I
BIRDS IN A GROVE
The small groves that usually surround hamlets in Oudh are favourite
resorts of birds.
I know of few more pleasant ways of passing an hour than under the trees
in such a grove at the beginning of December, when the weather is
perfect. The number of birds that show themselves is truly astonishing.
Recently I tarried for a little time in such a grove consisting of half
a dozen mango trees, a tamarind and a pipal, and witnessed there a
veritable avian pageant—a pageant accompanied by music.
The sunbirds (_Arachnechthra asiatica_) were the leading minstrels.
There may have been a dozen of them in the little tope. To count them
was impossible, because sunbirds are never still for two seconds
together. When not flitting about amid the foliage looking for insects
they are playing hide-and-seek, or pouring out their canary-like song.
At this season of the year the cocks are in undress plumage. In his full
splendour the male is glistening purple; but in August he loses nearly
all his purple gloss and becomes brownish above and ashy grey below,
save for a purple stripe running downwards from his chin. The hen is at
all times brown above and yellow below.
The red-whiskered bulbuls (_Otocompsa emeria_) were as numerous and as
full of life and motion as the sunbirds. Their tinkling notes mingled
pleasantly with the sharper tones of the other choristers.
It is superfluous to state that two or three pairs of doves were in that
little _bagh_, and that one or other of them never ceased to coo.
Further, it goes without saying that there were redstarts in that tope.
The Indian redstart (_Ruticilla rufiventris_) is one of the commonest
birds in Oudh during the winter months. During flight it looks like a
little ball of fire, because of its red tail: hence its old English
name, fire-tail.
At intervals, a curious _tew_ emanated from the foliage. A short search
sufficed to reveal the author—the black-headed oriole (_Oriolus
melanocephalus_), a glorious golden bird having the head and neck black
and some black in the wing. This creature seems never to descend to the
ground; it dwells always in the greenwood tree and its life is one long
search for fruit, caterpillars and other creeping things.
The flycatchers were a pageant in themselves; there were more species in
that tiny _bagh_ than are to be found in the whole of Great Britain and
Ireland.
First and foremost the fan-tailed flycatcher (_Rhipidura
albifrontata_)—the prima donna of the tope—presented herself. Like a
fairy in a pastoral play, she comes into view from some leafy bower,
announcing her appearance by five or six joyous notes that mount and
descend the musical scale. Dainty as a wagtail she is arrayed in black
and white like some motacillas. She is dancer as well as singer, and she
pirouettes up and down a horizontal branch, bowing now to right and now
to left, spreading her tail into a fan and suddenly breaking off her
dance to make a flight after an insect.
Even more beautiful was the next flycatcher to introduce
itself—Tickell’s blue flycatcher (_Cyornis tickelli_). The upper parts
of this exquisite little creature are glistening royal blue; the throat
and breast are flaming orange, and the lower parts are white. After
flitting from bough to bough in search of quarry, it stood still and
uttered its lay, which consists of a _chik, chik_, followed by a little
trill, not unlike that of the fan-tailed flycatcher. Having delivered
itself of its melody, it vanished into the green canopy. Its place was
taken almost immediately by a red-breasted flycatcher (_Siphia parva_),
a bird very like the English robin in appearance. Ere long it moved
away.
Shortly after another flycatcher took its little part in the pageant.
This was the grey-headed flycatcher (_Culicicapa ceylonensis_), “a tiny
brownie bird,” with the head grey and the lower parts bright yellow.
With the exception of the _Rhipidura_, all these flycatchers had come
down from the Himalayas.
While watching their graceful movements, my attention was attracted by a
curious grating sound that emanated from the branches immediately over
my head. On looking up, I saw a crow-pheasant (_Centropus rufipennis_)
running up a branch in the inimitable manner of his kind. His bright red
eye was fixed on me, and he had evidently made up his cuculine mind that
“distance lends enchantment to the view” of a human being, and
accordingly lost no time in making his exit.
Scarcely had I lost sight of him when there was a considerable commotion
in the pipal tree near by. When running to discover the cause of this I
startled half a dozen pipits (_Anthus rufulus_) that, hidden by the
grass, were feeding on the ground. They, as is their wont when
frightened, flew into the foliage. Pipits are dull brown birds, streaked
like larks, that display tail-wagging propensities. I discovered that
the bird making the commotion near the summit of the pipal tree was a
vulture. Very large and out of place did it seem struggling among the
slender branches with wings spread-eagled. It was tugging away
vigorously at a small branch and soon succeeded in breaking it off.
Having accomplished this, it scrambled on to what looked like a large
ball of dried leaves and twigs caught in one of the upper branches. This
was a nest in course of construction, which the vulture was lining with
pipal branches. Presently the huge bird flew off, and I was then able to
identify it as the white-backed vulture (_Pseudogyps bengalensis_). I
returned to the mango tree beneath which I had been standing, and in so
doing disturbed a bee-eater (_Merops viridis_) that was perching on one
of the lower branches. Of the presence in the vicinity of these charming
little birds I was already aware from their soft twitterings. I had not
actually seen them, because their habit is to perch on the outer
branches of trees, whence they make aerial sallies after insects.
The calls of the blossom-headed parakeets (_Palæornis cyanocephalus_),
far softer and mellower than those of the rose-ringed species, had at
frequent intervals mingled with the notes of the other birds; and at
this moment one of these green parrots settled on a branch quite close
to me. Her slate-coloured head showed her to be a hen; in this species
the head of the cock is coloured like a ripe plum.
Sharp sounds, like those made by insects, issuing from every tree
revealed the presence of warblers. These birds were so small and so
active that I am not certain to what species they belonged. The majority
of them were, I believe, willow warblers (_Phylloscopus tristis_).
At intervals the _to-wee to-wee_ of the tailor-bird (_Orthotomus
sutorius_) had rung out clear and distinct from the medley of sounds
that filled the grove. Suddenly two tailor-birds came on the scene, one
chasing the other. They alighted on a horizontal bough, where they
tarried sufficiently long to enable me to see the chestnut crown so
characteristic of the species.
I have omitted to make mention of the sprightly magpie-robin (_Copsychus
saularis_). Of this species there was at least one pair in that little
grove, and several times did the cock descend to the ground, and hop
about, with tail erect. He is arrayed in black and white, and a
smarter-looking bird does not exist. His mate also put in an appearance;
she has all his sprightliness and is equally tastefully attired in grey
and white.
Having spent an hour in the grove, I had to return to my tent to work,
without having witnessed all the _dramatis personæ_ of the daily
pageant. As I was leaving the tope a hen brown-backed robin (_Thamnobia
cambaiensis_) hopped out of an _arhar_ field and stood beneath a mango
tree, carrying her tail erect so as to display the red undertail
coverts.
After I had reached my tent, fifty yards away, I heard the
_kutur—kutur—kuturuk_ of the green barbet (_Thereiceryx zeylonicus_),
the loud tap, tap, tap of the golden-backed woodpecker (_Brachypternus
aurantius_), and the cheerful notes of the king crow (_Dicrurus ater_).
II
THE MAGPIE-ROBIN
The magpie-robin (Copsychus saularis), or _dhayal_, as the Indians call
him, is a truly delightful bird. He is of handsome appearance, bold
disposition, and confiding habits. He is, further, a singer who can hold
his own in any company when at his best. The _dhayal_ is a typically
Indian bird, being found in all parts of the country from the Himalayas
to Cape Comorin. He is common in Ceylon and ascends the hills of India
to altitudes of over 6000 feet. He is, I believe, more abundant in the
United Provinces than anywhere else. It is no exaggeration to assert
that at least one pair of magpie-robins lives in every garden in Oudh
and Agra. I do not count as gardens those treeless compounds in which
some bungalows are situate, for the magpie-robin is a bird that loves
shade. The species, although by no means rare in South India, is not
nearly so abundant there as in the northern part of the peninsula.
The _dhayal_ is very easily identified. The cock is a black and white
bird rather larger than the familiar English robin. His head, neck,
breast, and upper parts are black with a white bar in the wing. The
lower parts are white, as are the outer tail feathers.
The above description will show that the black and white markings of the
plumage are similar to those of the common magpie; hence the popular
name of the bird—magpie-robin. If the distribution of the magpie-robin
happened to coincide with that of the magpie, I have no doubt whatever
that zoologists of the school of Wallace would cite the _dhayal_ as an
example of protective mimicry. They would tell us that this robin had
aped the dress of the powerful magpie in order to dupe the crows and
other bullying birds that vex the lives of their smaller neighbours.
As the magpie-robin dwells mostly where the magpie is not found, no
Wallaceian has attempted to explain why its colouring is so like that of
the magpie. As a matter of fact, the magpie scheme of colouring seems to
be a popular one in nature (if I may be permitted to use such an
expression). It appears in seven species which are in no way closely
related one to another, to wit, a goose, a crow, a tanager, a
honey-eater, a swallow-shrike, a robin, and, of course, the common
magpie.
The hen magpie-robin is brownish grey where her lord and master is
black, the pattern of her plumage being the same as his.
The magpie-robin does not carry his tail as most birds do, but goes
about with it pointed to the sky. This gives the bird a very sprightly
appearance. Its actions fulfil the promise of its looks. It is never
still for an instant. Now it descends to the ground, where it hops about
with tail erect, picking up here and there tiny insects; now it flies
into a tree or bush, where it pursues its search for insects or pours
forth its joyous song. Nor does it confine its operations to trees,
bushes, and dry land. I have seen a magpie-robin hunting for insects on
a tangled mass of weeds and stems floating on water. On these it hopped
about just as it does on _terra firma_. Each little jump caused
considerable commotion in the water. The bird did not seem to mind its
toes getting wet.
The _dhayal_ is essentially a bird of gardens. Like the English robin,
it prefers to dwell as near human habitations as possible. In my opinion
it is one of the finest song birds in the world. Like the majority of
melodious birds, the magpie-robin is not in song all the year round.
During the early winter it is a silent creature. Towards the end of the
cold weather the cock begins to find his voice, and at that time his
efforts are not very pleasing to the human ear. But each successive
day’s effort produces better results, until, by March, the bird is able
to pour forth a torrent of far-reaching melody which is inferior to that
of no Indian bird save his cousin, the shama.
Needless to say, the period when the cock _dhayal_ is in song
corresponds to the mating time. At this season the cocks are very
pugnacious. This pugnacity is simply the expression of the fact that the
_dhayal_ is at that time more than usually overflowing with energy. This
energy has to find outlets. One of these is through the medium of
vigorous song. Another way of dissipating energy is by performing
gymnastic feats in the air. As a rule magpie-robins rarely perform
sustained flights. They are content with flitting from bush to bush, or
making little excursions to the ground and back again. But at the
breeding season the cocks often fly up high in the air and describe a
series of wide circles. They will spend hours in this performance with
only a few seconds’ rest at long intervals.
The eggs are nearly always placed in some natural hole, that is to say,
one not excavated by the _dhayal_ itself. The hole is sometimes in a
tree, but nine times out of ten in Northern India the site selected is a
hole in some building. The servants’ quarters in the corner of some
shady garden are almost invariably chosen. A very favourite spot is
between the wooden lintel and the mud wall of a _kachcha_ building; such
buildings are well called _kachcha_, for they begin to crack and fall
down as soon as they are built. The cracks and crevices that appear in
them offer just what magpie-robins want for nesting purposes. The eggs
are not laid on the bare brick, mud, or other material in which the
cavity exists. The hole is invariably lined with roots, fibres, grass,
feathers, or any other soft material available. My experience of the
nests of this species has been confined chiefly to Northern India, and I
do not recollect ever having found a nest that was not in the wall of
some building; but observers from South India say that, as often as not,
the _dhayal_ nests in trees.[1] Oates states that in Burma the
magpie-robin almost invariably selects a large hollow bamboo, and places
its nest about two feet inside, near the first joint; but he adds that
the bamboos selected are generally to be found lying about the verandahs
and cucumber framings of the native houses. The truth of the matter
would seem to be that magpie-robins select the very first cavity of the
right size they come across, and, as they affect human habitations, the
cavity used is almost invariably near some man’s dwelling. In Northern
India the construction of the dwellings of Indians is such that the
walls afford convenient sites, so that these are generally utilised; in
other parts of the country, where the walls do not present so many
holes, other cavities in trees, etc., are selected.
The eggs have a greenish-white background which is usually largely
obliterated by blotches of brownish red. March, April, May, and June are
the months in which eggs are most likely to be found; April and May for
preference.
[1]Such is the contrariness of birds in general and of magpie-robins in
particular, that since this book went to press I have found in the
Pilibhit and Bareilly districts no fewer than seven _dhayals’_ nests
in holes in trees!
III
THE INDIAN SNAKE-BIRD
The Indian darter, or snake-bird (_Plotus melanogaster_) is best
described by what I may perhaps call the synthetic method. Take a large
cormorant and remove the head and neck; to the headless cormorant, sew
on the head and neck of a heron, and you will have produced a very fair
imitation of the Indian snake-bird. If during the operation you happen
to have dislocated one of the lower neck vertebrae of the heron, so much
the better, for the slender neck of the darter is characterised by a
bend at the junction of the eighth and ninth vertebrae, which, as Mr.
Garrod has shown, enables the bird, by suddenly straightening the neck,
to transfix the fish on which it has designs. As a catcher of fish the
snake-bird is probably without peer. This is not surprising, since it
possesses the swimming and diving apparatus of the cormorant, the long
neck and dagger-like beak of the heron, and, in addition, a patent
thrusting apparatus in the shape of the aforesaid kink in the neck.
The Indian darter is a bird with which all who go down to _jhils_ to
shoot duck must be familiar, since it is a full yard in length and
occurs in most parts of India, Burma, and Ceylon. Notwithstanding its
large size, it is apt to be overlooked when in the water, because it
almost invariably swims with the body submerged, showing only the upper
neck above the surface. Every now and again it completely disappears
from view. After remaining submerged for several seconds the head
reappears with a small fish projecting from the bill. The fish is
forthwith thrown a little way into the air, and then caught and
swallowed. This habit of tossing food into the air preparatory to
swallowing it occurs in many long-billed species, and appears to be the
most expeditious method of getting food from the tip of an elongated
beak to the other extremity, where it is seized by the muscular walls of
the gullet and passed onwards.
The snake-bird is said sometimes to secure its quarry by diving from a
perch like a kingfisher. I have not observed the bird behave thus, and
the method does not appear to be generally practised.
_Plotus melanogaster_ is called the snake-bird because of its long,
slender, snake-like neck, which looks very like the anterior portion of
a water-snake when the bird swims, as it often does, with the body
submerged. If danger threatens the bird usually sinks in the water until
every part of it except the beak disappears. This certainly is a method
of hiding superior to that said to be adopted by the ostrich.
The snake-bird is a rapid swimmer, and as it frequently remains under
water for thirteen or fourteen seconds at a time, it is able to move
considerable distances while completely submerged.
The snake-bird is a powerful flier. While on the wing it does not
retract its neck after the manner of the heron, but progresses with neck
extended. The neck being so slender gives the bird a comic appearance
and renders it easy to identify during flight. When resting from its
piscatorial labours it betakes itself to the edge of the _jhil_ or to an
islet and squats there to dry its plumage in the approved cormorant
fashion, with wings partially, and tail fully, expanded. In this
grotesque attitude it frequently preens itself, and, thanks to the
length of its neck and bill, it has not to undergo the contortions that
characterise most birds when trying to reach with the tip of the beak
their least accessible feathers.
The Indian darter does not appear to patronise the open sea. Probably it
objects to the swell and finds its quarry easier to catch in
comparatively shallow water. It does not mind salt water, for it may be
found in tidal estuaries and creeks. I have seen it on the Cooum at
Madras. It is, however, essentially a bird of the _jhil_. Needless to
state that it is no songster—none of the _Phalacocoracidae_ are
melodious—nor is it given to undue loquacity, but it is capable, when
the occasion demands, of emitting a harsh croak.
So far as my experience goes, snake-birds usually occur singly or in
pairs, but according to Jerdon hundreds of the birds are to be seen on
some _jhils_ in Bengal.
At the nesting season it is more likely to be seen in flocks than at
other times, for numbers breed together, often in company with herons
and cormorants. Like these latter, the snake-bird times its nesting
operations so that the young will be hatched out after the monsoon has
brought into existence numbers of amphibia and crustacea on which to
feed them. Accordingly, it nidificates in July, August, and September in
Northern India and Travancore, which are served by the south-west
monsoon, and in January and February in those parts of South India
visited by the north-east monsoon.
The nest is a mere platform of twigs, usually placed in low trees,
babools for preference, and growing in situations flooded in the rains.
I do not know of any place near the city of Madras where snake-birds
breed. Mr. T. F. Bourdillon, writing of Travancore, says, “I once found
a colony of these birds nesting above the Athirapuzha in the Kodasheri
River in September. They had taken possession of an island in midstream,
where they had built their untidy nests on small trees about twenty feet
high, and there were fresh and hard-set eggs in them in all stages of
incubation, while half-fledged birds scrambled about the branches or
flopped into the water at our approach. The nests were about one foot in
diameter and roughly built of twigs. The eggs are white and covered with
a chalky coat and measure 2 inches by 1¼. Some of the eggs are rather
larger at one end than the other, while others are truly fusiform with
pointed ends.”
The snake-bird is sometimes kept as a pet by Indians. According to Mr.
J. R. Cripps the Buddeas, a race of gipsies who travel about the Eastern
Bengal districts in boats, are very fond of keeping these birds, almost
every boat tenanted by these gipsies having a snake-bird on board.
The shoulder feathers of the Indian darter are long and narrow like the
hackles of a cock. Each is black with a conspicuous silvery shaft, which
renders it a thing of unusual beauty. According to Jerdon these feathers
constitute the badge of royalty among the Khasias, and used to be the
badge of one of the Bengal Regiments of Irregular Cavalry.
IV
MINIVETS
Were a beauty show held open to all the birds of India, the minivets
would, I think, win the first prize. To say this is to bestow high
praise, for India teems with beautiful birds.
All the colours of the rainbow appear in our avian population. Indeed,
the Indian pitta (_Pitta brachyura_)—the bird of nine colours—is a
rainbow in himself, displaying as he does red, yellow, grey, and various
shades of blue and green, to say nothing of black and white.
Most of our beautiful birds, however, pin their affections more
especially to one colour. The parakeets, the chloropses, the green
pigeons, the bee-eaters, and the barbets wear sufficient green to
satisfy the most patriotic Irishman.
Golden yellow is affected by the orioles and the ioras.
The kingfisher, the roller and the purple porphyrio are as blue as
Putney on boat-race day.
Sunbirds, pheasants, and peafowl favour us with a gorgeous display of
metallic hues.
The rose-coloured starling and the flamingo wear their pink as proudly
as a Westminster boy.
The minivets are the leaders of fashion as regards the reds and yellows.
The cocks vie with the hens as to who shall be the more resplendent,
and, in so doing, make short work of the attempts of Wallace and Darwin
to explain sexual difference in plumage. In most species of minivets the
cocks are arrayed in bright scarlet, whence the name Cardinal-bird, rich
crimson, deep rose colour, flaming red, or soft orange, while their
respective wives are studies in the various shades of yellow. But the
beauty of the minivet is not merely that of colouring. The elegance of
its slender, well-proportioned form rivals that of the wagtail.
Minivets are little birds with longish tails which flit about among the
leaves of trees in flocks of half a dozen, conversing in low but
exceedingly melodious tones.
They are veritable nomads. They never remain long in one place, except,
of course, when nesting. Without apparently ever taking a prolonged
flight, the flocks of minivets must traverse very considerable tracts of
country. They never leave the neighbourhood of trees. Their habit is to
pass methodically from tree to tree, tarrying awhile at each, seeking
for insects now on the topmost branches, where the dainty forms of the
birds stand out sharp and clear against the azure sky, now lost to view
amid the denser foliage.
Few are the lurking insects that escape the bright little eye of the
minivet. Even those resting on parts of the tree where a bird cannot
obtain a foothold do not escape, for the minivet is able to seize them
while hovering in the air on vibrating wings. Occasionally, in order to
reach a tiny victim hidden away on the under surface of a leaf, the
minivet will hang by its feet, like a titmouse, from the slender branch
that bears the leaf. At times the minivet will indulge in a little
zigzag flight among the green branches, and it is on such occasions that
the cock utters his feeble but pleasing little warble.
Fifteen species of minivet adorn India. Unfortunately, most of them are
of comparatively restricted range, being confined to the Himalayas. Two
species only, I believe, are common in South India, namely, the small
minivet (_Pericrocotus peregrinus_) and the orange minivet (_P.
flammeus_). The former is the only one likely to be seen in Madras city.
If we would see the orange species we must go to the Nilgiris or the
Western Ghauts.
Both sexes of _Pericrocotus peregrinus_ are handsome without being
showy. They are about the size of sparrows, but have a much longer tail.
The head, nape, and upper part of the back of the cock are of a rich
slaty-grey tint, which deepens into black on the sides of the head, and
on the throat, wings, and tail. There is an orange bar in the wing, and
the tail feathers are tipped with that colour. The breast and lower
portion of the back are of the richest scarlet. The female is less
showily attired than the cock; she lacks his scarlet trimmings and wears
yellow in place of his patches of orange.
The orange minivet is a still more beautiful bird. The head and the back
of the cock are black. His wings are black and flame-coloured red, the
red being so arranged as to form a band running along, not across, the
wing during flight. This longitudinal red or yellow wing-band
characterises most species of minivet. His tail feathers are all red,
save the two median ones, which are black. During flight the brilliant
red seems almost to obliterate the black, so that a number of cocks, as
they fly from one tree to another, look like sparks driven before the
wind. The hen is marked in the same way as the cock, but in her the
flaming red colour is replaced by bright yellow. In my opinion, “orange”
is not a very suitable adjective to apply to this species. A literal
translation of the Latin name—the flame-coloured minivet—would be more
appropriate.
A minivet’s nest is a work of art. As all the species construct
precisely the same kind of nursery, what is true of any one species
applies equally to all the others. The nest is a neat little cup, about
three inches in diameter, composed of twigs and grasses, and covered
outside with moss and cobwebs, so that in colour and general appearance
the exterior is exactly like the bark of a tree. It is usually placed on
a bough; if this happens to be a thick one, the nest is totally
invisible to any person looking up into the tree. If the branch happens
to be a thin one, the nursery, seen from below, looks exactly like a
knot or swelling in the branch. Thus, unless one actually sees the
minivet sitting on the nest, or climbs the tree, it is scarcely possible
to locate the little nursery. It is easy enough to discover that a pair
have a nest, for the parent birds make a great noise when a human being
comes anywhere near. If they happen to be carrying food in the beak for
the young birds, they at once drop it, set up their cry of distress and
try to entice the stranger away by flying a little distance off. If this
ruse[2] be not successful, the hen minivet will act as if her wing were
broken and flap along away from the nest.
It is an interesting fact that although minivets build open nests and
the sexes differ so considerably in appearance, both the cock and the
hen take part in incubation.
Some years ago, when writing of the small minivet, I quoted Mr. William
Jesse as describing a very curious phenomenon in connection with the
nesting of this species, namely that in his experience almost invariably
two hens and one cock take part in nest building and incubation. “What
is the exact duty of this second wife,” writes Jesse, “I cannot make
out. Possibly she may be a drudge. That she exists I have satisfied
myself time after time, and so convinced are the Martiniere boys of the
fact that they—no mean observers by the way—rarely trouble to look for a
nest if only one female is present. Unfortunately, I have never yet
found out what happens when there are young. Whether both females take
part in incubation and in rearing the young I do not know. I do not
think that both lay eggs, as I have never found more than three.” From
the time when I first read the above passage I have paid particular
attention to minivets, with the object of trying to account for the
alleged phenomenon, and the result of my efforts is that I have never
seen more than one cock and one hen at a nest, whether it be under
construction or whether it contain eggs or young. Moreover, I have not
come across any naturalist other than Mr. Jesse who has seen more than
two birds at the nest. I am therefore driven to the conclusion that
minivets are monogamous birds and that the observation recorded by Mr.
Jesse is faulty, that the presence of the second female was due to the
chance visit of an outsider. Possibly, since there seem to be more hen
minivets than cocks, there is considerable competition among the hens
for cocks, and it may happen that the hen who has set her cap at a cock
in vain may stay on in the vicinity for some time after her rejection.
[2]I use the word “ruse” for want of a better term. I do not believe
that the bird _intends_ to deceive the intruder. I am disposed to
think that this feigning of injury is a purely instinctive act. The
phenomenon is discussed on p. 207 _infra_.
V
THE POWER OF ANIMALS TO EXPRESS THOUGHT
The thoughts of birds and beasts are probably few and simple. Yet it is
unlikely that they are able to communicate all their thoughts to one
another, because the language they possess consists of a few
monosyllables, by which they can express only elementary feelings such
as pain, anger, fear, hunger, and the presence of food.
Some animals possess a much larger vocabulary than others. Dr. Garner,
who went to Africa to study the language of his Simian brothers, found
that the average monkey was able to emit only about seven cries, but the
vocabulary of the highly intelligent chimpanzee comprised twenty-two
separate calls.
According to Mr. Edmund Selous, the rook is really in process of
evolving a language. He records no fewer than thirty-three distinct
sounds he heard rooks utter, and states that this is but a small page
out of their vocabulary. Nevertheless, he is compelled to admit that
only in few cases was he able to connect a note with any particular
state of mind.
The articulate language of animals is a language of monosyllables, a
language composed almost entirely of interjections. Such a language,
while very expressive as far as it goes, does not go very far. And the
question naturally arises, does it go sufficiently far to meet the needs
of the various species, or have they some means of communicating with
one another other than by sounds? It is very tempting to believe that
they have, that they are able to transmit thought to one another in some
way. It is only on the assumption of brain waves that one can explain
the soldier-like evolutions which flocks of birds sometimes perform in
the air.
I have often wondered how those species of birds, of which both the cock
and hen take part in the nest-building operations, select the site. The
matter is, of course, simple when only the one sex constructs the nest.
But how is the site selected when both sexes build? It is tempting to
believe that they discuss the matter, that the hen says to the cock,
“Now, James, my dear, it is necessary for us to build a nest without
delay: come, let us select a secluded spot wherein to build”; and to
picture the little birds hunting about together and criticising the
sites each selects. Nevertheless, I think it most unlikely that any such
discussion takes place. Nest building is largely instinctive. In the
case of the first nest it is improbable that the little builders quite
know what they are doing, and I do not see how, before the nest is
begun, they can have any idea of what it will look like when it is
finished.
It is possible that birds agree as to the site without any discussion or
without any communication. Let us suppose that a pair of bulbuls have
mated. Suddenly one of them is overmastered by the nest-building
instinct which has hitherto lain dormant. This particular bird is
impelled by some irresistible force to seek out a site and then
forthwith to begin to build the nest. The nest-building instinct of its
mate, which is dormant, is at once awakened by the sight of its spouse
collecting material. When this happens the second bird begins
collecting, and is content to work at the structure already commenced by
its mate. Assuming the correctness of the suggestion that the
nest-building instinct does not, as a rule, become awakened
simultaneously in a pair of birds, what will happen in the exceptional
cases when the instinct does awaken simultaneously? When this happens,
it is my belief that each sex commences to build a separate nest. When
one of the pair discovers what its mate is doing, it, of course, gets
angry and scolds it. The other returns the compliment. Probably the next
step is that each examines the handiwork of the other and thinks very
little of it. Possibly at first each refuses to yield to the other, or
the one whose nest is the least advanced leaves this in favour of the
other, or—a third alternative—the stronger bird may attack the weaker
and compel it to desert its nest.
This, of course, is pure conjecture. But it is in accordance with the
fact that numbers of nests are commenced which are never completed, and
which, indeed, never progress very far. There are at present in my
verandah two nests belonging to bulbuls which have been left after about
three hours’ work was put into them. Several explanations of this
phenomenon are possible. Each bird may have commenced a separate nest,
and so one was deserted; or the site in question may have been found to
have some fatal defect, consequently the nest has been given up; or the
birds have been scared away or killed. The last alternative is the least
likely, and I am inclined to believe that the first explanation is the
true one.
I recently read in _Country Life_ an exceedingly interesting account of
the nest-building operations of a pair of wagtails. The account is brief
and has so important a bearing on the subject we are discussing that I
take the liberty to quote at length:—
“From the cover of a riverside cottage,” writes Mr. Alfred Taylor of the
grey wagtail in England, “I saw two birds repeatedly fly to a rocky
ledge both with nest-building material in their beaks. It was soon
evident that the male wagtail had selected one nest and the female
another place a couple of yards away. The former for some time took no
notice of the doings of his mate, and they both continued to gather
materials into their selected places. Suddenly he flew to her position
and commenced removing her material to the place where he thought the
nest ought to be. Trouble seemed to be brewing in the family, especially
when she still persisted in carrying dead grass to her site. In the end
the cock bird lost his temper, flew to her ledge, and viciously attacked
her, knocking off the ledge all evidence of her efforts at building. She
flew away, and for a couple of hours remained perched in a tree and
sulked, evidently much upset at her chastisement, not taking the
slightest notice of overtures of peace from her mate. As the deadlock
seemed likely to continue I departed.
“Two days later I was round again, eager to see how the difference had
been settled, if at all. To my great surprise, I must confess, the male
bird had given way to the female, and the nearly completed nest was on
her chosen site. A close examination of the two places showed that the
judgment of the male had been at fault. Where he had erred was in not
detecting the presence of mice; it was quite impossible for these
destructive little animals to reach the spot selected by the hen.”
Here, then, is a case of the cock having selected one site and the hen
another. Had they gone about choosing a site in company and disagreed
upon the place, it is hardly likely that the cock would for some time
have taken no notice of what the hen was doing; he would surely have set
his foot down at once. The fact that at first he took no notice seems to
show that at the outburst of what I may perhaps call the fury of
nest-building the cock had eyes for nothing but his work. Again, when
the cock did assert his authority, he apparently did not argue with the
hen. He simply knocked her and her handiwork off the ledge—a rude but
forcible, if inarticulate, method of expressing his feelings.
It may be asked, how was it that the birds agreed to the change of site
if they were not able to communicate with one another? Here, again, we
must wander into the field of conjecture. It must suffice that it is
possible to explain the change of tactics of the cock without assuming
any communication between him and his mate. Let us suppose that while
she was sulking, and he was working, a mouse appeared on the scene. This
would alarm him, and possibly the instinct of flying from enemies, that
the appearance of the mouse called into play, would cause him to desert
his nest, and perhaps he too began to sulk. Then the hen, once again
overcome by the nest-building instinct, recommenced her work, and when
the cock followed suit he left his useless site and worked at hers.
Investigation into the extent to which birds and beasts can communicate
with one another is as difficult as it is fascinating. It is one of
those subjects of which probably but little can be learned by systematic
experiment. The casual observer is as likely to throw light upon it as
the man who makes a special study of it. A chance incident, such as that
observed by Mr. Taylor, throws a flood of light upon the subject. It is
not until we have a large number of such observations on record that we
shall be able to acquire some definite knowledge of the extent to which
birds and beasts can, and do, communicate with one another.
VI
PIED WOODPECKERS
No fewer than fifty-six species of woodpecker occur in India, and of
these thirteen wear a pied livery. The black-and-white woodpeckers are
all small birds. Most of them are of very limited distribution, several
being confined to the Himalayas and the connected hills. One species is
peculiar to the Andamans. One pied woodpecker, however, ranges from
Cochin China, through India, to Ceylon, but its distribution, although
wide, is capricious. It is abundant in all parts of North-West India,
but is said not to occur in Eastern Bengal and Assam. I do not remember
having seen it in Madras, yet it is the common woodpecker of Bombay. The
bird is easily identified. A pied woodpecker seen in South India can
belong to no species other than that which is known as _Liopicus
mahrattensis_ to men of science. The English name of this species is the
yellow-fronted pied woodpecker. It is clothed in black-and-white raiment
set off by a yellow forehead, and, in the case of the cock, a short red
crest. There is also a patch of red on the abdomen, but this is not
likely to be seen in the living bird, which presents only its back to
the observer as it seeks its insect quarry on the trunks and boughs of
trees. In the lower plumage the white predominates; the lower back is
white, as are the sides of the head and neck. The shoulders, upper back,
wings, and tail are black speckled with white.
Its habits are those of the woodpecker family. It moves about in a jerky
manner, like a mechanical toy. Its method is to start low down on the
trunk of a tree and work upwards, searching for insects. Unlike the
nut-hatch, the woodpecker seems to object to working head downwards, so
that, when it reaches the top of the tree, it flies off to another. Its
movements in the air are as jerky as those on the tree-trunk.
While other birds are hunting for insects that fly in the air, or creep
on the ground, or lurk under the leaves of trees, the woodpecker has
designs on those that burrow into tree-trunks or hide in the crevices of
the bark. These the woodpecker evicts by means of its bill and tongue.
The former is stout and square at the end, which presents a chisel-like
edge. The bird is thereby enabled to cut holes in the hardest wood.
Occasionally it literally excavates its quarry, but, as a rule, it is
not obliged to resort to such drastic measures. A series of vigorous
taps on the bark under which insects are lurking usually frightens them
to such an extent that they bolt from their hiding-places as hastily as
men leave their habitations during an earthquake. When the insects
expose themselves the woodpecker’s tongue comes into operation. This
organ is a fly-paper of the most approved “catch-’em-alive-o” type. It
is covered with a secretion as sticky as bird-lime. The insects it
touches adhere to it, one and all are drawn into the woodpecker’s mouth,
and forthwith gathered unto their fathers!
The nest is of the usual woodpecker type, that is to say, a cavity in
the trunk or a thick branch of a tree, partially, at any rate, excavated
by the bird. Although the chisel-like bill of the woodpecker can cut the
hardest wood, the bird usually selects for the site of its nest a part
of the tree where the internal wood is rotten. This, of course, means
less work for the bird. The only hard labour it has then to perform is
to cut through the sound external wood a neat, round passage leading to
the decayed core. When once this is reached, little further effort is
required.
Last year I spent a few days at Easter in the Himalayas, and there had
leisure to watch a pair of pied woodpeckers at work on their nest. These
birds were brown-fronted pied woodpeckers—_Dendrocopus auriceps_. Their
nest was being excavated in the trunk of a large rhododendron tree, at a
spot some thirty feet from the ground. When I first began to watch the
birds the cock was at work. He confined his operations to a spot about
four inches from the surface, so that, as he hammered away, his head,
neck, and a part of his shoulders disappeared in the hole. His fore toes
grasped the inside of the aperture, and his hind toes the bark of the
tree. The wood at which he was working was sufficiently hard to cause
the taps of his bill to ring out clearly. After I had been watching him
for about ten minutes he flew off to a tree hard by and uttered a number
of curious low notes. Then his spouse appeared and he caressed her.
After this both birds flew off. A few seconds later the hen came to the
nest hole and set to work. Her efforts were not directed to the part of
the cavity at which the cock had been working. Her taps were at a spot
deeper down, so that while at work her tail, although at right angles to
her body, derived no support from the trunk. She was operating on soft
wood, hence the tapping of her bill was scarcely audible. After working
for about eight minutes she began to remove the chips of wood she had
detached. This operation is performed so rapidly that it is apt to be
overlooked. The bird plunges its head into the hollow, seizes some
chips, draws out its head and jerks this violently to one side, usually
to the right, and thus casts the chips over its shoulder.
After the hen had been at work for nearly ten minutes she flew away.
Within one minute and a half of her departure the cock arrived on the
scene, and at once set to work in a most business-like fashion. He now
operated on the right side of the cavity, and not at the spot to which
his wife had directed her attention. After working for exactly
twenty-five minutes the cock flew off. Then for a fraction over ten
minutes the hole was deserted. At the end of this time it was the cock
who again appeared. He put in a spell of thirty-five minutes’ work, in
the course of which he indulged in a “breather” lasting three minutes. I
then went away, and returned nearly three hours later, by which time the
work had advanced to such an extent that when a bird was excavating at
the deepest part of the cavity only the tail and the tip of the wing
were visible. I found that the habit of the birds was to cease working
about 4 p.m. I do not know at what hour they commenced work.
Five days later the nest hole had attained such a size that the birds
were able to turn round in it, and so now emerged head foremost. When
throwing away the chips, the head of the bird would appear at the
aperture with the beak full of chips and dispose of them with a jerk of
the head. The head of a woodpecker at the entrance to its hole is a
pretty sight, so bright and keen is its eye. The excavation of the nest
from start to finish probably occupies from ten to fourteen days.
The yellow-fronted pied woodpecker sometimes selects as a nesting site a
spot in a tree-trunk only a few inches above the level of the ground.
Some years ago my ignorance of this fact afforded me a rather amusing
experience. I noticed a pied woodpecker with some insects in its bill.
Obviously it was about to carry these to its young. As there was only
one clump of about six trees in the vicinity the nest was necessarily in
one of these. Having half an hour to spare, I determined to wait and
discover the whereabouts of the nest. The sun was powerful, so I elected
to squat in the shade close by the trunk of the smallest of the trees. I
anticipated that the woodpecker would fly direct to its nest with the
food. Birds that nest in holes are usually quite indifferent to the
presence of man; instinct teaches them that their nest is in an
inaccessible place. But, in this instance, the bird kept hopping about
looking very distressed. Consequently, I came to the conclusion that its
nest must be in the trunk of the tree near which I was crouching. I
stood up and examined the trunk carefully, but found no signs of a nest.
I again sat down and waited until the patience of the woodpecker should
be exhausted, but it continued to hop about on a log of wood with the
food in its beak and disgust plainly depicted in its face. At the end of
half an hour I went off mystified. The following day I returned to the
spot, and the first thing that caught my eye was the entrance to the
woodpecker’s nest eight inches off the ground in the trunk by which I
had sat on the previous day. I had then unwittingly been blocking the
approach of the bird!
VII
A JHIL OUT OF SEASON
Even as every English seaside resort has its “season,” so is there for
every Indian _jhil_ a period of the year when it is thronged with avian
visitors. At other times of the year the _jhil_, like the seaside town,
is, comparatively speaking, deserted. The season of the _jhil_ extends
from October to April—a term long enough to turn the average
lodging-house keeper green with envy! During the winter months the
_jhils_ of Northern India are full to overflowing with ducks, geese,
coots, pelicans, cormorants, and waders of every length of leg. As the
weather grows hot, the majority of these take to their wings and hie
themselves to cooler climes, where they enter upon the joyous toil of
rearing up their families. Thus, from May to September, the permanent
residents hold undisputed possession of the _jhil_. The number of these
permanent residents is considerable, so that a _jhil_, even in the
rains, when it contains most water, has not the forlorn appearance of,
let us say, Margate in winter.
It is very pleasant during a short break in the rains to visit a _jhil_
late in the afternoon, especially if a breeze be blowing. The sky
presents a panorama of clouds of the most varied and fantastic shapes,
to which the setting sun imparts hues wonderful and beautiful. The
slanting rays are reflected and refracted from cloud to cloud, so that
not infrequently there appear to be two suns behind the clouds, a major
one setting in the west and a minor one sinking to the eastern horizon.
The earth below is very beautiful. It is clothed in a mantle of green of
every hue, from the vivid emerald of the young rice crop to the dark
bluish green of the pipal tree. As likely as not the _jhil_ is so
thickly studded with grasses and other aquatic plants as to present the
appearance, from a little distance, of a number of flooded fields, in
most of which are well-grown crops—the water being visible only in
patches here and there.
The most conspicuous of the occupants of the _jhil_ are the snow-white
egrets (_Herodias alba_). These birds, which attain a length of a yard,
strut about solemnly in the shallower parts of the lake, seeking their
quarry. Their long necks project high above the vegetation; so slender
are these that they might almost belong to swans. Here and there stands
motionless a “long-necked heron, dread of nimble eels” (_Ardea
cinerea_), waiting patiently until a luckless frog shall approach. The
grey plumage of this species, dull and sober though it be, stands out in
bold contrast to the surrounding greenery. In another part of the _jhil_
a couple of sarus cranes (_Grus antigone_) are visible. This is the only
species of crane resident in India; the others are to be numbered among
those which visit the _jhil_ in the “season.” One of the saruses, like
the heroine of the “penny dreadful,” has drawn himself up to his full
height, and his grey form, relieved by patches of red and white on the
head and neck, shows well against the background of dark foliage. His
mate is apparently sitting down. This probably indicates the presence of
a nest. To discover this we must wade and chance an occasional immersion
to the waist. Risking this, we advance, to the disgust of the saruses,
who set up a loud trumpeting. Sometimes the parent birds attack the
intruders. Such conduct is, however, rare. Usually the sarus indulges in
Lloyd-Georgian methods of meeting an enemy.
The nest in question is a pile of rushes and water-weeds, rising a
couple of feet from the water and large enough for a man to stand upon.
It contains two whitish eggs faintly blotched with yellowish brown.
Viewed from the margin, the _jhil_ appears to be utterly devoid of
waterfowl; but in this case things are not what they seem. Before we
have waded far in the direction of the nest of the sarus, numbers of
duck and teal which were hidden by the sedges and grasses get up and fly
to another part of the _jhil_. The first birds to be disturbed are some
cotton-teal (_Nettopus coromandelianus_). As these consist of a flock of
eight or ten they are obviously not nesting. The cotton-teal drake is a
bird easy to identify. Its small size, white head, and black necklace
are unmistakable, and the white margins to the wings are very
conspicuous during flight.
On another part of the _jhil_ a pair of spot-billed ducks (_Anas
poecilorhyncha_) settle down. These are recognisable even at a
considerable distance when in the water by the white patch on each
flank. As there are two of these birds together it is probable that they
have a nest hidden in one of the sedge-covered islets studded about the
tank. The other ducks disturbed by our approach are whistling teal
(_Dendrocycna javanica_), which occur in considerable flocks, and a few
comb-duck (_Sarcidiornis melanotus_). All these species of duck and teal
are permanent residents in India.
Not a single coot is to be seen upon the _jhil_. The explanation of this
is that this particular tank dries up in the hot weather, and coots
usually keep to those lakes that contain water all the year round.
Half a dozen terns form a conspicuous and beautiful feature of the
_jhil_. As they sail overhead, with every now and then a descent to the
water to secure a frog or small fish, their silvery wings stand out
boldly from a dark cloud on the southern horizon. The terns at the
_jhil_ are all of the black-bellied species (_Sterna melanogaster_). The
other species haunt rivers in preference to shallow lakes.
Last, but not least, mention must be made of Pallas’s fishing eagle
(_Haliaetus leucoryphus_). One or more pairs of this bird are to be seen
in the vicinity of every _jhil_. In the earlier part of the day they are
active, screaming creatures, but when once they have made a good meal
off a teal or some fish they become very sluggish. Two of them are
sitting about fifty yards apart on a _band_ alongside the _jhil_,
looking like kites with whitish heads. They sit as motionless as
statues. They are obviously feeling very lazy. Presently a king-crow
(_Dicrurus ater_) comes up and, uttering that soft note which seems to
be peculiar to the rainy season, makes repeated feints at the head of
one of the fishing eagles. Save for a slight inclination of the head,
the eagle pays no attention to the attack of its puny adversary.
Eventually, the king-crow gives up in despair and flies off, probably to
find something which will take more notice of his threatening
demonstrations.
Even when I approach the fishing eagle the phlegmatic bird only flies a
few yards. There is no creature more sluggish than a bird or beast of
prey that has recently made a good meal.
VIII
BIRDS IN WHITE
Almost every species of bird and beast throws off an occasional
albinistic variation or sport, which tends to breed true. Such sports
are of two kinds—complete and incomplete albinos. In the former, the
organism is totally devoid of external pigment, so that the eye looks
red, there being no colouring matter in the iris to mask the small blood
vessels in it. In the incomplete albinistic form the iris retains the
pigment, so that the eye colour is normal. True albinos have very poor
sight, hence when such sports occur in a species in a state of nature
they soon perish in the struggle for existence. The white varieties with
pigmented eyes are not handicapped by bad eyesight, but their whiteness
makes them conspicuous to the creatures that prey upon them; so that,
unless they are well able to defend themselves or unless they dwell in a
region of everlasting snow, they tend to be eliminated by natural
selection.
If protective colouring were as important to the welfare of birds as
Wallaceians and modern Darwinians assert, all the birds of the Polar
regions would be white and not a single white species would be found in
the temperate zones or in the Tropics. That coloured species occur in
the Arctic regions and white species in the Tropics is conclusive proof
that in those particular cases, at any rate, it is not of paramount
importance to the species that they be protectively coloured.
Finn and I have shown in _The Making of Species_ that the ice-bound
Arctic and Antarctic regions are not inhabited, as popular works on
zoology would have us believe, by a snow-white fauna. We have shown that
in the Polar countries the coloured species of birds outnumber the white
species. I will, therefore, not dilate further upon this subject. It
will suffice to repeat that in the area of eternal snow the white forms
are at an advantage in the struggle for existence, as their whiteness
tends to render them difficult to see, while, in regions where snow is
unknown, such organisms labour under a disadvantage because of their
conspicuousness, and, other things being equal, they ought not to be
able to hold their own against less showy rivals.
The fact that white birds exist in the plains of India must mean that
their colour is not a matter of great importance, that a conspicuous
organism can survive in the fight for life provided it be otherwise well
equipped for the contest. From this it follows that it is incorrect to
speak of the whiteness of such organisms as the direct product of
natural selection.
Let us take a brief survey of those birds of India of which the plumage
is largely white, and try to discover how it is that each of them is
able to hold its own in the struggle for existence, notwithstanding its
showy plumage. These birds are the spoonbill, the egrets, the
black-winged stilt, the avocet, the white ibis, the flamingo, adult cock
paradise flycatcher, and certain of the gulls, terns, pelicans and
storks, including the open-bill. With many of these every one is
familiar. Accordingly, it will not be necessary to describe the sea
gulls, the pelicans or the flamingo.
The spoonbill (_Platalea leucorodia_) is a bird larger than a kite with
very long black legs and a bill of the same hue which is flat and
expanded at the end like a spoon, hence the popular name of the bird.
Perhaps another name for the bird—Banjo-bill—still better describes its
beak. Spoonbills dwell on the fringe of water and feed much as ducks do.
The white ibis (_Ibis melanocephala_) is another wading bird, rather
smaller than the spoonbill and with considerably shorter legs. All its
plumage is white, but the legs, bill, and featherless head and upper
neck are black. The bill is long and curved like that of the curlew. The
stilt (_Himantopus candidus_) may be described as a sandpiper on red
stilts. It is a white bird with dark wings and back which spends its
days wading in shallow water. The avocet (_Recurvirostra avocetta_) is
perhaps the most elegant of all wading birds. It is slightly bigger than
the stilt but with shorter legs. Its body is white picked out with
black. Its most characteristic feature is a long, slender bill which
curves upwards. Like the species already mentioned, it feeds in shallow
water, and I have seen it on the Cooum.
The open-bill (_Anastomus oscitans_) looks like a shabby specimen of the
common white stork. It is characterised by a peculiar beak, of which the
mandibles do not meet in the middle and look as though they had been
bent in an attempt to crack a hard nut. The egrets, of which there are
several species in India, are snow-white, heron-like birds. The most
familiar is the cattle egret (_Bubulcus coromandus_), which Finn
characterises as one of the most picturesque birds in the East. This is
the bird that struts along beside a cow or buffalo and seizes the
grasshoppers disturbed by the motion of the quadruped. It is the least
aquatic of all the egrets, most of which are true waders.
Terns may be described as very graceful and slenderly built gulls. Their
feet are webbed, so that they can swim after the manner of ducks and sea
gulls, but they spend most of their time on their powerful pinions and
so elegant is their flight that they have been called sea-swallows. The
adult cock paradise flycatcher (_Terpsiphone paradisi_) is one of the
most beautiful birds in the world. As he is described in another essay
it is only necessary for me to state in this place that he is a white
bird with a black-crested head. He is not much larger than a sparrow,
but his two median tail feathers are twenty inches in length and float
behind him like streamers of white satin as he flits from tree to tree.
It will be observed that of the above list of Indian birds that are
mainly white, only the paradise flycatcher belongs to the great Order of
_Passeres_; moreover, with this exception, all are wading or aquatic
birds. These are significant facts if we can interpret them aright. I
interpret them in the following manner. It may be taken as a fact that
every species throws off occasionally white mutations or sports, which
breed true, so that, if allowed to persist, they form the starting point
for new varieties and species. As most passerine birds are small and
preyed upon by the _raptores_, white varieties among them usually perish
at an early age on account of their conspicuousness. Thus there are very
few white passerine birds. The paradise flycatcher lives amid thick
foliage, and so is comparatively immune from the attacks of birds of
prey; but even here it is note-worthy that the hens are not white but
chestnut in colour throughout life, and the cocks have chestnut-coloured
plumage until they are two years old. As the cock shares in the duties
of incubation equally with the hen, her failure to acquire white plumage
cannot be accounted for by supposing her to have a greater need of
protection. Finn has suggested that the whiteness of the cock is a
senile character; that it is the livery of old age.
The majority of the non-passerine birds that are altogether or mainly
white are large and able to fight well, so that they are comparatively
immune from the attacks of raptorial birds. The gulls and terns,
although small, fly so powerfully as to be equally safe. In the case of
birds which secure their food in the water, whiteness is probably useful
in rendering them less conspicuous to organisms living in the liquid
medium than they would be were they coloured.
Further, whiteness of feather seems to be correlated in some way with
the power to resist cold and damp.
It should be noted that not one of the larger fruit-eating birds is
white. The reason of this would seem to be that in the case of
non-aquatic birds such white species possess no advantage in the
struggle for existence, but, on the contrary, the whiteness of their
plumage is perhaps correlated with weakness of constitution. This, of
course, is a heavier handicap to a large bird than being conspicuous is.
The correlation or interdependence of various characteristics and organs
is a subject full of interest, but one which has hitherto attracted
comparatively little attention. Close study of this phenomenon may
eventually revolutionise zoological thought. Whether this surmise prove
right or wrong, one thing is certain, and that is there is more in the
philosophy of whiteness than the old-fashioned evolutionist dreams of.
IX
THE PIED CRESTED CUCKOO
The pied crested cuckoo (_Coccystes jacobinus_) is the most handsome of
all the cuckoos. He is more than this. He stands out head and shoulders
above his fellow-deceivers. Lest these words should convey an
exaggerated idea of his splendour, let me say that they do not
necessarily mean very much. Among the family of parasitic cuckoos the
standard of beauty is not high. Most of the _Cuculidæ_ not only lack
bright colours, ornamental plumes, and other superfluous appendages, but
are also devoid of the smart appearance and soldier-like bearing that
characterise the great majority of the feathered folk. Thus it cometh to
pass that the pied crested cuckoo, although he cannot hold a candle to
such birds as the paradise flycatcher or the oriole, is able to point
the claw of scorn at his fellow-cuckoos. His black-and-white livery is
distinctly stylish and is embellished by a crest that does not lie down
as though it were ashamed of itself, but projects prettily from the back
of the head.
Even as a little girl of my acquaintance calls every plump Indian a
Bengali, so do the inhabitants of Bengal call all birds possessing these
pretty crests bulbuls. On this principle the Bengali name for the pied
crested cuckoo is _Kola bulbul_. On the other hand, black bulbuls
(_Hypsipetes_), which possess no crests, are not recognised as bulbuls
by the natives of India. Obviously, the crest maketh the bulbul.
The pied crested cuckoo is a bird that is easily recognised. The upper
parts of his plumage are black, his lower parts and the tips of his tail
feathers are white. There is in each wing a conspicuous white bar. Then,
there is the black crest. As regards size the plumage of the common
cuckoo would fit our pied crested friend like a glove.
But it is not necessary to set eyes on him in order to recognise him. To
hear him sufficeth. In this respect he differs in no way from his
brother cuckoos. A silent cuckoo is unthinkable. The generating of sound
is to the cuckoo what wine is to the wine-bibber, poker to the gambler,
fighting to the soldier, “votes for women” to the Suffragette. According
to cuculine philosophy, life without noise is but the image of death.
The reason of this is obvious. At the breeding season a vast amount of
surplus energy is generated in birds. This has to find some outlet. It
is usually dissipated in the form of vocal effort, the dances and antics
of courtship, and the labours of nest building and feeding the young. Or
it may find expression in more concrete form in the growth of plumes and
other ornaments. To the parasitic cuckoos most of these outlets are
closed. They do not produce nuptial ornaments; to build nests they know
not how. They are denied the pleasurable labours of rearing up their
offspring. They do not appear to indulge in elaborate courtship. All
their superfluous energy is sent forth in the form of noise. Watch any
cuckoo while he is calling, be it the cheery _canorus_, who gladdens the
Himalayas, or the koel or the brain-fever bird or the pied crested
cuckoo, who enliven the plains, and you will be driven to the conclusion
that they are demented creatures. Although the frenzied screaming of the
pied cuckoo is easily recognised, it is difficult to describe. “Its
call,” writes Stuart Baker, “is a very loud metallic double note, too
harsh to be called a whistle. In the early part of the season, before
its voice has fully formed, its cries are particularly harsh and
disagreeable, and the second note, which should be the same in tone as
the first, often goes off at a tangent. Later on in the year, though it
becomes more noisy than ever, its notes are rather musical.”
Much remains to be discovered regarding the distribution of the pied
crested cuckoo in India. Although it has been observed in most parts of
the country, it appears to undergo considerable local migration. In
Northern India I have seen the bird only during the rains, but I believe
that there are cases on record of its occurring there in winter. On the
other hand, I have seen pied crested cuckoos in Madras in July, at which
time they are supposed all to migrate northwards. An anonymous writer
recently put forward the theory that our Indian cuckoos are not really
migratory, that they appear to migrate because of their skulking habits.
Cuckoos are loved by their fellow-birds about as much as Lord Morley is
loved by Anglo-Indians. As cuckoos dislike demonstrations, the theory is
that they habitually shun observation, and are therefore not noticed,
except at the breeding season, when their loud excited calls betray
their presence. This theory is a plausible one, but the facts are, I
think, against it. There can be no doubt that some species of cuckoo are
migratory. Indeed, one of the earlier theories to account for the
parasitic habits of the common cuckoo was that the bird did not stay in
England sufficiently long to enable it to rear up a brood. Again, the
Indian koel (_Eudynamis honorata_) certainly migrates. No bird is
commoner in Lahore in the hot weather, but I did not set eyes upon the
bird there in the course of two winters during which I took several
walks a week, armed with field-glasses. Likewise the pied crested cuckoo
is also migratory, but the particular direction of its movements remains
to be established. I would ask every one interested in birds to make a
note of each date on which this cuckoo is seen.
The parasitic habits of the pied cuckoo are interesting. The bird
victimises various species of babbler, more especially the jungle
babbler (_Crateropus canorus_) and the large grey babbler (_Argya
malcomi_). There is nothing particularly remarkable in this, for
babblers are the favourite dupes of Indian cuckoos. The point that is of
interest is that the common hawk-cuckoo, or brain-fever bird
(_Hierococcyx varius_) also victimises the seven sisters. Now this
cuckoo is much like a hawk in appearance, so much so that it affords the
stock example of aggressive mimicry among birds. Says the Wallaceian:
“This cuckoo resembles a hawk so closely that small birds mistake it for
one. When the nesting babblers see it, they flee for their lives, and
the cuckoo—the ass in the lion’s skin—seizes the opportunity to deposit
an egg in the momentarily deserted nest. The strange egg is not noticed
by the babblers on their return because it is blue like theirs. We thus
see how natural selection has brought about the hawk-like appearance of
the brain-fever bird, and caused the egg to become blue.” If all cuckoos
parasitic on babblers were like hawks in appearance, I should have
nothing to urge against the above explanation. Unfortunately for the
Wallaceians, the pied crested and other cuckoos, which do not look in
the least like hawks, successfully dupe the seven sisters. It would
seem, therefore, that this elaborate disguise of the hawk-cuckoo is
quite unnecessary. I grant that it may make very smooth the path of the
brain-fever bird. This, however, is not enough. As I have repeatedly
said, almost I fear _ad nauseam_, natural selection cannot be said to
have brought about a structural peculiarity which is proved to be merely
useful, and not essential. Unless it can be shown that, but for a
certain peculiarity, a species would have perished, it is incorrect to
speak of natural selection as having fixed that characteristic in the
species by eliminating all individuals that did not possess it.
Moreover, if it can be shown that any specified character has such a
survival value, the selectionist has still to prove that the
characteristic had this value at the earliest, and at each successive
stage of its development.
I submit, then, that the Wallaceian’s explanation of the hawk-like
appearance of the brain-fever bird is in all probability not the correct
one. In the same way it is doubtful whether the blue eggs of the
brain-fever bird and the pied crested cuckoo can be fairly laid to the
charge of natural selection. The common cuckoo sometimes lays its eggs,
which are not blue, in the nests of birds whose eggs are blue, for
example the hedge-sparrow in England and the Himalayan laughing thrush
in India.
The pied crested cuckoo, when it first leaves the nest, differs
considerably from the adult in appearance. Its upper parts are slaty
grey, and its lower parts, the wing patch and the tips of the outer tail
feathers are pale buff, so that the young cuckoo, when flying, might
easily be mistaken for a bank myna (_Acridotheres ginginianus_) but for
the length of its tail. Like all young cuckoos, it is a greedy,
querulous thing. It sits on a branch, clamouring continually for food,
flapping its wings and uttering a very fair imitation of the babbler
call.
September is the month in which to look out for young pied cuckoos.
Those that I have seen appear always to be unaccompanied by
foster-brothers or sisters. This would seem to indicate either that the
parent cuckoos destroy the legitimate eggs at the time of depositing
their own, or that the young birds have the depraved habits of the
youthful _Cuculus canorus_. But there are cases on record of young pied
crested cuckoos being accompanied by young babblers. It is thus evident
that much remains to be discovered regarding the habits of _Coccystes
jacobinus_.
X
VULTURES
Having dealt in _Bombay Ducks_ with what I may perhaps term the domestic
vulture of India—_Neophron ginginianus_, or Pharaoh’s chicken—I do not
propose again to discuss this worthy but ugly fowl. Nevertheless, before
passing on to the aristocratic vultures, I cannot resist the temptation
to reproduce Phil Robinson’s inimitable description of our familiar
_Neophron_: “A shabby-looking fowl of dirty white plumage, about the
size of an able-bodied hen, but disproportionately long for its height,
pacing seriously along the high road, taking each step with its legs set
wide apart, with all the circumspection of a Chinaman among papers, but
keeping its eyes as busily about it for chance morsels of refuse as any
other professional scavenger. The traffic, both of vehicles and foot
passengers, may be considerable, but the vulture is a municipal
institution and knows it. No one thinks of molesting it; indeed, if it
chose to obstruct the footpath, the natives would make way for it.
Children let it alone, and dogs do not run after it. So it goes plodding
through its day’s work, solemn, and shabby, and hungry, uncomplaining,
and poor, and at night flaps up into some tree and quietly dozes off to
sleep.” _Neophron ginginianus_ always puts me in mind of the heroes in
some of George Gissing’s novels.