them from the point of view of protection from

enemies. From the fact, then, that none of the fly-catchers are green, we

seem to be compelled to infer that there is something in their

constitution that prevents green variations appearing in their plumage.

In conclusion, note must be made of the fact that fly-catchers, although

they subsist almost entirely upon insect diet, appear but rarely to

devour butterflies. I have watched fly-catchers closely for several

years, and have on two occasions only seen them chase butterflies or

moths. Five years ago in Madras I observed a paradise fly-catcher chasing

a small butterfly, and recently, in the Himalayas, I saw a grey-headed

fly-catcher drop down from a tree and seize a moth that was resting in

the gutter. The reason why fly-catchers do not often attack butterflies

is obvious; these insects offer very little meat and a great deal of

indigestible wing surface. Nevertheless, the theory of protective mimicry

is almost exclusively illustrated by examples taken from butterflies. In

theory, these creatures are so relentlessly persecuted by insectivorous

birds that in order to escape their foes many edible butterflies mimic

the appearance of unpalatable species. Unfortunately for theory, few

creatures in practice seem to attack butterflies when on the wing, which

is just the time when the “mimicry” is most obvious.

The elegant little fly-catchers, then, are birds which mock Darwin, laugh

at Wallace, and make merry at the expense of Muller and Bates!

XXXIII

INSECT HUNTERS

Fly-Catchers, although they subsist almost entirely on insects, are by no

means the only insectivorous creatures in existence. They merely form a

considerable branch of the Noble Society of Insect Hunters.

If there exist any philosophers in the insect world they must find the

uncertainty of life a fitting theme on which to lavish their

philosophical rhetoric. Consider for a moment the precariousness of the

life of an insect! There exist in India probably over three hundred

species of birds which live almost exclusively upon an insect diet. Think

of the mortality among insects caused by these birds alone, by the mynas,

the swifts, the bee-eaters, the king crows, _et hoc genus omne_. Then

there are insectivorous mammals, to say nothing of man who yearly

destroys millions of injurious and parasitic hexapods. Fish too are very

partial to insects, while for spiders, frogs, and lizards, life without

insects would be impossible. Nor do the troubles of insects end here,

they are preyed upon by their own kind, and, strange phenomenon, some

plants entrap and destroy them. But we Anglo-Indians cannot afford to

sympathise with the insects. In spite of the high mortality of the

hexapod tribes, they flourish like the green bay-tree. So prolific are

they that, notwithstanding the fact that millions are daily destroyed by

their foes, the life of human beings in India becomes a burden on account

of the creeping things. In the monsoon the insects tax man almost to the

limits of his endurance—they teaze, bite, and worry his person, they

destroy his worldly goods, and, not content with this, find their way

into his food and drink. For this reason I feel very kindly disposed to

the frogs, the lizards, and the fly-catching birds.

It is worth coming to India if only to see a frog or toad at work. Go at

sunset, during a break in the rains, on to the _chabutra_, and place a

lamp near you. Thousands of insects of all shapes and sizes are attracted

by the light. In their wake come the toads. A toad always looks _blasé_.

His stupid appearance and sluggish movements give him this air. Watch him

as he hops into the zone of light. He advances to within an inch of a

resting insect, and, before you can say “Jack Robinson,” the creature has

flown into his mouth! The toad takes another hop, and a second insect

follows the example of the first; then another and another! Have the

insects all suddenly gone mad? Are they bewitched, mesmerised by the ugly

face of the toad? Nothing of the kind. The insects have not jumped into

the amphibian’s mouth at all. The toad has a long tongue attached at the

front end to its mouth. This tongue is covered with sticky saliva and is

capable of being protruded and retracted with lightning rapidity. In

other words, the toad’s tongue is just a fly-paper, capable of the most

perfect manipulation. The unsuspecting insect is resting, and hears not

the silent approach of its enemy. Suddenly it is caught up by a great

sticky tentacle, then comes oblivion. The toad’s tongue has shot forth

and back again so quickly as to be imperceptible to the human eye.

The lizard obtains its food in a similar way. It enters the bungalow and

lies up during the day behind a picture. As soon as the lamps are lighted

it comes forth as hungry as the proverbial hunter. In a single night it

devours hundreds of insects. I have watched a lizard feeding in this way

until he had consumed so many insects that he could scarcely move: and

doubtless he would have continued his gluttonous meal but for the fact

that he had become as slow as Mark Twain’s jumping frog after it had

partaken copiously of shot! The lizard cannot shoot out his tongue to the

extent that the frog can, so he has to make a dash at each insect before

swallowing, and, to his credit, it must be said that he rarely lets a

victim escape him unless, of course, he has over-eaten himself.

Although I am very fond of the nimble little gecko, I must admit that he

is an out-and-out glutton. Sometimes his gluttony leads him to try to

capture quarry beyond his capacity. Let me relate an amusing little

incident that I recently witnessed. The scene was my dressing-table, and

the time 9 p.m. in the month of August; the day I forget. It matters not.

A large stag-beetle was crawling laboriously across the dressing-table.

Upon this table was an ordinary looking-glass, under which a lizard had

taken up his habitation. From his point of view the position was a good

one, for the lamp overhead attracted to the table a number of insects

which the lizard could watch from under the base of the glass.

The lizard caught sight of the beetle and began to stalk it. Surely, I

thought, the lizard will not try to devour that beetle, which is nearly

half as big as himself; but, as he emerged from under the glass, I saw

that he meant business. Slowly but surely he gained upon the slow-moving

beetle. Having arrived close up behind it, he shot forth his sticky

tongue. The next moment the beetle found itself lying on a spot eight

inches from where it had a second before stood, and the lizard was

trembling in his lair. The reptile had apparently expected to find the

beetle as soft and luscious as a strawberry, so the instant his tongue

felt the hard, chitinous integument of the beetle he drew that organ back

pretty smartly. But his tongue was so sticky that the beetle stuck to it

for a moment, and so was thrown backwards over the reptile’s head. The

lizard was startled at what had happened, so instinctively took cover.

The insect too was scared nearly out of its wits, and did what most

frightened insects do, that is to say, retracted its legs and remained

perfectly motionless. When, however, several minutes passed and nothing

happened, the beetle grew bold, and putting forth its legs, began again

to crawl on its way. Directly it moved the lizard put himself on the _qui

vive_, and even went so far as again to follow it, but, profiting by his

recent experience, did not attempt a second time to swallow it. Thus the

beetle passed off the stage.

Seeing that this particular lizard was not over sharp, I determined to

play a little practical joke upon it. Taking a piece of black worsted, I

rolled it up into a ball about the size of a fine, strapping blue-bottle

fly, and, having attached a piece of cotton to it, I dangled this bait

before the lizard. I succeeded in “drawing” him. He was on it before I

could say “knife.”

In less than a second the worsted was in his mouth, but he dropped it

like a hot potato, and then sulked under the looking-glass, apparently

greatly annoyed at having been made a fool of twice in succession. The

next day I chanced to come upon a toad, busy catching insects. Wondering

whether he would be deceived, I threw on to the grass near him the end of

a lighted cigarette which I had been smoking. He at once caught sight of

it, and sat there looking at it intently for some seconds, and I began to

think he would not fall into the trap, but the temptation was too strong,

for he shot forth his tongue to seize it. He discovered that the “tongue

is an unruly member” as he retracted the smarting organ.

It is therefore clear that some insect-hunters are ever ready to try

experiments as regards food.

Fish too, when really hungry, do not appear to exercise much

discrimination as to the nature of the “fly” they will take.

The swarming of the “white ants” is a red-letter day for the

insect-eating animals, an annual harvest in which they revel. The mynas

and the crows do not disdain to partake of this copious meal supplied by

nature.

The latter are omnivorous birds; all is grist which comes to their

mill—carrion, fruit, locusts, termites, fish, grain, and the crumbs which

fall from man’s table.

The mynas too eat a variety of food, but they are first and foremost

insectivorous birds. They are never so happy as when chasing grasshoppers

on the grass. By preference they accompany cattle, strutting along beside

these and catching in their beaks the insects as these latter jump into

the air, frightened by the approach of the great quadruped.

The beautiful white cattle egrets (_Bubulcus coromandus_) in a similar

way make buffaloes and kine act as their beaters.

The familiar king crow (_Dicrurus ater_) adopts two methods of

insect-catching. The one he favours most is that of the fly-catcher.

Sometimes, however, he attaches himself to a flock of mynas. In such

cases he flies to the van of the flock and squats on the ground,

regardless of the fact that by so doing his beautiful forked tail gets

dusty. As the mynas approach, snatching up grasshoppers, they put up a

number of flying insects, and these the king crow secures on the wing. As

soon as the last of the mynas has passed by the king crow again flies to

the van and repeats the performance.

In India almost every company of mynas has its attendant king crow.

Usually the two species are on good terms, but sometimes the king crow

gets “above himself,” and then there is trouble. The other day I saw a

bank myna (_Acridotheres fuscus_) hop on to a king crow’s back and

administer unto him chastisement in the shape of a couple of vigorous

pecks on the back of the head. On being released the king crow did not

attempt to retaliate, but flew meekly away.

Among the _élite_ of the insect-hunters we must number the swifts.

Strange birds are these. Not once in their lives do they set foot upon

the ground. For hours at a time they pursue their speedy course through

the thin air, snatching up, as they move at full speed, minute insects.

But even their powerful pinions cannot vibrate for ever, so at intervals

they betake themselves to the verandah of some bungalow, and there hang

on to the wall close under the roof. Their claws are simply hooks, and

this is their rest—clinging to a smooth horizontal wall!

So long is the list of insect-hunters, and so varied are their methods,

that I am unable to so much as mention many of them. I must content

myself, in conclusion, with noticing the tits, cuckoo-shrikes, minivets,

and white-eyes, which flit from leaf to leaf, picking up tiny insects;

babblers and laughing thrushes, which spend the day rummaging among

fallen leaves for insects; nuthatches and tree-creepers, which run up and

down tree-trunks on the hunt for insects; and woodpeckers, which seize,

by means of their sticky tongue, the insects they have, by a series of

vigorous taps, frightened from their hiding-places in the bark.

Consider these, and you cannot but be impressed with the trials and

troubles of an insect’s life!

XXXIV

THE ROSY STARLING

Every Anglo-Indian is acquainted with the rose-coloured starling (_Pastor

roseus_), although some may not know what to call it. Nevertheless, it is

a bird of many aliases; to wit, the rosy pastor, the _tillyer_, the

_cholum_ bird, the _jowaree_ bird, the mulberry bird, the locust-eater,

the _golabi maina_. The head, neck, breast, wings, and tail are glossy

black, while the remainder of the plumage is a pale salmon or faint

rose-colour. The older the bird the more rosy it becomes, but the great

majority are pale salmon, rather than pink.

Rose-coloured starlings are sociable birds. They go about in large

companies, which sometimes number several thousand individuals. They are

cold-weather visitors to India, spreading themselves all over the

peninsula, being most abundant in the Deccan. In the north straggling

flocks occur throughout the winter, but it is in April that they are seen

in their thousands, preparatory to leaving the country for breeding

purposes. These great gatherings tarry for a short time in Northern India

while the mulberries and various grain crops are ripening. They seem to

subsist chiefly upon these, whence some of their popular names, and the

malice which the farmer bears them. They are undoubtedly a very great

scourge to the latter, but they are not an unmixed pest, for they are

said to devour locusts with avidity when the opportunity presents itself.

Now, the slaying of a locust is a work of merit which ought to neutralise

a multitude of sins.

The rosy starlings which occur in India are said to nest in Asia Minor.

This may be so, but I am inclined to think that there must be some

breeding-grounds nearer at hand, for these birds have been observed in

India as late as July, and they are back with us again in September. To

travel to Asia Minor, construct nests, lay eggs, hatch these out, rear up

the young, and return to India with them, all within the space of two

months, is an almost impossible feat. It is, of course, probable that the

birds which remain in India so late as July do not return as early as

September.

The large flocks of rosy starlings are quite a feature of spring in

Northern India. On the principle that many hands make light work, a

company of these birds experiences no difficulty in speedily thinning a

crop of ripening corn. The starlings feed chiefly in the morning and

before sunset. During the heat of the day they usually take a long rest,

a habit for which the crop-watchers ought to be very thankful. When not

feeding, rosy starlings usually congregate in hundreds in lofty trees

which are almost bare of foliage. They then look like dried leaves. I

have spoken of this as a rest, which is not strictly accurate. They

certainly do not feed, but they constantly flit about from branch to

branch, and do a great deal of feather preening, and, during the whole

day, they give forth a joyful noise. Their note is a sibilant twitter

which is not very loud; indeed, considering the efforts put into it,

there is remarkably little result, but the notes are so persistent, and

so many birds talk at once, that they can be heard from afar. The song of

the rosy starling is not musical, not more so than the “chitter, chitter”

of a flock of sparrows at bed-time, yet it is not displeasing to the ear.

There is an exuberance in it which is most attractive. It cannot be

conversational, for all the birds talk at once, and their notes lack

expression and variety. Their clamour is not unlike the singing of the

kettle as it stands on the hob; in each case the sound is caused by the

letting off of superfluous energy. Starlings literally bubble over with

animal spirits. There can be no question as to their enjoyment of life.

Rosy starlings are the favourite game birds of the natives of Northern

India, for they are very good to eat and easy to shoot. When a thousand

of them are perched in a bare tree, a shot fired into “the brown” usually

secures a number of victims. It is, therefore, not difficult to obtain a

big bag. Needless to say, the natives shoot these birds sitting. The way

in which Europeans persist in firing only at flying objects is utterly

incomprehensible to the average Indian; he regards it as part of the

magnificent madness which is the mark of every sahib. I once asked a

native _Shikari_ if he had ever fired at a flying bird. He was a gruff

old man, and not afraid to express his feelings. He looked me up and down

with eyes filled with withering contempt, and said “What do you take me

for? Am I a sahib, that I should waste powder and shot on flying things?

I never fire unless I think that by so doing I am likely to bring down at

least six birds.”

It is impossible to watch a flock of _jowaree_ birds without being struck

by what I may perhaps term their corporate action, the manner in which

they act in unison, as though they were well-drilled soldiers obeying the

commands of their officer. This phenomenon is observable in most species

of sociable birds, but, so far as I am aware, no ornithologist, save Mr.

Edmund Selous, has paid much attention to the matter, or attempted to

explain it. To illustrate. A flock of rosy starlings will be sitting

motionless in a tree giving vent to their twittering notes, when

suddenly, without any apparent cause, the whole flock will take to its

wings simultaneously, as if actuated by one motive, nay, as if it were

one composite individual. Again, a flock will be moving along at great

speed, when suddenly the whole company will make a half-turn, and

continue the flight in another direction. Yet again, a number of rosy

starlings will be speeding through the air when six or seven of them,

suddenly and simultaneously, change the direction of their flight, and

thus form, as it were, a cross current. How are we to explain these

simultaneous changes of purpose? It is not, at any rate, not always, a

case of “follow my leader,” for frequently no one individual moves before

the others. In some cases at least the change in purpose is not due to

any command, no sound being uttered previous to one of these sudden

impulsive acts. Mr. Selous seeks to explain the phenomenon by assuming

that “birds, when gathered together in large numbers, act, not

individually, but collectively, or rather, that they do both one and the

other.” According to him, the simultaneous acts in these cases are the

result of thought-transference—a thought-wave passes through the whole

flock.

Some may be inclined to scoff at this theory, but such will, I think,

find it difficult to put forward any other explanation of the difficulty.

As Mr. Selous points out, it seems “a little curious that language of a

more perfect kind than animals use has been so late in developing itself,

but animals would feel less the want of a language if

thought-transference existed amongst them to any appreciable extent.”

Whether Mr. Selous has hit upon the correct explanation I hesitate to

say. There is, however, no denying the fact that flocks of birds

frequently act with what he calls “multitudinous oneness.”

XXXV

THE PIED STARLING

Writing of pied starlings (_Sturnopastor contra_) Colonel Cunningham thus

delivers himself: “They are not nearly such attractive birds as the

common mynas, for their colouring is coarsely laid on in a way that

recalls that of certain of the ornithological inmates of a Noah’s Ark;

their heads have a debased look, and they have neither the pleasant notes

nor the alluringly familiar ways of their relatives.” The above statement

is, in my opinion, nothing short of libel. There are few living things

more charming than pied mynas. These birds are clothed in black and

white. Now a black and white garment usually looks well whether worn by a

human being or an animal. In the case of the pied myna, or _ablak_ as the

Indians call it, the black and white are tastefully arranged. The head,

neck, upper breast, back, and tail are glossy black, save for a large

white patch on the cheek, which extends as a narrow line to the nape, a

white oblique wing bar, and a white rump. The lower parts are greyish

white. The bill is yellow, of deeper hue at the base than at the tip. I

fail to see in what way the head of the pied starling has a debased look;

it is typical of its family. The bill, however, is a trifle longer and

more slender than that of the common myna. The statement that pied mynas

have not the pleasant notes of the common species is the most astounding

of a series of astounding assertions; as well might a musician complain

that the cathedral organ lacks the fine tones of the street hurdy-gurdy!

I like the cheerful “kok, kok, kok, kekky, kekky” of the common myna. I

also enjoy listening to the harsh cries with which he greets a foe. India

would be a duller country than it is without these familiar sounds, but I

maintain that his most ardent admirer can scarcely believe the common

myna to be a fine songster. The notes of the pied starling, on the other

hand, although essentially myna-like, are really musical. Its lay is that

of _Acridotheres tristis_, purified of all the harshness, with an added

touch of melody. Jerdon, I am glad to notice, speaks of its pleasant

song, and Finn, who knows the bird well, writes in one place of its

beautiful note, and in another says: “It does not indulge in any set song

apparently, but its voice is very sweet and flute-like, and it appears

not to have any unpleasant notes whatever—a remarkable peculiarity in any

bird, and especially in one of this family.” In Northern India the

cheerful melody of the pied starlings is one of the most pleasing

adjuncts of the countryside.

So jovial a bird is _Sturnopastor contra_ that it is a great pity that

his range is comparatively restricted. He would be a great acquisition to

Madras and Bombay. Unfortunately, the species is not found in South

India, and is almost unknown in the Punjab. Agra is the most westerly

place in which I have seen pied mynas. In Burma the species is replaced

by an allied form, _S. superciliaris_, readily distinguished by the

possession of a white eyebrow. By the way, I should be very glad if our

Wallaceian friends would tell us why it is necessary to its existence

that the Burmese species should possess a white eyebrow, while the Indian

birds seem to fare excellently without that ornament.

Except at the nesting season, the habits of pied starlings are very like

those of the other species of myna. They feed largely on the ground, over

which they strut with myna-like gait—no myna would dream of losing its

dignity to the extent of hopping. They feed largely on insects, but will

also eat fruit. They do not, as a rule, gather together in such large

companies as most kinds of starling, but in places where pied mynas exist

two of them, at least, usually attach themselves to each flock of the

common species.

I am inclined to think that _Sturnopastors_ pair for life, but that does

not prevent them from performing the antics of courtship at the nesting

season. This is a fact of some importance, for if birds that are mated

for life indulge every year in what we call courtship, it is obvious that

the commonly accepted explanation of the meanings of the antics of birds

at the breeding season is a mistaken one. The accepted interpretation of

these facts is that the cocks deliberately set themselves to “kill the

girls,” and to this end cut mad capers and perform the other absurdities

that characterise the amorous swain. I incline to the view that, although

birds select their mates, the songs and the dances and the displays of

the males are not so much attempts to captivate the females as

expressions of the superabundant energy that literally bubbles over at

the breeding season. A ruff when courting is obviously as mad as the

proverbial hatter: he will display all his splendours as readily to a

stone as to a reeve. At the season of love-making one frequently sees one

pied myna—presumably a cock—puff out his feathers and inflate his throat,

and then strut after another bird just as the little brown dove (_Turtur

cambayensis_) does when on matrimony intent. At another phase of the

courtship of the pied mynas two birds will sit, side by side, on a perch

and bow and sing to one another just as king crows (_Dicrurus ater_) do.

Most species of myna breed early in the hot weather, but the pied mynas

invariably wait until the first rain has fallen before they set about the

work of nest-building. Colonel Cunningham suggests that the reason for

this peculiarity of the pied starling is that, as it does not nestle in a

hole but builds in a tree, it requires the green leaves coaxed forth by

the rain as a protection to its nest. If the nursery of the pied myna

were a neatly constructed cup, something might be said for this idea, but

no amount of foliage could hide from view the huge mass of straw and

rubbish that does duty for the nest of this species. Pied mynas rely on

their pugnacity, and not on concealment, for the protection of the nest.

A list of the various materials utilised by nesting _Sturnopastors_ would

include almost every inanimate object which is both portable and pliable;

feathers, rags, twigs, moss, grass, leaves, paper, bits of string, rope

and cotton, hay and portions of skin cast off by snakes, are the

materials most commonly employed. The nest is not, as a rule, placed very

high up. Sometimes it is situated in quite a low tree. Once when visiting

the gaol at Gonda in the rains I observed a pair of pied mynas nesting in

a solitary tree which grew in one of the courtyards inside the gaol

walls. Like most of its kind, the pied starling displays little fear of

man. The eggs of this species are a beautiful pale blue. Blue is the hue

of the eggs of all species of myna. The fact that, notwithstanding its

open nest, the eggs of the pied myna do not differ in colour from those

of its brethren which nestle in holes, is one of the facts that the field

naturalist comes across daily which demonstrate how hopelessly wrong is

the Wallaceian view of the meaning of the colours of birds’ eggs.

XXXVI

A BIRD OF THE OPEN PLAIN

It is the fashion for modern writers of books on ornithology to divide

birds according to the localities they frequent, into birds of the

garden, birds of the wood, birds of the meadow, birds of the waterside,

etc. The chief drawback to such a system of classification, which is

intended to simplify identification, is that most birds decline to limit

themselves to any particular locality.

There are, however, some species which are so constant in their habits as

to render it possible to lay down the law regarding them and to assert

with confidence where they will be found. Of such are the finch-larks. I

have never seen a finch-lark anywhere but on an open uncultivated plain

or in fields that happen to be devoid of crops.

Any person living in India may be tolerably certain of making the

acquaintance of the ashy-crowned finch-lark (_Pyrrhulauda grisea_) by

repairing to the nearest open space outside municipal limits.

The finch-lark is a dumpy, short-tailed bird, considerably smaller than a

sparrow. Having no bright colours in its plumage, it is not much to look

at, but it makes up by its powers of flight for that which it lacks in

form and colour.

The finch-larks found in India fall into two genera, each of which is

composed of two species.

The commonest species is that mentioned above—the ashy-crowned or, as

Jerdon calls it, the black-bellied finch-lark.

In the genus _Pyrrhulauda_ the sexes differ much in appearance, while in

the allied genus, _Ammomanes_, the cock is indistinguishable from the

hen.

As the habits of these two genera are alike in all respects, they afford

an instance of the futility of attempting, as some do, to account for the

phenomenon of sexual dimorphism by alleging that the habits of the

dimorphic species differ from those of the monomorphic species. When

species A lives in the same locality as species B, nests at the same

season, builds the same kind of nest, and when both feed and fly in the

same manner, it should be obvious to every person not obsessed by a pet

theory that natural selection cannot have had much to do with the fact

that, whereas in species A the sexes are alike, in species B they differ.

But, as we shall see, finch-larks would almost seem to have been created

expressly to upset present-day zoological theories.

Well might one say to the indoor naturalist, who sits in his chair and

theorises, “Go to the finch-lark, thou sluggard, consider her ways, and

be wise.”

The cock _Pyrrhulauda grisea_ is an ash-coloured bird with a short brown

tail, and very dark brown, practically black, chin, breast, and abdomen.

The cheeks are whitish, as are the sides of the body; but these are

separated by a black bar, so that the bird has stamped on its breast a

black cross. There is also a black or very dark brown bar that runs from

the chin through the eye. The hen is an earthy-brown bird, the plumage

being tinged with grey above and reddish below. There is nothing peculiar

in her colouring. But for her size, she might pass for a hen sparrow. The

colouring of the cock, however, is very remarkable. Almost every bird in

existence, which is not uniformly coloured, is of a much lighter hue

below than above. In the cock finch-lark this relation is reversed. I

cannot call to mind any other Indian bird, unless it be the cock

brown-backed robin (_Thamnobia cambaiensis_), in which this phenomenon

occurs. Moreover, the arrangement of colour—dark above and pale below—is

not confined to birds, but runs through nearly the whole of the animal

kingdom. So much so that Mr. Thayer asserts that the phenomenon is a

striking example of protective colouration. The fact that a bird or

mammal is darker in hue above than below renders it less conspicuous than

it would be were it coloured alike all over, since the pale under parts

tend to counteract the effects of light and shade. A few creatures, as,

for example, the skunk in America, are darker below than above. These are

usually cited as examples of warning colouration. The skunk, as everyone

knows, is able when attacked to eject a very fœtid and blinding

excretion, so that very few animals prey upon it. Consequently, the

light-coloured back and the erect tail are supposed to act as danger

signals to its fellow-creatures. However, there are a number of nocturnal

mammals, such as our Indian ratel (_Mellivora indica_), of which the fur

is light-coloured above and dark below. These cannot be examples of

warning colouration. The same must be said of the inoffensive little

finch-lark, with its dark under parts.

The fact that there exist so few creatures of which the under parts are

of darker hue than the upper parts must, I think, be attributed to two

causes. The first is that few species ever vary in that manner; the

tendency is all the other way. The second is that such rare variations,

when they do occur, are in most cases not conducive to the welfare of the

individual, since they tend to make it conspicuous to its foes or its

quarry. In certain cases, however, as in that of creatures like the

shunk, which are not preyed upon, or that of nocturnal animals, the

possession of dark under parts does not affect the chances of the

possessor in the struggle for existence. So this variation has not been

eliminated by natural selection. This, I believe, is the case with the

finch-lark. The bird has very short legs, so that when it is on the

ground its black under parts are scarcely visible even to a human being

walking on the ground, and certainly would not be seen by a bird of prey

flying overhead. My experience is that the cock finch-lark is not more

conspicuous than the hen. Both, when they alight on a ploughed field, are

lost to human sight until they move.

I believe finch-larks feed exclusively on the ground. I have not seen one

perch in a tree. What they live upon I do not know. The books do not tell

us, and I have never had the heart to shoot one of these small birds in

order to find out. But whatever their food consists of, the search for it

leaves finch-larks plenty of leisure, much of which they spend after the

manner of the skylark clan. Suddenly one of these birds will jump into

the air, and rise almost perpendicularly by vigorous flappings of its

powerful little wings. Having reached an altitude of from twenty to forty

feet, its habit is to close its pinions and drop, head foremost, like a

stone. Just before it reaches the ground, it checks its flight and again

soars upwards. Often while disporting themselves in the air these birds

display strange antics, twisting and turning about much as the common fly

does. After amusing themselves for some time in this manner, the pair

will take to their wings in real earnest, and fly off to a spot a quarter

of a mile or more away, and there drop to the ground and begin feeding.

Finch-larks, like skylarks, nest on the ground. According to Hume, they

have two broods, one in February or March, and the other in July or

August. The nest, which consists of a small pad of dried grass and

fibres, is usually placed in some depression on the ground; a hoof-print

is considered an especially suitable site. As the bird sits very close,

the nest is not easy to find. But when flushed the hen generally flies

straight off the nest without first running along the ground; thus, if

the spot from which the bird gets up be carefully marked, the nest ought

to be found without much difficulty.

Finch-larks sometimes entertain queer notions as to what constitutes a

desirable nesting site. At Futtehgarh Mr. A. Anderson once found a nest

“in the centre of a lump of cow-dung, which must have been quite fresh

when some cow or bullock ‘put its foot in it.’” “As the foot-print,”

writes Mr. Anderson, “had not gone right through to the ground, I was

enabled to remove the lump of dung without in any way hurting the nest.

White ants had left their marks all over the dry dung, so that detection

was almost impossible: it was altogether the most artfully concealed nest

I have ever seen.” Scarcely less objectionable, from the human point of

view, was the site of the finch-lark’s nest found at Etawah by Hume,

namely, on the railway line, amongst the ballast between the rails. “When

we think,” says Hume, “of the terrible heat glowing from the bottom of

the engine, the perpetual dusting out of red-hot cinders, it seems

marvellous how the bird could have maintained her situation.” Verily,

there is no accounting for taste! Two eggs are laid, which are like

miniature lark’s eggs.

The other species of finch-lark found in South India is _Ammomanes

phœnicura_, the rufous-tailed finch-lark. This, as its name indicates,

has a reddish tail. The rest of the plumage is brown. The sexes are

alike. Its habits are those of the ashy-crowned species. I have not

observed it in the vicinity of Madras.

XXXVII

BIRDS IN THE COTTON TREE

Lack of green grass and the paucity of wild flowers are the chief of the

causes which render the scenery of the plains of India so unlike that of

the British Isles. India, not being blessed with frequent showers, the

_sine qua non_ of flower-decked, verdant meadows, has to be content with

a xerophilous flora. But there is in this country some compensation for

the lack of flowers of the field in the shape of flowering shrubs and

trees. Among the most conspicuous of these is the cotton tree (_Bombax

malabaricum_). This tree is not an evergreen. It loses its leaves in

winter, and before the new foliage appears the flowers burst forth—these

may be bright red or golden yellow. As they are larger than a man’s fist,

and appear while the branches are yet bare, a cotton tree in flower is a

very conspicuous and beautiful object. But it is of the feathered folk

that visit this tree that I would write, not of the splendour of its

blossom. Even before the March sun has risen and commenced to dispel the

pleasant coolness of the night the cotton tree is the scene of riot and

revelry. Throughout the morning hours, as the burning sun mounts higher

and higher in the hard blue sky, the revelry continues. It may, perhaps,

cease for a time during the first two hours after noon, when the wind

blows like a blast from a titanic furnace. But it soon recommences, and

not until the sun has set in a dusty haze, and the harsh clamours of the

spotted owlets (_Athene brama_) are heard, does the noisy assembly of

brawlers leave the tree in peace.

The cause of all the revelry is this. The nectar which the great red

flowers secrete is to certain birds what absinthe is to some Frenchmen.

First and foremost, amongst the votaries of the silk-cotton tree are the

rose-coloured starlings (_Pastor roseus_). During the winter months these

birds are not a conspicuous feature of the India avifauna, for they do

not then go about in great flocks. But from the time the cotton tree is

in blossom until the grain crops are cut, the rosy starlings vie with the

crows in obtruding themselves upon the notice of human beings in Northern

India. You cannot ride far in the month of March without hearing these

birds. Their clamour is truly starling-like; they produce that curious

harsh sibilant sound which is so easy to recognise, but so difficult to

describe, that noise which Edmund Selous calls a murmuration, and which

the countryfolk at home term a “charm,” meaning, as Richard Jefferies

expresses it, “a noise made up of innumerable lesser sounds, each

interfering with the other.”

Look in the direction whence the sound issues and a blaze of scarlet will

meet the eye; it is amid this that the rosy starlings are calling, for

where the silk-cotton tree is in bloom there are these birds certain to

be.

Approach the tree and look carefully into it; you will see it thronged

with birds, mainly rosy starlings. Conspicuously arrayed though these

birds are, it is not easy, unless they move, to distinguish them among

the red petals and dark calyces. _Pastors_ that are not dipping their

heads into the red shuttlecock-like flowers are all either scolding one

another or making a joyful noise. They move about so excitedly and jostle

one another so rudely as to give you the impression that they are

somewhat the worse for liquor. This may not be so. It may be the natural

behaviour of the rosy starlings, for they are always noisy and

pugnacious. But they seem to be exceptionally so when in the silk-cotton

tree. So eagerly do they plunge their beaks into the cup-like flowers,

that these latter are frequently knocked off the stalk in the process.

This is especially the case with those flowers that have begun to fade.

The floral envelopes and the stamens of such are easily detached from the

ovary.

The rose-coloured starlings are by no means the only members of the clan

which drink deeply of the nectar provided by this hospitable tree. Among

the mob of brawlers are to be seen the common, the bank, and the Brahminy

mynas, but there is this difference between these latter and their

rose-coloured brethren; the former are only occasional visitors to the

tree. They are moderate drinkers; they visit the public-house perhaps but

once in the day, stay there a short time, and then go about their

business. The rosy starlings carouse throughout the hours of daylight.

Another _habitué_ of the silk-cotton tree is the Indian tree-pie

(_Dendrocitta rufa_), the nearest approach we have to the magpie in the

plains of India. His long tail and general shape at once stamp him as a

magpie, but his colouring is, of course, very different; in place of a

simple garment of black and white he exhibits black, chestnut-brown,

silver, white, and yellow in his coat of many hues. You are not likely to

see a crowd of tree-pies among the red blossoms, for the simple reason

that the species is not gregarious; but in all localities where tree-pies

exist you may be tolerably certain of seeing at least one of these birds

at every flowering cotton tree. Tree-pies, be it noted, although widely

spread in India, are apparently very capriciously distributed. For some

reason which I have not been able to fathom they occur in the

neighbourhood of neither Madras nor Bombay.

Needless to say, the crows join in the drinking bout. The corvi rarely

wander far from the path of the transgressor. Fortunately for the

starlings, the crows are not passionately fond of the secretion of the

Bombax flowers. Did these last exercise so great an attraction for the

crows as they do for starlings, the smaller birds would be crowded out by

their larger rivals, and the Bombax tree would be black with squawking

corvi. The crow drinks the nectar of the cotton tree as a man drinks

liqueurs; the result is that rarely more than two or three crows are to

be seen among the scores of starlings and mynas. The flowing bowl seems

to have greater attractions for the corby (_Corvus macrorhynchus_) than

for the house crow (_C. splendens_); but there is a reason which prevents

the too frequent visiting of the silk-cotton tree by the corbies, namely,

that it comes into flower in March, which happens to be the nesting

season of those birds.

The above seven species are, so far as my observation goes, the only

birds that make a habit of drinking at the blossom of the cotton tree. It

would thus appear that the nectar has a very pronounced taste, and that,

in consequence, birds either like it intensely or positively dislike it.

“Eha,” I am aware, states that many other birds frequent the cotton tree,

for the sake of its good cheer, “the king crow, and even the temperate

bulbul and demure coppersmith, and many another, and, here and there, a

palm squirrel, taking his drink with the rest like a foreigner.” But did

not “Eha” mistake the purpose for which these creatures visit the

silk-cotton tree? A bird may be present without taking part in the

revelry. The other day I was watching all the fun at one of these trees

when suddenly a little coppersmith (_Xantholæma hæmatocephala_) came and

perched on one of the bare spiny branches. He sat there motionless, as

out of place as a Quaker would among a mob of bookmakers. Suddenly a rosy

starling hustled him off his perch. But the coppersmith did not fly away;

he merely hopped on to another branch, and then suddenly performed the

vanishing trick. Had I not been watching him very closely I could almost

have persuaded myself that he had melted into thin air. As it was, I saw

him dive into a round opening—scarcely the size of a rupee—about two

inches from the broken end of a dead branch, not as thick as a woman’s

wrist, at the very summit of the tree. The circular opening in question

had been neatly cut by the coppersmith and its mate, and led to a hollow

in which three white eggs were doubtless lying. These and not the

nectar-bearing flowers were the attraction for the coppersmith.

XXXVIII

UGLY DUCKLINGS

Some people invariably look untidy. They seem to be nature’s misfits. All

the skill of the tailor, all the art of the milliner, can make them

nothing else. No matter how well-cut their garments be, these always hang

about them in a ridiculous, uncouth manner. If the individual be a man,

the upper part of his collar seems to exercise an irresistible attraction

for his tie; if a woman, she presents an unfinished appearance about the

waist, as often as not displaying an ugly hiatus in that region. Similar

creatures are to be found among the beasts of the field and the birds of

the air. There exist not a few feathered things whose plumage usually

looks as though a thorough spring-cleaning, followed by a “wash and

brush-up,” would do it a world of good. Chief among these are our

well-known friends the babbler thrushes, alias the seven sisters, or

seven brothers, as some will have it.

Like most human beings who are careless of their personal appearance,

these birds possess many good qualities. First and foremost of these is

the love which they show one to another. They are brotherly affection

personified. Except for a very rare squabble over a tempting piece of

food, the harmony of the brotherhood is never broken. What more striking

testimony to this admirable quality can be offered than the popular

designation of the bird? It is always one of seven; there is no word

whereby the man in the street may express an individual alone without his

comrades. Nor, indeed, does he require such a term, for it is impossible

to think of the bird otherwise than as one of a company. Has anyone ever

seen brother Number One, or brother Number Two, or brother any other

number alone? I trow not. These birds invariably hunt in little

societies; usually eight or ten elect to fight the battle of life

shoulder to shoulder, and a very good fight they appear to make of it, if

we may judge by their wide distribution and contented faces.

While upon the subject of the bird’s name it is as well to have the usual

hit at the ornithologist. Just as the popular name is appropriate, so is

the scientific one ridiculous. _Crateropus canorus_ is a strange name for

a bird whose note is a cross between the creak of a door with a rusty

hinge and the squeak of a cart-wheel of which the axle needs oiling.

Nature, by way of compensation, often endows a sombre-plumaged bird with

a sweet voice, and keeps down the pride of a gorgeous fowl by ordaining

that its voice shall be a hoarse croak. To the seven brothers, however,

the wise dame has given two wooden spoons. Their raucous voice is in

keeping with their dull plumage. When the honest little company are

merely whispering sweet nothings one to another, the stranger

unacquainted with their habits is apt to think that they are angrily

squabbling, and that bloodshed must inevitably follow. Such is the voice

of the bird yclept “canorus” by the ornithologist.

Linnæus appears to have given this species this name under the impression

that it was the Indian equivalent of our English thrush, that it sat in

mango trees and warbled most sweetly.

Hodgson made a gallant attempt to give the species the more appropriate

name “terricollor,” but he laboured in vain. The tyranny of the priority

rule proved too much for him.

Ornithological public opinion has decreed that as regards the specific

names of birds the race is to the swift: the first name hurled at a bird,

no matter how inappropriate, is to be retained. This rule was made in the

hope of introducing some sort of order into the chaos of ornithological

terminology. But, far from effecting this, it has called into existence a

race of ornithological pettifoggers, who spend their time in rummaging

about in libraries in the hope of discovering that some bird bears a name

which was not the first to be given it. Such a discovery means another

change in ornithological terminology. This is provocative of much

unparliamentary language on the part of the naturalist, but gives the

priority-hunter unalloyed pleasure.

Is it necessary for me to describe these misnamed babblers? Who is not

familiar with the untidy creature, with his dirty-looking brownish-grey

plumage, relieved by a yellow beak and a white, wicked eye? Who has not

laughed at the drooping wings, the ruffled feathers, and the disreputable

tail of the birds? Yet the seven brothers lead happy, contented lives.

They have always company, and plenty to occupy their minds. They are

numbered among those who despise not small things: no insect is too tiny,

no beetle too infinitesimal, no creeping thing too insignificant, to be

eaten by these birds, so the little company of friends hops together

along the ground from tree to tree, from shrub to shrub, searching every

nook and cranny, turning over every fallen leaf in the most methodical

way, seizing with alacrity everything it comes across in the shape of

food. During the search for food the chattering never ceases. Now and

again the birds will take to a tree and hop about its branches, talking

louder than ever. In the early morning, before the air has lost its first

crispness, they delight to play about the trees, flying in a crowd from

one to another. Again, in the evening, just before bedtime, they love to

gambol among the branches and jostle one another in the most

good-tempered way.

These birds have adopted the motto of the French Republic, and they

practise what they preach. Liberty, equality, and fraternity are theirs.

They form a true republic, a successful one because of the smallness of

its numbers. What bird is so free as our seven brothers? They are not

hedged in by the conventions of dress. “Eha” says that they remind him of

“old Jones, who passes the day in his pyjamas.” Is this not the acme of

freedom? They squeak, croak, hop, and fly where they list; well might

they be enrolled in the Yellow Ribbon Army, that noble band who eat what

they like, drink what they like, say what they like, and do what they

like.

Of the fraternity of the little society we have already spoken. Of their

equality there can be no room for doubt. They have no leader. Now brother

Number Two, now brother Number Five moves on first, to be followed by his

comrades. They seem all to fall in with the views of whoever for the

moment takes the lead. There is much to be said for this form of life. It

makes the birds, who are individually weak, bold. They have often hopped

about outside my tent, jumping on to the ropes, and seeking food within a

couple of inches of the _chik_ on the other side of which I was standing.

They seem to court the company of man. It is in the compound rather than

the jungle that they abound. If one of the little company be attacked by

a more powerful bird, his comrades come at once to his assistance. Some

naturalists declare that they will go so far as to attack a sparrow-hawk,

others say they will not. Probably both are right. All men are not

equally brave, nor are all babbler thrushes equally bold. Even the

bravest species has to confess to a Bob Acres or two. As a matter of

fact, the brotherhood is not afforded many opportunities of displaying

its valour, for it is rarely attacked. Birds of prey know better than to

molest social birds; they are aware of the fact that it is difficult to

elude sixteen or twenty watchful eyes, and even if this feat be

accomplished there is always the fear of a stout resistance. The babbler

thrushes recall the good old days of ancient Rome when all were for the

State and none for a party.

The seven brothers are as indifferent to the appearance of their home as

to that of their persons. The nest they construct is a rude structure,

but some species of cuckoo think it quite good enough to lay eggs in.

XXXIX

BABBLER BROTHERHOODS

The Crateropus babblers, known variously as the _Sath Bhai_, seven

sisters, or dirt birds, furnish perfect examples of communal life. So

highly developed are their social instincts that a solitary babbler, or

even a pair, is a very unusual sight. They do not congregate in large

flocks; from six to fourteen usually constitute a brotherhood, eight,

nine, or ten being, perhaps, the commonest numbers. There is no truth in

the popular idea that they always go about in flocks of seven. Sir Edwin

Arnold recognised this when he wrote of “the nine brown sisters

chattering in the thorn.”

Notwithstanding the fact that babblers are among the commonest birds in

India, there is much to be discovered regarding the nature of their

flocks. The _raison d’étre_ of these flocks is not far to seek. One has

but to observe the laboured flight of a babbler to appreciate how easy a

mark he is to a bird of prey. The strength of the babbler lies in his

clan. Eight or ten pairs of eyes are superior to one. A party of seven

sisters is not often caught napping. The incessant squeaking, and

screeching, and wheezing indulged in by each member keep them all in

touch with one another. Then, in time of danger, it is good to see how

they combine to drive off the hawk-cuckoo (_Hierococcyx varius_) which

victimises them, and which they undoubtedly mistake for a species of

raptorial bird.

But their clannishness does not shelter them from all tribulation. They

are the dupes of the hawk-cuckoo, and they sometimes fall victims to

birds of prey. A few weeks ago I had occasion to visit a friend, who was

unwell and confined to his bungalow. I found him sitting in the verandah.

While greeting him I heard a great clamour of scolding babblers

(_Crateropus canorus_) emanating from a neem tree hard by. I had come

just too late to witness a little jungle tragedy. There was a babbler’s

nest containing young in that tree. A pair of rascally crows had

discovered the nest, and one of them attacked it; the babbler in charge,

with splendid courage, went out to meet his big antagonist, who promptly

turned tail and fled, pursued by the screeching babbler. This left the

nest open to the other crow, who carried off a young bird. When I

arrived, the victims of the outrage were swearing as only babblers and

bargees can, and making feints at the crows.

It is thus obvious why these clubs, or brotherhoods, have been formed,

but we are almost altogether in the dark as to how they are formed, as to

their nature and constitution. We do not even know what it is that keeps

them apparently so constant in size. It is even a disputed point whether

these little companies persist throughout the year, or disband at the

nesting season. As to the nature of the companies, Colonel Cunningham

maintains that they are family parties. This view is, however, untenable,

unless we assume that the seven sisters are polygamists or polyandrists,

because three or four is the normal number of eggs laid, so that if each

little gathering were a family party, it should consist of not more than

six members. The flocks are too large to be made up of mother, father,

and children, and usually too small to be two such families.

There is at present living in the compound of the Allahabad Club a

company consisting of, I think, eight babblers. Seven are adults, and one

is quite a child. This last goes about with its elders, every now and

again flapping its wings, opening wide its yellow mouth, and calling for

food. A day or two ago it took up a position within a few feet of my

door, so that I was able to watch it closely through the _chik_. I saw

one of the company come up with a grub in its bill, which it, with due

ceremony, put into the young bird’s “yellow lane.” Having fed the

youngster, it began rummaging about in the grass near by. Shortly

afterwards a second babbler came up to the young one, bringing a

caterpillar. This particular individual carried his (or her, for I don’t

pretend to be able to sex a babbler at sight) tail askew. That organ

protruded from under the left wing, instead of projecting between the

wings, as is usual with tails—babblers, like actors and artists, affect a

careless style of dress. Having delivered up its caterpillar to the

clamorous youngster, it hopped away. I kept my eye carefully upon both it

and the bird I had first seen bring food. In a few seconds a third

babbler came up and presented a caterpillar to the baby brown sister.

Now, I submit that this can only mean that babblers are not monogamous,

or that they nest in common sometimes, or, so close are the ties that

bind the members of the little company that each feeds both his own

offspring and those of his brethren. Personally, I am inclined to think

that babblers are monogamous. That the same nest is sometimes used by

more than one pair seems to be established by the fact that there are

cases on record of nests containing as many as eight eggs, or young ones.

This, however, is not a usual occurrence, and it is my belief that the

members of the club are so greatly attached to one another that they look

upon each infant as common property. Hume quotes Mr. A. Anderson as

saying: “During the months of September and October I have observed

several babblers in the act of feeding one young _Hierococcyx varius_

(the brain-fever bird or hawk-cuckoo, which, as we have seen, is

parasitic on babblers) following the bird from tree to tree, and being

most assiduous in their attentions to the young interloper.” This

observation, I submit, supports the view that each member of the flock

takes a personal interest in the offspring of other members, even though

it be spurious!

Thus we may take it that these gatherings are not family parties, but

rather of the nature of clubs. The question, then, arises: What

determines the membership of these clubs? At present our knowledge of the

ways of these common birds is not sufficient to enable us to frame a

satisfactory reply. It is even an open question whether or not these

clubs break up at the breeding season, or whether the nesting birds still

continue to seek food in company. Colonel Cunningham declares that during

April and May babblers “cease to go about in parties, and pairs of them

are everywhere busily occupied in nesting.” Jerdon, on the other hand,

states that the parties persist throughout the breeding season. I feel

sure that Jerdon is right. No matter where one is stationed, parties of

babblers are to be seen at all seasons of the year. From this, of course,

it does not necessarily follow that the nesting birds do not forsake

their brethren, at any rate for a time. It is probable, nay certain, that

all the members of a flock do not pair and nest simultaneously. The

breeding season extends at least from March to July. But the fact that

there is quite a baby bird in the babbler brotherhood that dwells in the

compound of the Allahabad Club seems to indicate that the nesting birds

continue to find their food in company. There is no reason why they

should not, for babblers neither migrate nor wander far afield.

But the question arises: What happens to the young birds when they are

grown up? If they attached themselves to the existing flocks, these would

tend to increase in size, and sometimes, at any rate, we should see an

enormous assembly. So far as one’s casual observation goes, the flocks

keep constant in number throughout the year. It is, of course, quite

possible that casual observation leads one astray in this case. Any

person interested in the subject, who has a more or less fixed abode,

would do some service to ornithology if he would make a point of looking

out for babbler clubs, and endeavouring to count the members of each, and

keep a record of the results, with the date of each census. I am aware

that it is not easy to count accurately a babbler club, for its members

are always on the move, and odd birds are apt to pop out of unexpected

places. But even rough figures, if they extended to a number of flocks,

would, being all liable to the same error, prove fairly accurate as

regards averages. Such observations, if they were to extend over a year,

might lead to some interesting results. They would almost certainly show

a reduction of numbers during the summer months, when nesting operations

were in progress, but would this be followed by a considerable rise later

in the year? If so, it would seem to indicate that some, at any rate, of

the young ones attached themselves permanently to the flock in which they

were born.

A somewhat more elaborate experiment which might yield interesting

results would be to trap a whole “school” of babblers; they might be

captured while asleep. After a piece of coloured material had been tied

round the leg of each, every bird being decorated by a different colour,

the irate sisters would be restored to liberty. Then it might be possible

to follow the fortunes of each separate bird, and learn whether a given

flock is always made up of the same individuals, whether they practise

exogamy or favour endogamy, and a hundred and one other interesting facts

relating to the _vie intime_ of the brown sisters. I use the word “might”

advisedly. For alas! bitter experience has taught me that, more often

than not, the most cunningly devised ornithological experiments yield no

definite results. It is quite possible that the club of babblers thus

captured and decorated with gay colours might flee from the neighbourhood

in wrath and terror. The birds would not understand the why and the

wherefore of the proceeding, and might, perhaps, think that you were

going to make a practice of catching them every night and tying things

round their limbs. A bird whose leg has been pulled once is apt to be

twice shy.

XL

THE MAD BABBLER

The seven sisters (_Crateropus canorus_), which occur in every garden in

India, are veritable punchinellos, so much so that schoolboys in the

Punjab always call them “mad birds.” But nature is not content with

having produced these. So readily does the babbler clan lend itself to

the humoresque, that from it has been evolved the large grey babbler

(_Argya malcomi_), a species even more comic than the noisy sisterhood.

This is the _Verri chinda_, the mad babbler of the Telugu-speaking

people. Pull the tail out of one of the seven sisters, and insert in its

place another, half as long again, with the outer feathers of

conspicuously lighter hue than the median ones, then brush up the plumage

of the converted sister, and you will have effected a transmutation of

species, turned a jungle babbler into a large grey one. This latter

species has a wide range, but is capricious in its distribution. It does

not, I believe, occur in the neighbourhood of the city of Madras, but is

abundant in some parts of South India. The habits of this species seem to

vary with the locality. In the south it appears to shun the madding

crowd; in the north it frequents gardens and loves to disport itself in

the middle of the road, and is in no hurry to get out of the way of the

pedestrian or the cyclist. Probably many a large babbler has, owing to

its tameness, succumbed to the motor-car. Bold spirits, such as the

little striped squirrel, which take a positive delight in experiencing a

series of hair-breadth escapes, suffer considerably when a new and

speedier conveyance is introduced into a locality. They have learned by

experience how close to the inch they may with safety allow the ordinary

vehicle to approach before they skedaddle, and it takes time for them to

discover that with a speedier vehicle a larger margin must be allowed.

The little Indian squirrel has not yet learned to gauge the pace of the

motor-car. Recently I counted five of their corpses on the road between

Agra and Fatehpur Sikri, which is much frequented by motor-cars.

The _Sath Bhai_ are usually accounted noisy birds, but they are taciturn

in comparison with their long-tailed cousins. From dewy morn till dusty

eve the large grey babblers vie with the crows in their vocal efforts.

The crows score at the beginning of the day, for they are the first to

awake, or, at any rate, to begin calling. The king crow (_Dicrurus ater_)

is usually said to be the first bird to herald the cheerful dawn. This is

not always so; the voice of _Corvus splendens_ sometimes precedes that of

the king crow. But ere the sun has shown his face the grey babblers join

vociferously in the chorus that fills the welkin. And how shall I

describe the notes of these light-headed birds so as to convey an

adequate idea of them to those who have not heard with their own ears? I

ought to be able to do so, for Allahabad, where I am now stationed, is

the head-quarters of the clan of large grey babblers. _Argya malcomi_ are

to that city what the Macphersons are to Inverness-shire. You cannot

avoid them. The sound of their voices is never out of my ears during the

hours of daylight. Some of them are shouting at me even now. Yet words to

describe what I hear fail me. The only instrument made by man that can

rival the call of the mad babbler is the “rattle” used at our English

Universities, or at any rate at Cambridge, to encourage the oarsmen in

the Lent or May races. It is the delight of two of these birds each to

take up a position at the summit of a tree and for one to commence

calling. He bellows till his breath runs short; then his neighbour takes

up the refrain—I mean, hullabaloo—and, ere number two has ceased, number

one, having recovered breath, chimes in. In addition to this rattle-like

call the grey babblers emit a more mellow note, which is well described

by Jerdon as “Quey, quey, quey, quo, quo,” pronounced gutturally.

Occasionally one of these extraordinary birds bursts out into a volley of

excited squeaks, like the voice of Punch as rendered by the showman at

the seaside. This I take to be a cry of alarm. The bird while uttering it

careers about madly among the foliage of a tree, hopping from bough to

bough with great dexterity.

Mad babblers go about, like the seven sisters, in flocks of ten or

twelve, and feed largely on the ground. Their mode of progression when

not on the wing is by a series of hops. Their movements are very like

those of a thrush on an English lawn—a dash forward for about a yard,

followed by an abrupt halt. They seem to subsist chiefly on insects, but

grain does not come amiss to them. In places where they abound, several

of them are usually to be seen in every field of large millet, each

perched at the summit of a stalk eagerly devouring the ripening grain.

When thus occupied they sometimes forget to call. They are birds of

peculiarly feeble flight. Their tail is long and their wings are somewhat

sketchy, and the result is that they have to flutter these latter

frantically in order to fly at all. But for the fact that they always

keep together in flocks, even at the nesting season, they would fall easy

victims to birds of prey. Thanks to their clannishness and pluck, they

appear to be tolerably immune from attack. Jerdon says: “If the Shikra

sparrow-hawk be thrown at them, they defend each other with great

courage, mobbing the hawk and endeavouring to release the one she has

seized.” Only yesterday I saw a party of about a dozen large grey

babblers attack and drive away a couple of black crows (_Corvus

macrorhynchus_) from a position which the latter had taken up on the

ground. The babblers advanced slowly in a serried mass, while the corbies

remained motionless watching them. When the front rank of the babbler

_posse_ had advanced to within a foot of the crows a halt was called, and

the adversaries contemplated one another in silence for a few seconds.

Then one of the babblers made a lunge at the corby, which caused it to

take to its wings. Immediately afterwards the other crow was similarly

driven away. While the babblers were still celebrating their bloodless

victory with a joyful noise, a tree-pie (_Dendrocitta rufa_) came and

squatted on the ground near them, evidently spoiling for a fight. The

babblers advanced against him, this time in open order. On their approach

the pie lunged at a babbler and caused it to retire. But immediately

another babbler made a feint at the tree-pie, and things were becoming

exciting when something scared away the combatants.

_Argya malcomi_ constructs a nest of the typical babbler type; that is to

say, a somewhat loosely woven cup, which is placed, usually not very high

above the ground, in a tree or bush. Nests are most likely to be found in

the rains. The eggs are a beautiful rich blue—the hue of those of our

familiar English hedge-sparrow (_Accentor modularis_)—which is so

characteristic of babblers.

Like all of us, this happy-go-lucky babbler has its trials and troubles.

It is victimised by that handsome, noisy ruffian, the pied crested cuckoo

(_Coccystis jacobinus_), which deposits in the nest an egg, which is a

first-class counterfeit of that of the babbler. The feckless babblers sit

upon the strange egg until it gives forth its living contents. The

presence of the spurious child does not greatly perturb the babblers. As

we have seen, the flock does not break up even at the nesting season.

Under such circumstances the whole flock probably takes part in

administering to the young cuckoo the wherewithal to fill the inner bird,

so that on the principle “many hands make light work” the extra mouth to

feed is scarcely noticed. But is it an extra mouth? Does the young pied

cuckoo eject its foster-brethren, or do the parents turn out the

legitimate eggs?

XLI

THE YELLOW-EYED BABBLER

The babbler community embraces a most heterogeneous collection of birds.

Every Asiatic fowl which does not seem to belong to any other family is

promptly relegated to the Crateropodidæ. Thus it comes to pass that such

dissimilar creatures as the laughing thrushes and the seven sisters find

themselves classed together. Now, taken as a whole, the babbler class is

characterised neither by beauty nor melodiousness. The best-known members

are the widely distributed seven sisters, which in many respects are very

like those human babblers who style themselves Labour Members of

Parliament. They are untidy in appearance and exceedingly noisy; their

voices are uncouth, and they never tire of hearing themselves shout. They

are apt to meddle with affairs that do not concern them. Of course the

_Sath Bhai_ have their good points; so, I suppose, have Labour M.P.’s—at

any rate when they are in their natural habitat. When they come to India

and then try to wield the pen—but it is not of human babblers that I wish

to write, nor of the plainly attired, noisy, avian babblers, for have not

the seven sisters had a double innings already? Even as some Labour

Members of Parliament wear frock-coats and top hats, so are there some

well-dressed members of the babbler clan. The yellow-eyed babblers belong

to this class; and the most widely distributed of these—_Pyctorhis

sinensis_—is the subject of the present discourse. This bird is,

according to Oates, found in every portion of the Indian Empire up to a

height of 5000 feet. As a matter of fact I have not seen it in or near

the city of Madras, but that, perhaps, was not the fault of the bird,

because we have Jerdon’s testimony that he saw it in every part of South

India.

The yellow-eyed babbler is a sprightly little creature not much larger

than a sparrow. Its upper plumage is a rich reddish brown, changing to

cinnamon on some of the quill feathers. The chin, throat, cheeks, and

breast are as white as snow. The conspicuous orange-yellow eye is set off

by a small white eyebrow. The abdomen is cream-coloured. The bill is

black and the legs a curious shade of dull yellow. The tail is 3½ inches

long, at least the median feathers thereof are; the outer ones are barely

two inches in length. This gradation in the size of the caudal feathers

is, of course, visible only when the tail is spread during flight. The

yellow-eyed babblers that inhabit Ceylon differ from those of the

mainland in some unimportant details; hence systematists, with their

usual aptitude for species-making, call the former _Pyctorhis nasalis_ to

distinguish them. In many parts of India the yellow-eyed babbler is quite

a common bird. It is especially addicted to tall grass and hedgerows, and

will occasionally enter a garden that is well provided with bushes. It is

not so clannish as most of its brethren; sometimes a small party of six

or seven feed in company, but more often only solitary birds or pairs are

seen. They hop about in and out of small bushes or on the ground,

industriously seeking out the small beetles and other insects on which

they prey. Every now and then one of these sprightly birds permits itself

a little relaxation in the shape of a sweet melody, which it composes and

pours forth from the summit of a convenient bush. Its more usual note is

described by Jerdon as “a loud sibilant whistle”; it also utters a

variety of chattering sounds, which proclaim it a true babbler.

For an Indian bird it is shy; if it sees that it is being watched it

quickly disappears into cover.

The nest of this species is a veritable work of art. Its usual form is

that of an inverted cone, composed of dried grass, fibres, or other

suitable material very compactly and neatly woven, the whole being

plastered over exteriorly with cobweb, which, as I have said before, is

the cement generally used by bird artisans. The well-built little nursery

is sometimes wedged into a forked branch of a tree; more often it will be

found snugly tucked away in a bush. In the Punjab the nest is very

frequently found attached to the stalks of growing millet, in much the

same way as a reed-warbler’s nest is fastened to reeds. The babbler

weaves its nest round a couple of adjacent stalks, so that these are

worked into its walls. A nest which is thus supported by two stalks is in

shape like the cocked hat worn by a political officer.

The eggs, which may be looked for at any time between May and September,

are very beautiful. To describe them in a few words is not easy, because

they exhibit great diversity in colour and markings. This is one of the

hundreds of facts inconsistent with the orthodox theories of the

significance of colour in organic nature that confront the field

naturalist at every turn. The existence of such facts does not perturb in

the least those theorists who “rule the roost” in the scientific world.

Their attitude is “our word is law—if facts don’t fit in with it, so much

the worse for facts.” As Hume points out, three main types of eggs occur,

and there are many combinations of these types. Of the two types most

often seen, “one has a pinkish-white ground, thickly and finely mottled

and streaked over the whole surface with more or less bright and deep

brick-dust red, so that the ground colour only faintly shows through here

and there as a sort of pale mottling; in the other type the ground colour

is pinkish white somewhat sparingly, but boldly, blotched with irregular

patches and eccentric hieroglyphic-like streaks, often bunting-like in

their character, of bright blood or brick-dust red.”

XLII

THE INDIAN SAND-MARTIN

The Indian sand-martin (_Cotile sinensis_) is, I believe, the smallest of

the swallow tribe. So diminutive is he that you could put him in your

watch-pocket, were you so minded, without fear of damaging his plumage.

His charm lies in his littleness and activity rather than in his

colouring, for he belongs not to the dandies. Neat and quiet are the

adjectives that describe his attire. The head, shoulders, and back are

pale brown tinged with grey. The wing-feathers are dark brown. The under

parts are white with a touch of grey on the chin and breast. The sexes

dress alike. This description applies equally well to the sand-martin

(_Cotile riparia_) that nests in sand-pits in England, for the only

differences between this species, which occurs sparingly in India, and

the Indian form are that the former is a little larger and possesses a

dark necklace.

The feeding habits of sand-martins are those of the rest of the swallow

tribe. They live on minute insects which they catch on the wing, not,

after the manner of fly-catchers, by making little aerial sallies from a

perch, but by careering speedily through the air during the greater part

of the day and seizing every insect that they meet.

The Indian sand-martin is a species especially dear to the ornithologist

because it nests in winter, when comparatively few other birds are so

occupied. Speaking generally, the cold weather may be said to be the

“silly season” of the bird world.

There is one drawback to India from the point of view of the

ornithologist, and that is the habit of the great majority of birds of

building their nests at the time when the sun shines forth pitilessly

from a cloudless sky for twelve hours out of the twenty-four, burning up

all vegetation and raising the temperature of the air to furnace heat.

Under such conditions the pleasure of watching the birds is tempered by

the physical discomfort to which the bird-watcher is put. Very pleasant,

then, is it, after months of excessive heat, to awake from sleep one

morning to find that the cool weather has come at last, to feel the

morning air blow fresh against the cheek, and to look out on an earth

enveloped in dense mist. Before one’s horse is saddled, the first rays of

the sun dissipate the mist with almost magic suddenness, and then one

rides forth over dew-bejewelled plains of grass. If on such a morning one

repairs to a sand-pit or a river bank, one is likely there to meet with a

colony of sand-martins, for it is early in the cold weather that those

birds begin to construct their nests, which are holes bored in sand-banks

by the birds themselves.

Like the majority of very small birds, sand-martins show but little fear

of human beings. Tits, white-eyes, warblers, sand-martins, etc., will

come in search of food quite close up to a motionless human being. Mr. W.

H. Hudson relates in his _Birds and Man_ how, when one day he went into

his garden and walked under the trees, there was a great commotion among

the little birds overhead, who mobbed him in the manner they mob an

enemy. He discovered that the reason of this strange behaviour on the

part of the small birds that usually paid no attention to him, was that

he was wearing a striped cloth cap, which the birds appeared to mistake

for a cat. It would almost seem that there is so vast a difference in

size between a tiny bird and a human being that the former fails to

recognise the latter as a living object provided he keeps still. This

does not imply poor eyesight on the part of birds. The minds and eyes of

birds are almost invariably directed on small things. Now, a man bears to

a small bird much the same relation as a horse three hundred hands high

would bear to a man. As regards detail, the eyesight of birds is probably

superior to that of men, for each sand-martin seems never to mistake its

nest, although the entrance to it is merely one of several score of holes

scattered irregularly over the face of the cliff. To the human eye these

holes look all very much alike, but each must possess minute

peculiarities which loom large in the eye of the sand-martin. Whether or

not the above explanation is the true one, the fact remains that a human

being can take up a position within a few feet of the cliff without

disturbing the martins in their nest-building operations.

Some birds, when busy at their nests, work with feverish haste, as though

they were under contract to finish them by a given date. Not so the

sand-martins. With them, the spells of work at the nest would seem to be

mere interludes between their gambols in the air. Each bird appears to

visit its nest every few seconds, but generally it contents itself with

hovering in front of the hole for a fraction of a minute and then dashes

away. Frequently one sees a martin perch at the aperture for a few

seconds without doing any work, and then fly off again. For every visit

made with the object of doing work, ten or twelve seem to be made for the

mere fun of the thing. Sand-martins appear to derive the greatest

pleasure from the contemplation of the growing nursery. If the cliff be

examined carefully, its soft sandy surface will be found to be scored in

many places by marks made by the sharp little claws of the martins as the

birds alight.

A colony of nesting martins presents a very animated appearance. The main

body dash through the air to and fro in front of the cliff, uttering

their feeble twittering, but a few are always at the nest holes, either

resting or working. These latter are constantly reinforced from those on

the wing, and _vice versa_, so that there are two streams of birds, one

flying to the cliff and the other leaving it. Suddenly the whole flock,

including both the resting and the flying birds, will, as if affected

simultaneously by a common influence, fly off _en masse_ and disappear

from sight. But they are never absent for long. At the end of two or

three minutes all are back again.

The birds utter unceasingly, when on the wing, a twittering note, not so

harsh as that of the sparrow, but sufficiently harsh to make it appear

that the birds are squabbling. A certain amount of bickering does take

place among the sand-martins. Every now and again a bird may be observed

chasing its neighbour in a very unneighbourly manner. Occasionally two

will attack one another with open beak, and fall interlocked to the

ground. A prettier sight is that of a couple of martins resting side by

side at the orifice of the nest hole twittering lovingly to one another.

The excavation that leads to the nest is a round passage, less than three

inches in diameter. After proceeding inwards and slightly upwards for

about two feet, it ends in a globular cavity of larger diameter. This is

the nesting chamber, and is lined with grass, fine twigs, feathers, and

the like. Two or three white eggs are laid. Sand-martins probably bring

up more than one brood in the year. Their nests are likely to be found in

all the winter months.

_Cotile sinensis_ is a permanent resident in India and is common in all

the northern portions of the country, but is not often seen so far south

as Madras. It is curious that this species should be abundant in North

India and rare in the south, where insect life is so plentiful. There

must be something in the climatic conditions of South India that suits

neither this nor the other species of sand-martin. Precisely what this is

I cannot conjecture. Birds vary greatly in their adaptability to climate.

Some, such as the hoopoe, appear absolutely indifferent to heat or cold,

moisture or dryness; others, as most wagtails, shun heat. The two common

crows of India afford an excellent illustration of the way in which

allied species differ in their power of adapting themselves to variation

in climate. The grey-necked species (_Corvus splendens_) is found

throughout the length and breadth of the plains of India, but does not

ascend the Himalayas to any great height, and is, in consequence, not

found in Murree Mussoorie or Naini Tal. The corby (_C. macrorhynchus_),

on the other hand, is found in all parts of the plains save in the

Punjab, and ascends the Himalayas up to 10,000 feet or higher, and is the

only crow that occurs in most of the Himalayan hill stations. It is thus

evident that the black species is far less sensitive to cold than the

other, but why does it occur so sparingly in the Punjab? The connection

between climate and the distribution of birds is a fascinating subject

about which very little is known. Possibly in the varying sensitiveness

of birds to climatic conditions lies the secret of some of the phenomena

of bird migration.

XLIII

THE EDUCATION OF YOUNG BIRDS

A certain school of naturalists, in which Americans figure largely, lays

great stress on the way in which parent birds and beasts educate their

offspring. According to this school, a young bird is, like a human babe,

born with its mind a blank, and has to be taught by its parents

everything that it is necessary for a bird to know. Just as children

study at various educational establishments, so do young animals attend

what Mr. W. J. Long calls “the school of the woods.” “After many years of

watching animals in their native haunts,” he writes, “I am convinced that

instinct conveys a much smaller part than we have supposed; that an

animal’s success or failure in the ceaseless struggle for life depends,

not upon instinct, but upon the kind of training which the animal

receives from its mother.” In short, but for its parents, a young bird

would never learn to find its food, to fly, or sing, or build a nest.

This theory appears to have met with wide acceptance, chiefly because it

brings animals into line with human beings. It is but natural for us

humans to put anthropomorphic interpretations on the actions of animals.

Careless observation seems to justify us in so doing. While not denying

that birds do spend much time and labour in teaching their young, I am of

opinion that the lessons taught by them are comparatively unimportant,

that their teachings are merely supplementary to the instinct, the

inherited education, which is latent in young birds at birth, and

displays itself as they increase in size, just as intelligence develops

in growing human beings.

By the mere observation of birds and beasts in their natural state it is

not easy to ascertain how far the progress made by young ones is the

growth of their inborn instincts, and how far it is the result of

parental instruction.

It is the failure to appreciate the magnitude of this difficulty that

vitiates the teachings of Mr. Long and the school to which he belongs. We

can gauge the value of the pedagogic efforts of parent animals only by

actual experiment, by removing young birds from parental influence and

noticing how far that which we may term their education progresses in the

absence of the mother and father.

The first and foremost of the things which a young bird must know is how

to find its food. This is an accomplishment which it speedily acquires

without any teaching. Young ducklings hatched under a barndoor hen take

to the water of their own accord, and soon discover how to use their

sieve-like bills.

I read some time ago a most interesting account of two young American

ospreys, which Mr. E. H. Baynes took from the nest at an early age.

Having secured them, he placed them in an artificial nest which he had

made for them. The parents did not succeed in finding them out, the young

birds had therefore to face the struggle for existence without a mentor.

“For several days,” writes Mr. Baynes, “they spent most of their time

lying still, with necks extended and heads prone on the floor of the

nest.” At this stage they were, of course, unable to fly. It was not

until they were five or six weeks old that the young ospreys entrusted

themselves to their wings, and at the first attempt they, or rather one

of them, performed an unbroken flight of several miles! After they had

learned to use their wings, the ospreys were allowed full liberty,

nevertheless they continued to remain in the neighbourhood of Mr.

Baynes’s house, and became quite domesticated. When taken away, they

returned like homing pigeons. Even as they had made the discovery that

they could fly, so did they, one day, find out that they could catch

fish. Mr. Baynes thus describes the earliest attempt of one of the young

birds: “His tactics were similar to those employed by old and experienced

ospreys, but the execution was clumsy. After sailing over the pond for a

few minutes, he evidently caught sight of a fish, for he paused, flapped

his wings to steady himself, and then dropped into the water. But it was

the attempt of a tyro, and of course the fish escaped. The hawk

disappeared, and when he came to the surface he struggled vainly to rise

from the water. Then he seemed to give it up.” At this, Mr. Baynes was

about to jump into the water in order to rescue him; however, “the next

moment he made a mighty effort, arose dripping wet, and flew to his old

roost on the chimney, where he flapped his wings and spread them out to

dry in the sun.” Far from being deterred by this experience, he repeated

the operation, and ere long became an expert fisher.

According to the school to which Mr. Long belongs, young birds learn

their song from their parents, just as young children learn how to talk.

In the words of Barrington, “Notes in birds are no more innate than

language is in man, but depend entirely upon the master under which they

are bred, as far as their organs will enable them to imitate the sounds

which they have frequent opportunities of hearing.”

Similarly Michelet writes: “Nothing is more complex than the education of

certain singing birds. The perseverance of the father, the docility of

the young, are worthy of all admiration.” There can be no doubt that

young birds are very imitative. The young of the koel—an Indian parasitic

cuckoo—make ludicrous attempts to caw in imitation of the notes of their

corvine foster-parents; but later, when the spring comes, they pour forth

the very different notes of their species. In the same way the young of

the common cuckoo, no matter by what species they are reared, all cry

“cuckoo” when they come of age. Ducklings, pheasants, and partridges,

hatched under the domestic hen, and fowls reared by turkeys, have the

calls peculiar to their species. It may, of course, be urged that these

learn their cries from others of their own kind. Here again, then, actual

experiment is necessary to determine which view is correct. Such

experiments were performed by Mr. John Blackwall as long ago as 1823. He

writes:—

“I placed the eggs of a redbreast in the nest of a chaffinch, and removed

the eggs of the chaffinch to that of the redbreast, conceiving that, if I

was fortunate in rearing the young, I should, by this exchange, ensure an

unexceptional experiment, the result of which must be deemed perfectly

conclusive by all parties. In process of time these eggs were hatched,

and I had the satisfaction to find that the young birds had their

appropriate chirps.

“When ten days old they were taken from their nests, and were brought up

by hand, immediately under my own inspection, especial care being taken

to remove them to a distance from whatever was likely to influence their

notes. At this period an unfortunate circumstance, which it is needless

to relate, destroyed all these birds except two (a fine cock redbreast

and a hen chaffinch), which, at the expiration of twenty-one days from

the time they were hatched, commenced the calls peculiar to their

species. This was an important point gained, as it evidently proved that

the calls of birds, at least, are instinctive, and that, at this early

age, ten days are not sufficient to enable nestlings to acquire even the

calls of those under which they are bred. . . . Shortly after, the

redbreast began to record (i.e. to attempt to sing), but in so low a tone

that it was scarcely possible to trace the rudiments of its future song

in those early attempts. As it gained strength and confidence, however,

its native notes became very apparent, and they continued to improve in

tone till the termination of July, when it commenced moulting. . . . By

the beginning of October . . . it began to execute its song in a manner

calculated to remove every doubt as to its being that of the redbreast,

had any such previously existed.” Mr. Long lays great stress on the

manner in which parents inculcate into their young fear of enemies. Fear,

he asserts, is not instinctive; young creatures, if found before they

have been taught to fear, are not alarmed at the sight of man. I admit

that very young creatures are not afraid of foes, and that, later, they

do display fear, but I assert that this change is not the result of

teaching, that it is the mere development of an inborn instinct which

does not show itself until the young are some days old, because there is

no necessity for it in the earliest stages of the existence of a young

bird.

“Some months ago one of my _chaprassis_ brought me a couple of baby

red-vented bulbuls which had fallen out of a nest. They were unable to

feed themselves, and were probably less than a week old. One met with an

early death, and the survivor was kept in a cage. One day, while I was

writing in my study, this young bulbul began scolding in a way that all

bulbuls do when alarmed. On looking round, I discovered that a

_chaprassi_ had silently entered the room with a shikra on his wrist. The

shikra is a kind of sparrow-hawk, common in India. That particular

individual was being trained to fly at quail. It had never before been

brought to my bungalow, nor is it likely that the captive bulbul, whose

cage was placed in a small, enclosed verandah, had ever set eyes upon a

shikra. It had left the nest before it was of an age at which it could

learn anything from its parents. Its display of fear and its alarm-call

were purely instinctive. Its inherited memory must have caused it to

behave as it did. Speaking figuratively, its ancestors learned by

experience that the shikra is a dangerous bird—a bird to be feared—and

this experience has been inherited. To express the matter in more exact

language, this inherited fear of the shikra is the product of natural

selection. For generations those bulbuls who did not fear and avoid the

shikra fell victims to it, while the more cautious ones survived and

their descendants inherited this characteristic.

“Of all the arts practised by birds none is so wonderful as that of

nest-building. If it can be demonstrated (as I believe it can) that this

art is innate in a bird, then there is no difficulty in believing that

all the other arts practised by the feathered folk are innate.

“Michelet boldly asserts that a bird has to learn how to build a nest

precisely as a schoolboy has to learn arithmetic or algebra. By way of

proof, he quotes the case of his canary—Jonquille. “It must be stated at

the outset,” he writes, “that Jonquille was born in a cage, and had not

seen how nests were made. As soon as I saw her disturbed, and became

aware of her approaching maternity, I frequently opened her door and

allowed her freedom to collect in the room the materials of the bed the

little one would stand in need of. She gathered them up, indeed, but

without knowing how to employ them. She put them together and stored them

in a corner of the cage. . . . I gave her the nest ready made—at least,

the little basket that forms the framework of the walls of the structure.

Then she made the mattress and felted the interior coating, but in a very

indifferent manner.”

Michelet construes these facts as proof that the art of nest-building is

not innate in birds, but has to be learned. As a matter of fact they

prove exactly the opposite. The Frenchman’s reasoning is typical of that

of those persons who make their facts fit in with their theories.

Michelet is blinded by his preconceived notions. He is unable to see

things which should be apparent to all. If the art of nest-building is

not innate, why did the canary fly about the room collecting the

necessary materials and heap them in a corner of the cage? That she did

not go so far as to build a nest is easily explained by the fact that she

was not given a suitable site for it, that the necessary foundation of

branches was not provided for her. As well might one say that a

bricklayer did not know his trade because he failed to build a wall on

the surface of the sea. When given the framework, Michelet’s untaught

canary lost no time in lining it. The alleged act that the lining was not

well done may be explained in many ways. Michelet may have imagined this,

or the materials provided may not have been altogether suitable;

moreover, Jonquille must have worked in haste, as the framework was

presumably not given until the bird had collected all the material.

Again, the nest was the first that that particular canary had built.

Birds, like human beings, learn to profit by experience. Nest-building is

an instinctive art, but intelligence may step in and aid blind instinct.

In this connection it is necessary to bear in mind that the nest is

completed long before the young birds come out of the egg; that they

leave, or are driven away from, the parents before the next nest-building

season. If young birds are taught nest-building, who teaches them?

Proof of the instinctiveness of nest-building might be multiplied

indefinitely. There are on record scores of instances of birds selecting

impossible sites for their nests; these are cases of instinct that has

gone astray. Again, the persistent way in which martins will rebuild, or

attempt to rebuild, nests that are destroyed, shows to what an extent

nest-construction is a matter of instinct. One more concrete piece of

evidence must suffice. My friend, Captain Perreau, has, among other birds

in his aviary at Bukloh, in the Himalayas, some grey-headed love-birds.

This species has the peculiar habit of lining the nest with strips of

bark, which the hen carries up to the nest amongst the feathers of the

back. Captain Perreau started with two cock love-birds and one hen, and

this last had the peculiarity of not carrying up the lining to her nest

in the orthodox way; nevertheless, her daughter, when she took unto

herself a husband, used to carry up bark and grass to her nest in the

orthodox manner. “Why did this hen do this?” Captain Perreau asks. “Her

mother could not have taught her. I have no other true love-birds; and my

blue-crowned hanging parrakeets, or rather the hens, certainly do carry

up to the nesting-hole bark, etc., but they carry it, not in the back,

but tucked in between the feathers of the neck and breast.” This neat

method of conveying material to the nest is, therefore, certainly an

instinctive act, as is almost every other operation connected with

nest-building.

To sum up. The parental teaching forms a far less important factor in the

education of birds than many naturalists have been led by careless

observation to believe. Birds may be said to be born educated in the

sense that poets are born, not made. In each case education puts on the

finishing touches to the handiwork of nature.

XLIV

BIRDS AT SUNSET

It is refreshing to watch the birds at the sunset hour. The fowls of the

air are then full to overflowing of healthy activity.

In the garden the magpie-robin (_Copsychus saularis_), daintily clothed

in black and white, vigorously pours forth his joyous song from some

leafy bough. From the thicket issue the sharp notes of the tailor-bird

(_Orthotomus sutorius_), the noisy chatter of the seven sisters

(_Crateropus_), and the tinkling melody of the bulbul.

The king crows (_Dicrurus ater_) are alternately catching insects on the

wing and giving vent to their superfluous energy in the form of cheerful

notes. Upon the lawn the perky, neatly-built mynas are chasing

grasshoppers with relentless activity; nimble wagtails are accounting for

numbers of the smaller insects, while the showy-crested hoopoes are

eagerly extracting grubs and other good things from the earth by means of

their long forceps-like bill. All, especially the hoopoes, have the air

of birds racing against time. On that part of the lawn which the _malli_

is flooding to preserve its greenness the crows are thoroughly enjoying

their evening bath.

On the sandy path is a company of green bee-eaters (_Merops viridis_)

engaged in dust-bath operations.

Overhead the swifts—our little land albatrosses—are dashing hither and

thither at full speed, revelling in the abundant insect life called forth

by the fading light, and making the welkin ring with their “shivering

screams.” Flying along with the swifts are some sand-martins (_Cotile

sinensis_), easily distinguishable by their slower and more laboured

motion.

High above the sphere of action of the swifts and martins are numbers of

kites and vultures, sailing in circles on their quest for the wherewithal

to satisfy their insatiable appetite.

As the darkness begins to gather these birds, one and all, put more

energy into their movements. Each seems to be aware of the rapid approach

of the night when work must cease, and each appears fully determined not

to lose a moment of the precious daylight.

While the sun is still well above the horizon great flocks of mynas sweep

swiftly overhead towards the dense clump of bamboo bushes in which they

will spend the night. They are joined by other species of starling.

Before settling among the bamboos they perch in trees hard by, and make a

joyful noise; every now and then some of the throng take to their wings

and perform, like trained soldiers, a series of rapid evolutions. When at

length the gloom compels them reluctantly to desist from their vigorous

exercise, and to disappear into the bamboo clump, they give out energy in

the form of loud clamour.

From the grove of tall trees yonder, where thousands of crows will spend

the hours of darkness, an even greater noise issues. Some twenty minutes

before the sun dips below the horizon the advance guard of the corvi

arrives; then, for the succeeding quarter-hour, continuous streams of

crows come pouring in from east and west, from north and south.

Meanwhile the sparrows have been foregathering in their hundreds in the

low shrubs that fringe the edge of the garden. And what a dissonance

issues from those bushes!

Truly phenomenal is the activity of the birds at eventide. It is

especially marked in India, where during the middle of the day the sun

nearly always shines fierce and hot, so that the birds are glad to enjoy

a siesta in the grateful shade. From this they emerge like giants

refreshed.

This liveliness of the feathered folk at sunset is no small matter. It is

one of the most pleasing facts of natural history. It shows how immensely

birds enjoy life. It proves how healthy, how full of energy they are, how

they, to speak figuratively, live within their incomes.

Contrast such scenes as those described above with what may be seen in

the City of London at six o’clock on a weekday. A multitude of pale,

anxious, worn-looking men, and thin, tired, haggard women pursue with

listless steps their homeward way. Compared with the lot of these, how

happy is that of the birds.

Birds are, like children, loath to go to bed. They feel no weariness, and

so great is their enjoyment of life, that they are almost sorry when the

sun disappears for a little.

Jules Michelet, than whom no more wrong-headed naturalist ever lived,

declares that birds dread the night. “Heavy,” he writes, “for all

creatures is the gloom of evening. . . . Night is equally terrible for

the birds. . . . What monsters it conceals, what frightful chances for

the bird lurk in its obscurity. Its nocturnal foes have this

characteristic in common—their approach is noiseless. The screech-owl

flies with a silent wing, as if wrapped in tow. The weasel insinuates its

long body into the nest without disturbing a leaf. The eager polecat,

athirst for the warm life-blood, is so rapid that in a moment it bleeds

both parents and progeny, and slaughters a whole family.

“It seems that the bird, when it has little ones, enjoys a second sight

for these dangers. It has to protect a family far more feeble and more

helpless than that of the quadruped, whose young can walk as soon as

born. But how protect them? It can do nothing but remain at its post and

die; it cannot fly away, for its love has broken its wings. All night the

narrow entry of the nest is guarded by the father, who sinks with

fatigue, and opposes danger with feeble beak and shaking head. What will

this avail if the enormous jaw of the serpent suddenly appears, or the

horrible eye of the bird of death, immeasurably enlarged by fear?”

Greater nonsense than this was never penned outside a political pamphlet.

Birds do not, as Michelet seems to imagine, go to sleep quaking with

terror. They know not the meaning of the word death, nor have they any

superstitious fears of ghosts and goblins.

Birds with young sleep the sleep of a man without a single care.

At other times birds do not roost in solitude, but gather together in

great companies, the members of which are as jolly as the young folks at

a supper party after the theatre. The happiness of the fowls of the air

at the sunset hour is almost riotous.

Darkness, however, exercises a soothing influence over them. A feeling of

sleepiness steals over them, and they then doubtless experience the

luxurious sensation of tiredness which we human beings feel after a day

spent in the open air; for, although they know it not, their muscles are

tired as the result of the activity of the day.

Their sweet slumbers completely refresh them. Before dawn they are awake

again, and are up and about waiting for it to grow sufficiently light to

enable them to resume the interrupted pleasures of the previous day.

With the exception of “The Education of Young Birds,” which came out in

_The Albany Review_, the chapters which compose this book appeared in one

or other of the following Indian periodicals: _The Madras Mail_, _The

Times of India_, _The Indian Daily Telegraph_, _The Indian Field_, _The

Indian Forester_.

The author begs to tender his thanks to the several editors for

permission to reproduce this collection of essays.