8 a.m.—(One hour after sunrise) woke up.
8—8.30—Pruned my feathers.
8.30—Flew to my fishing ground.
8.32—Settled there for the day.
8.40—9—Caught a few water insects for breakfast.
9—10—Had a nap.
10.30—Caught a frog.
10.32—12—Had a nap.
12.15—Caught another frog.
12.17—2—Had a nap.
2.20—Caught a third frog.
2.22—Walked three yards.
2.24—4—Had a nap.
4.40—Caught a fourth frog.
5—6—Had a nap.
6.15—6.30—Caught and ate my supper.
6.30—Flew to roost.
6.35—40—Had a row with a neighbour who had taken my private roosting
site.
7 p.m. onwards—Slept the sleep of the just.
The above is not a statement of actual fact. Like many scientific
productions it is based on imagination and not observation. I have not
yet devoted a whole day to the paddy bird. I have, however, spent an
hour at a pond heron’s dormitory and record in the next chapter what I
saw there.
At the nesting season the paddy birds awake from their habitual
lethargy. Towards the end of June they begin to make a collection of
sticks and pile these together on a forked branch high up in some tree.
When the pile has reached a magnitude sufficient to support four or five
eggs the paddy bird flatters itself that it has built a fine nest and
forthwith proceeds to stock it with eggs. This species usually nests in
colonies, sometimes in company with night herons (_Nycticorax griseus_),
and occasionally with crows. Seen from below the nursery looks rather
like an old crow’s nest. The eggs are a beautiful pale green. They are
most jealously watched by the parents; one or other always remaining on
guard, and, every now and then, gurgling with delight.
The youngsters hatch out in a comparatively advanced condition. A baby
pond heron about a week old is a most amusing object. It has a long,
narrow, pinkish beak, quite unlike the broad triangle that does duty for
a mouth in passerine birds. Its neck is disproportionately long, while
its green legs are many sizes too big for it. Downy feathers are
scattered irregularly over the body, and add to the absurdity of its
appearance. The eye is bright yellow and gives its possessor a very
knowing look.
Most birds when they have young work like slaves to procure sufficient
food for them. Not so the paddy bird. He knows a trick worth two of
that. He is a past master in the art of loafing. He does not feed his
offspring on tiny insects, dozens of which are required to make a decent
meal; he forces whole frogs down the elastic gullet of the nestling. Now
the most ravenous and greedy young bird cannot negotiate very many frogs
per diem; hence the feeding of their young is not a great tax upon paddy
birds.
XIX
PADDY BIRDS AT BEDTIME
The paddy bird (_Ardeola grayii_) is at all times and all seasons as
solemn as the proverbial judge; hence at bedtime, when all other birds
are hilarious and excited, he is comparatively sedate.
Paddy birds, in common with the great majority of the feathered kind,
roost in company. At sunrise, the company separates. Each goes his own
way to his favourite river, paddy-field, tank, pond or puddle, as the
case may be, and spends the day in morose solitude. At sunset he rejoins
his fellow pond herons.
Growing out of the water in a small tank near the railway station at
Fyzabad are three trees, one of which is quite small, while the other
two are about the size of well-grown apple trees. This description is
perhaps as vague as saying of an object that it is as big as a piece of
chalk. I am sorry. I cannot help it. I know of no accurate method of
judging the size of a tree that is surrounded by dirty, slimy water. On
one of these trees, like unto an apple tree, over fifty paddy birds
spend the night.
One might have thought that this was a very fair load for an average
tree. This, however, is not the opinion of the feathered folk. Some 300
or 400 mynas also utilise this tree as a dormitory. The mynas occupy the
higher branches, and the paddy birds the lower ones.
As every one knows, the roosting place of a company of mynas is a
perfect pandemonium. For thirty or forty minutes before going to sleep
each individual bird shouts at every other individual with truly
splendid energy. If man could but devise some means of harnessing this
energy, every station in India might be lighted with electric light at a
very small cost. As things are, all this energy is dissipated in the
form of sound, with the result that the noise made by 300 starlings can
be heard at a distance of half a mile.
One might reasonably suppose that a quiet, sedate bird like _Ardeola
grayii_ would be greatly disgusted at the din that emanates from the
throats of mynas at bedtime, and would refrain from selecting as his
dormitory a tree that literally quivers with the shoutings of mynas. It
is, however, not so. Birds rarely do what one would expect. I know
hundreds of ideal sites for birds’ nests that are never utilised. _Per
contra_, I have met with numbers of nests situated in the most
uncomfortable and evil-smelling places. Paddy birds obviously do not
suffer from nerves.
For about fifteen minutes before and fifteen minutes after sunset the
tree in which all these birds roost presents an animated appearance. One
or two paddy birds are the first to arrive, and they settle on one or
other of the lower branches which almost touch the water. Nearly all
birds, on approaching the tree in which they roost, literally throw
themselves into the foliage, they plunge into it at headlong speed.
Needless to say, the paddy bird does nothing so reckless as this;
nevertheless, when approaching the tree in which he intends to spend the
night he travels faster than at any other time, except, of course, when
he is being chased by a falcon. The advance-guard of the mynas arrives
very shortly after the first _bagla_. The mynas belong to two
species—the common and the bank mynas (_Acridotheres tristis_ and _A.
ginginianus_). They come in squads of twenty or thirty. The various
squads arrive in rapid succession. Then the uproar begins and continues
to swell in volume as the numbers in the tree increase.
The paddy birds come in ones and twos, and, as stated, invariably alight
on one of the lower branches. They usually select a branch so thin that
it would be impossible for so large a bird to obtain a foothold on it
did not the claws of that bird grip like a vice; and even so it is not
without much flapping of their white wings that the pond herons manage
to reach a state of equilibrium.
If, when a paddy bird has succeeded in steadying itself on a slender
branch two feet or so above the level of the water, another feckless
fellow elects to alight on the selfsame branch, there follows trouble
compared to which the Turco-Italian War is, as the babu says, a mere
storm in a teapot; both birds seem in danger of taking a bath. On such
occasions, the bird first on the tree greets the new-comer with gurgles
of protest, there is much flapping of white wings, and eventually one or
both the birds have to leave the branch.
But it is not until the tree is filled with birds that the real fun
begins. When about forty paddy birds are squatting on the lower branches
and over 300 mynas on the upper ones, it will be well understood that
there is not much accommodation available for new arrivals. When a
belated myna appears on the scene and plunges into the midst of his
brother starlings, he is greeted with such a torrent of abuse that,
although, in the gathering gloom, one cannot see what is going on amid
the foliage, one feels convinced that the abuse is backed up by assault
and battery. If, on the other hand, the luckless myna pitches into the
tree at a lower elevation, he is liable to find himself transfixed by
the stiletto-like beak of the nearest paddy bird, the savage thrust
being accompanied by a lugubrious croak which seems to be the only note
of the paddy bird. Nine out of ten mynas prefer incurring the wrath of
their own kind to bringing down upon themselves the less noisy but more
formidable anger of the pond heron.
If the mynas are packed like sardines in a box, the paddy birds lower
down are not much more comfortable. It is true that the paddy birds are
not squeezed together after the manner of the mynas, for the simple
reason that if more than two of them attempted to squat on any but the
stoutest of the branches they would all find themselves immersed in the
slimy, unsavoury water beneath. The discomfort of the paddy birds is of
another kind. Each one is balancing himself on an insecure perch and
lives in momentary terror of being displaced by the advent of some other
_bagla_. Hence, when the tree contains about forty herons, every fresh
arrival is greeted with croaks the most sepulchral, and there is much
shaking of branches and flapping of wings before he can find a spot on
which he is able to maintain himself in a state of unstable equilibrium.
I watched the tree in question one evening in order to ascertain how
many paddy birds roosted in it. I was able to count fifty-four by
enumerating the birds as they arrived. I may have missed a few. But this
is a mere detail. The lower branches carried all the paddy birds they
were capable of bearing with safety. A few of the paddy birds had to be
content with berths in a neighbouring tree, which grew out of the water
at a distance of a few feet.
Some time after the sun had set one of the overflow party decided to try
his luck in the main tree, and this resulted in such croaking and
fluttering of wings on the part of his fellow paddy birds that for a few
seconds the din of the mynas was drowned.
By the time it is really dark every bird, be he myna or pond heron, is
sufficiently satisfied to hold his tongue. From then until an hour
before sunrise not a sound emanates from the sleeping population of some
400 mynas and 50 paddy birds, who have elected to spend the night amid
the unwholesome vapours that emanate from the water below. Birds are
evidently mosquito proof.
XX
MERLINS
Merlins are pigmy falcons. Like falcons, they are reclaimed for hawking
purposes, but are regarded as mere toys by those who indulge in “the
sport of kings.”
In the days when falconry was a fashionable pastime in England nearly
every lady of quality possessed a merlin, which was often as much of a
companion as a dog is nowadays. The exquisite little bird of prey would
accompany its mistress on her rides or her walks, flying overhead and
coming to the glove when called. This species, being the only kind of
merlin found in England, is popularly called the merlin (_Æsalon
regulus_), even as _Cuculus canorus_ is always known as the cuckoo, as
though it were the only cuckoo in the world.
The merlin when trained for falconry is usually flown at the skylark.
There are few prettier sights than that presented by a contest between a
merlin and a skylark. Both know that the merlin can do nothing until it
gets above its quarry; hence the contest at first resolves itself into
one for supremacy of position. The adversaries often fly upwards in
spirals until they almost disappear from view. When once the merlin does
succeed in getting above the lark it makes swoop after swoop until it
strikes its quarry.
In India the merlin is often trained to fly at the hoopoe. This contest
is of a nature very different from that just described. The hoopoe does
not rely on speed. It trusts to its truly marvellous power of timing the
onslaught of the merlin and swerving at the critical moment, so that the
merlin misses it by a hair’s breadth. So great a master of aerial
manœuvre is the hoopoe that two merlins working together are required to
accomplish its downfall.
As the plumage of _Æsalon regulus_ has the nondescript colouring that
characterises most birds of prey, no useful purpose will be served by an
attempt to describe it. The merlin is a winter visitor to India, and
visits only the Punjab and Sind.
There is, however, another species of merlin which is a permanent
resident in and distributed throughout India, viz. the red-headed merlin
(_Æsalon chicquera_) or turumti as the bird is popularly called. Like
the common merlin it is one of the smaller pirates of the air, being no
larger than a myna, but it is the very quintessence of ferocity, and it
knows not what fear is. Hence it is a terror to many creatures of
greater magnitude than itself. The red-headed merlin is comparatively
easy to identify, because it has some distinctive colouring, in the
shape of a chestnut-red head and neck. The remainder of the upper
plumage is French grey, marked with fine brown cross-bars. There is a
broad black band with a white edge across the end of the tail. The chin,
throat, and under parts are white, with brown spots, which become less
plentiful as the individual grows older. This disappearance with age of
the markings on the lower parts is very common among birds of prey, and
is one of the many problems of animal colouring that do not appear to be
explained by the theory of natural selection.
The hen turumti is about fourteen inches in length, of which six consist
of tail. The cock, as is usual among raptores, is somewhat smaller than
the hen.
The red-headed merlin occurs only in India. It is an evil manufactured
for the sole benefit of the small birds of Hindustan. The turumti does
not appear to undergo any periodical migration. It preys chiefly upon
small birds. Social larks, little ringed plovers and sparrows are its
commonest victims. But it is not afraid to tackle larger birds.
Frequently it attacks mynas, starlings, quails, and doves. Indeed the
usual lure bird for a red-headed merlin is a myna. This is tethered to a
stick stuck into the ground, and in front of it is stretched a net
attached to upright posts. The first turumti to observe this swoops down
at the myna to find itself hopelessly entangled in the net. Hume once
saw a red-headed merlin strike a pigeon and kill it with the first blow.
Turumtis do not confine their attention to birds. The alert little palm
squirrel is often victimised, as are sometimes those bats that are so
unwary as to venture forth before the merlins go to bed.
When pursuing their operations in the open turumtis frequently hunt in
couples, and, as they fly exceedingly swiftly, no matter how speedy the
quarry be or how adept in swerving in the air, it is rarely able to
escape from the concerted attack of a pair of these little furies.
Red-headed merlins are addicted to perching on the telegraph wires that
are stretched alongside railway lines. They do this in order to pounce
down into the midst of a flock of small birds alarmed by the noise of a
passing train. The turumti, like the sparrow hawk, is a sprinter rather
than a long-distance flier, and hence is able to secure its quarry in
gardens, groves, and other comparatively confined places. It is fond of
gliding with great rapidity along some hedgerow or bank and swooping
down on any small bird feeding in the vicinity.
The turumti is not often used for purposes of falconry, which is
somewhat surprising, seeing that it affords better sport than does the
shikra, because it does not give up the chase so readily. When trained
it is usually flown at the blue jay or roller (_Coracias indica_). “In
pursuit of this quarry,” writes Jerdon, “the falcon follows most closely
and perseveringly, but is often baulked by the extraordinary evolutions
of the roller, who now darts off obliquely, then tumbles down
perpendicularly, screaming all the time and endeavouring to gain the
shelter of the nearest grove or tree. But even here he is not safe; the
falcon follows him from branch to branch, and sooner or later the
exhausted quarry falls a victim to the ruthless bird of prey.”
Very different is the behaviour of the shikra; he makes a dash at the
quarry, and, if he fail to seize it at once, gives up the chase.
The red-headed merlin is thrown from the hand in the same way as the
shikra. According to Mr. R. Thompson, the turumti affords peculiar sport
with the spotted dove (_Turtur suratensis_), “striking at the quarry
several times, and even often losing it altogether, owing partly to the
softness of the dove’s feathers, which give way at the least touch, and
partly to its rapid dodging flight.”
Turumtis breed from February to June, earlier in South India than in the
Punjab and the Himalayas. The nest is usually built in a fork near the
top of a tree—a tamarind or a mango for preference. In size and
appearance the nest resembles that of a crow. It consists of a
conglomeration of twigs, forming a platform of which the diameter
measures about a foot. In the middle is a depression, lined with fine
twigs, roots, feathers, or other convenient materials, in which the eggs
are placed. Both sexes take part in nest building, which they appear to
consider a very difficult and arduous task, judging by the fuss they
make over the placing of every twig brought to the nest. The eggs are
reddish white, very thickly speckled with brownish red. Turumtis are
exceedingly pugnacious at the nesting season, and are as resentful as
king-crows at any kind of intrusion; hence they are kept busy in giving
chase to crows _et hoc genus omne_, who seem to take a positive delight
in teasing fussy birds with nests.
XXI
THE COMMON WRYNECK
I leave it to anatomists to determine whether wrynecks are woodpeckers
that are turning into other birds, or other birds that are changing into
woodpeckers. Certain it is that they are closely allied to woodpeckers.
Only four species of wryneck are known to exist, and, of these, three
are confined to the Dark Continent, while the fourth is a great
traveller. It is the bird which is frequently seen in India during the
winter, and is well known in England as the “cuckoo’s mate,” because it
migrates every year to Great Britain at the same time as the cuckoo.
Ornithologists call this bird _Iynx torquilla_, plain Englishmen usually
term it the wryneck, as though there were only one species in the world.
From their insular point of view they are quite right because it is the
only wryneck they ever see unless they leave their island. One
convenience of living in a country, like England, poor in species, is
that to particularise a bird is rarely necessary; it is sufficient to
speak of the cuckoo, the swallow, the kingfisher, the heron. On the
other hand, we who dwell in this country of many species, if we would
not be misunderstood, usually have to particularise the cuckoo, the
kingfisher, or the swallow of which we are speaking. However, as regards
wrynecks, India is no better off than England. One species only visits
that country; hence Indians may indulge in the luxury of speaking of it
as the wryneck. This is a bird not much larger than a sparrow and
attired as plainly as the hen of that species. But here the resemblance
ends. The wryneck is as retiring in disposition as the sparrow is
obtrusive. I defy any one to dwell a week in a locality that boasts of a
pair of sparrows without noticing them, but many a man spends the
greater part of his life in India without once observing a wryneck. The
greyish-brown plumage of the wryneck, delicately mottled and barred all
over with a darker shade of brown, harmonises very closely with the
trunks of trees or the bare earth on which it spends so much of its
time, and thus it often eludes observation.
The wryneck, like its cousins the woodpeckers, feeds almost exclusively
on insects which it secures by means of the tongue. This wormlike
structure is several inches in length and is hard and sharp, barbed at
the tip and covered elsewhere with very sticky saliva. It can be shot
out suddenly to transfix the bird’s quarry, and then as rapidly
retracted. The tongue is so long that when retracted it coils up inside
the head. Although wrynecks feed a good deal on trees, they are far less
addicted to them than woodpeckers are. The latter sometimes feed upon
the ground, but this is the exception rather than the rule, while with
the wryneck the reverse holds good. Once, at Lahore, I nearly trod upon
a wryneck that was feeding on the ground. It flew from between my boots
to a low bush hard by; then it descended to the ground and began to feed
in the grass. I crept towards the place where it was feeding, and it did
not again take to its wings until I was close up to it. This time it
flew to a branch of a tree about ten feet above the level of the ground.
I again followed up the wryneck. This time it allowed me to walk right
up under it, and study the dark cross-bars on its tail feathers. After a
little time it betook itself to a bunker on the golf links, from off
which it began to pick insects. Then it flew to a low bush, and from
thence dropped to the ground. I again followed it up, and, as I
approached, it quietly walked away. Other naturalists have found the
wryneck in India equally tame. Mr. Blyth says of it: “Instinctively
trusting to the close resemblance of its tints to the situations on
which it alights, it will lie close and sometimes even suffer itself to
be taken by the hand; on such occasions it will twirl its neck in the
most extraordinary manner, rolling the eyes, and erecting the feathers
of the crown and throat, occasionally raising its tail and performing
the most ludicrous movements; then, taking advantage of the surprise of
the spectator, it will suddenly dart off like an arrow.”
At most seasons of the year the wryneck is a remarkably silent bird. I
do not remember ever having heard one utter a sound in India. When,
however, it first arrives in England it has plenty to say for itself.
“In one short season,” says an anonymous writer in England, “we hear its
singular monotonous notes at intervals through half the day. This
ceases, and we think no more about it, as it continues perfectly mute;
not a twit or a chirp escapes to remind us of its sojourn with us,
except the maternal note or hush of danger, which is a faint, low,
protracted hissing, as the female sits clinging by the side or on the
stump of a tree.”
The wryneck is not singular among birds in uttering its note only at
certain seasons of the year. Very few of the song birds pour forth their
melody all the year round. This fact bears powerful testimony to the
view I have frequently enunciated as to the nature of birds’ song. There
is nothing conversational in it, nothing in the nature of language; it
is merely the expression of superabundant vitality which fills most
birds at certain seasons of the year.
Like very many other migrants, the wryneck does not appear to be
powerful on the wing. Its flight has been well described as “precipitate
and awkward.”
The wryneck derives its name from a curious habit it has of twisting its
neck as it seeks for insects on a tree-trunk or mound.
Wrynecks are very rarely seen in cages or aviaries, probably because
they are not songsters and because their habits are not such as to
render them attractive in an aviary. Nevertheless, wrynecks thrive in
captivity. Bishop Stanley records an instance of a wryneck which “lived
for a year and a half in a cage, and never appeared to show impatience
during its confinement; it was observed always to take its food by
throwing out its long tongue.”
During the winter the wryneck seems to visit all parts of India, except
possibly the Malabar coast, and it is sufficiently common in South India
to have a Tamil name—_Moda nulingadu_.
The wryneck breeds neither in the plains of India nor, I believe, in the
Himalayas, but its nest has been recorded in Kashmir. It busies itself
with parental duties in the summer—in May and June in England—laying its
glossy white eggs in a hollow in a tree. Unlike the woodpecker the
wryneck does not hollow out its hole for itself. It is sensible enough
not to undertake that which can be equally well done by others. In this
respect, as in so many others, it differs from the woodpeckers proper.
XXII
GREEN PIGEONS
Green birds are comparatively few in number, but nearly all of those
that do exist are very beautiful objects. Green is a colour which is
rarely found alone in birds. The fowls of the air of which the plumage
is mainly green almost invariably display patches of other colour. In
the familiar green parrots red, pink, blue, and black occur; the green
coppersmith flaunts the most gaudy hues of red, crimson, and yellow; the
emerald merops adorns itself with gold and turquoise ornaments; while
green pigeons are birds which display the whole spectrum of colours,
each in a subdued form. In the common Indian species the forehead is
greenish yellow; the nape and sides of the head French grey; the chin
and neck are old gold shading off into olive; the body is greenish
olive; the shoulder is washed with lilac. The primary wing feathers are
dark grey, while the secondaries are similarly coloured, but have pale
yellow tips. The tail is slate-coloured, becoming greenish yellow at the
base. The feathers under the tail are a dark claret colour with creamy
bars. The lower parts are slate-coloured tinged with green, save for the
feathers of the thigh, which are canary yellow. The legs are orange
yellow. The eye is blue, with an outer ring of carmine. Yet,
notwithstanding all this show of colour, there is nothing gaudy about
the green pigeon. Every tint is most delicately laid on, and each hue
blends into the surrounding ones in a truly exquisite fashion, so that
it is no exaggeration to call the green pigeon a vision of perfect
loveliness.
In the unlikely event of any one taking the trouble to compare the above
description with those given in the fauna of British India for _Crocopus
phœnicopterus_ (the Bengal green pigeon) and _C. chlorogaster_ (the
Southern green pigeon), that person will observe that it does not tally
exactly with either of them. Nevertheless, my description is taken from
a specimen shot by me in the Basti district of the United Provinces. The
fact of the matter is that in places where the Bengal form meets the
southern species the two interbreed, as, I believe, do all, or nearly
all, allied species at the point of junction. And, in such cases, the
hybrid birds appear to be perfectly fertile and to thrive equally with
the parent species; neither of which would be the case were facts in
accordance with the Wallaceian theory. But, as we shall see later, green
pigeons seem to lay themselves out to destroy the biological orthodoxy
of to-day.
Green pigeons appear to live exclusively on fruit. They go about in
small flocks, seeking out trees of which the fruit is ripe; when they
hit upon such a tree they behave as if they were schoolboys let loose in
a tuck shop!
The Hindustani name for the green pigeon is _Harrial_. The natives, or
at any rate some of them, assert that the bird never descends to the
ground, because when its foot touches the earth the bird loses a pound
in weight, in other words, shrivels up into nothingness! If asked how it
drinks, they will reply that it settles on a reed which bends with its
weight, so that it is able to partake of the water beneath without
touching the earth. In the absence of a conveniently situated reed, the
green pigeon overcomes the difficulty by carrying a twig in its feet. It
would be interesting to discover the origin of this story, which is on a
par with that which asserts that the red-wattled lapwing (_Sarcogrammus
indicus_) sleeps on its back with its legs in the air, in order to be
ready to catch the sky on its feet if ever this should fall! As a matter
of fact green pigeons are very arboreal in their habits. I do not
remember ever having seen one of them on the ground.
The note of the green pigeons is not a coo, but a pleasant whistle. The
birds are sometimes caged on account of their song. But they are
uninteresting pets. In captivity they soon lose their beauty, because
they are so gluttonous as to smear the head and neck with whatever fruit
be given them to eat.
Green pigeons are said to be far less obtrusive in their courtship than
the majority of their kind. The male does not puff himself out after the
manner of other cock pigeons, but is content to bow before his lady love
and in this attitude move his expanded tail up and down.
There are few birds that assimilate so closely to their surroundings as
green pigeons. Fifty of them may be perched in a pipal tree, and a man
on the look-out for them may fail to detect a single individual until
one of the birds moves. They are thus excellent examples of protectively
coloured birds. Their green livery undoubtedly affords them a certain
amount of protection, and so may perhaps be considered a product of
natural selection. Be this as it may, a consideration of the details of
the colouring of their plumage shows that many of these, as, for
example, the lilac on the wing, are quite unnecessary for the
concealment of the bird. The eastern and the southern species which
occur together in certain places and the hybrids produced by the
interbreeding of these are all equally difficult to distinguish from the
surrounding leaves, notwithstanding the fact that their plumage differs
in details, e.g. the breast and the abdomen are greenish yellow in the
southern and ashy-grey in the eastern form, while there is green in the
forehead and tail of the latter, but not of the former. Thus we have two
species of green pigeon, of which at least one has not originated by
natural selection. Facts such as these, however, do not prevent Dr.
Wallace, Sir E. Ray Lankester, and Professor Poulton continually
proclaiming from the housetops that every existing species owes its
origin to natural selection and nothing but natural selection!
There are several genera of green pigeons, and all of them are
characterised by short legs and broad toes. These are adaptations to the
arboreal habit, in the formation of which natural selection has, in all
probability, played an important part. The habits of all the genera are
identical. They, one and all, build the rough-and-ready shakedowns which
do duty for nests amongst the _Columbidæ_. All lay the inevitable two
white eggs. Yet the sexes of the genus _Crocopus_ are alike in external
appearance, while those of the genera _Osmosteros_, _Sphenocercus_, and
_Treron_ exhibit considerable dimorphism. Again in the genus _Butreron_
the sexual differences displayed are inconsiderable. These facts, of
themselves, are quite sufficient to disprove the theory that sexual
dimorphism in birds is due to the hen’s greater need of protection. Cock
green pigeons assimilate so well to their leafy environment that there
cannot possibly be any necessity for their wives to be differently
dressed. Further, it is worthy of note that the most flourishing of the
genera of green pigeons is that in which the sexes dress alike.
XXIII
BULBULS’ NESTS—I
In May, 1911, a pair of red-whiskered bulbuls (_Otocompsa emeria_) took
up their residence in my verandah at Fyzabad, that is to say, they spent
the greater part of the day there in constructing a nest in a croton
plant. The nest of the bulbul is a shallow cup, formed of bast, roots,
twigs, and grass, loosely worked together. Sometimes dead leaves, pieces
of rag and other oddments are woven into the fabric of the nest. The
pair of bulbuls of which I write did not, however, indulge in any of
these luxuries; they were content with a rudely constructed nursery.
When the nest was nearly complete the owners deserted it. Why they acted
thus I have not been able to discover.
The bulbuls absented themselves for a few days. When they returned they
frequented another portion of the verandah, and their fussiness betrayed
the fact that they were working at another nest. Several days passed
before I found time to look for their nest, and I then discovered it in
an aralia plant growing in the verandah, in a large pot placed at the
right-hand side of one of the doors leading into my office room. The
site chosen was the more remarkable in that it was within ten feet of
the carpet on which the _chaprassis_ sit when not engaged in active
work. This nest was of even rougher design than the first one, and was
equally devoid of decoration. So carelessly had it been constructed
that, to use a nautical expression, it had a distinct list. I found in
the nest three pinkish eggs, mottled and blotched with purplish red.
They had been laid some time before I first saw them. This was
demonstrated by the reluctance of the hen to leave the nest when I
approached. Among birds the parental instinct increases as incubation
proceeds. On one occasion the bird sitting on the nest in question
allowed me to stroke its tail. This organ projects upwards like a
semaphore, the nest not being sufficiently large to accommodate it.
It was not until the 15th July that I had leisure to watch these bulbuls
closely. Up to that time I had merely noticed that both birds incubate,
and that both sexes, and not the cock alone, as some writers assert,
have the red “whiskers,” or feathers, on the cheeks.
The weather being warm, it was not necessary for the birds to sit
continuously, and the eggs were frequently left for ten minutes or
longer at a time. On the morning of the 15th July, I found that two of
the young birds had hatched out. Both parents were feeding them.
Birds are creatures of habit. Each parent bulbul had its own way of
approaching the nest and of perching when tending the nestlings, so
that, although I was not able to say for certain which of the pair was
the cock and which the hen, I could distinguish one individual from the
other. For brevity I will call them A and B, respectively.
Both birds, before flying to the nest, used to alight on the stem of a
palm standing in the verandah. From this point their manœuvres differed.
Individual A invariably flew to a stout vertical branch of the aralia,
remained there for a second or two, flitted to a second vertical branch,
and from thence hopped on to the edge of the nest, so that its face when
there pointed to the east. This individual always showed itself the
bolder spirit of the two. The other bird, B, used to fly from the palm
to a slender leafy branch of the aralia, and thus cause considerable
commotion among the leaves; from thence it jumped on to the edge of the
nest, where it perched with its face pointing to the north. The _modus
operandi_ of A was the superior. The verandah faces the east, so that
when A wished to leave the nest, it had but to jump across it into the
space beyond, and then wing its way ahead, while B had to turn round
before it could fly off. The neatness and address with which A used to
leap across the nest into the air baffles description.
The 16th July fell on a Sunday. I therefore determined to devote some
hours to studying the ways of those bulbuls at the nest. Every
naturalist has his own method of prying into the ways of the fowls of
the air or the beasts of the field. Some expose themselves to the Indian
sun at midday in May, others will squat for hours in feverish swamps.
People who do these things are worthy of all praise. I prefer less
heroic methods. Accordingly, I had the pot containing the nest-bearing
plant moved a distance of rather less than a yard, so that it stood in
the middle of the door-way. I then had an easy chair placed in the
office room at a distance of some four feet from the nest. Finally, I
removed such of the leaves as tended to obstruct my view. Thus, I was
able to watch the bulbuls through the _chik_ in comfort, reclining in
the easy chair.
Both parent birds were present when the plant was being moved. They
looked rather alarmed, but raised no outcry. They did not seem eager to
approach the nest after the position of the aralia had been changed.
Evidently they did not understand the meaning of what they had seen.
Eventually bulbul A summoned sufficient courage to visit the nest, and
must have been highly gratified to find the two youngsters and the egg
safe. While perching on the nest it kept its eye on me, having espied
me, notwithstanding the fact that there was a _chik_ between me and it.
While eyeing me it cocked its head on one side and half opened its bill.
The opening of the bill is an expression of anger. The bulbul’s crest
was also folded back, but this does not necessarily denote anger. The
crest invariably assumes this attitude when the bulbul is incubating, or
brooding, or feeding its young. It was some time before bulbul B could
bring itself to visit the nest. It made at least six abortive attempts
before it reached the edge of the nest, and then perched only for a
second before flying off with every sign of trepidation. And for the
whole of that day it showed itself nervous, whereas A soon came quite
boldly to the nest. The difference in temperament between the two birds
was most marked.
The parent birds did not come to the nest with the bill very full. They
were usually content to bring one succulent grub or insect at a time.
In the earliest stages of their existence bulbul nestlings are so small
that one caterpillar satisfies their hunger completely for some little
time. So that it often happened that one of the parents arrived with
food for which neither of the young birds was ready. Under such
circumstances, the parent, after trying to force the food into the mouth
of each nestling, remained on the rim of the nest waiting patiently
until one of the youngsters lifted up its head for food. The baby
bulbuls did not display at this early stage of their existence that
eagerness for food, amounting almost to greediness, that characterises
nestlings when they grow a little older.
On arrival with food the adult bird invariably uttered a couple of
tinkling notes as if to inform its offspring that it had brought food.
No sound emanated from the young birds during the first two or three
days of their existence. When it had disposed of the food it had
brought, the parent bird usually looked after the sanitation of the nest
by picking up and eating the excreta. The parent birds did not appear
ever to bring water to the nestlings. The succulent food probably
supplies the requisite moisture. About midday on the 16th July the third
young bird hatched out. The egg was intact at 10 a.m., but by a few
minutes after midday the youngster had emerged, and half the shell was
still in the nest. Thus the latest arrival made his appearance at least
twenty-eight hours after either of his brethren.
I watched carefully in order to ascertain how the parent birds got rid
of the egg-shell. Presently bulbul A came to the nest with food. When it
had disposed of this, it began pecking in the nest, and appeared to be
eating up the shell, but in reality it was cleaning the nest. After
being thus engaged for a couple of minutes it flew off, carrying the
half egg-shell in its beak. It flew to a distance with this, so that I
did not see what became of it. This explains why broken egg-shells are
seldom found lying on the ground below a nest. On the following day I
placed a small piece of paper in the nest. This was carried off by the
first parent bird to visit the nest, but not before the bird had fed its
young. Shortly afterwards I placed a sheet of thick paper over the top
of the nest so as to completely cover it. This nonplussed both parents.
They made no attempt to insert their heads underneath it, but hopped
about near the nest looking very disconsolate. I therefore removed the
obstruction.
Young bulbuls when first hatched out are almost lost in the nest, taking
up very little more room than the eggs that contained them; but they
grow at an astonishing rate. By the time the oldest was six days old the
three young birds almost filled the nest. From the fourth day the heads
of the nestlings went up, and the mandibles vibrated rapidly whenever a
parent approached; previously the young birds did not seem to hear the
approach of the old birds. On the sixth day of their existence the
youngsters first began to call for food, and for a time the sounds they
emitted were very feeble. On the sixth day their eyes began to open, the
opening at first being a tiny slit.
The parents were not always judicious in selecting food for their babes.
I saw a bulbul bring a large insect with gauzy wings to a six-day-old
nestling. The bird succeeded in ramming about one-third of it into the
gaping mouth of the young one. The latter then made frantic efforts to
swallow its prize. After struggling for the greater part of a minute it
rested for a few seconds with half an inch of insect projecting from its
bill. When at last it did succeed in swallowing it, the young bulbul
fell back with neck stretched out and appeared to be in a thoroughly
exhausted condition.
A triple tragedy has now to be related. Tragedies, alas! are very common
among the bulbul community. On several occasions have I watched the
nesting operations of these birds, but never yet have I seen a single
young one reach maturity. When the eldest of the nestlings was seven
days old I noticed that the list on the nest had become very marked, and
on examining the nursery I found it empty. I then saw two of the young
bulbuls lying on the floor of the verandah. The third was nowhere to be
seen. Having rectified the position of the nest, I replaced the two
nestlings, which the parents continued to feed. They did not seem to
notice that one of their babes was missing.
On the following morning I found the nest half torn from its holdings,
and saw the two youngsters on the earth near the roots of the aralia.
Some leaves were strewn on the ground. Apparently a cat, a mongoose, or
other predaceous creature had attempted to capture the parent bird
during the night when it was sitting on the nest. It had not succeeded
in the attempt, for both the old birds were hale and hearty;
nevertheless, the fall had killed one of the youngsters. I placed the
nest higher up in the aralia, in what I considered a safer situation,
wedging it tightly between some branches, and then replaced the
remaining nestling. This the parents continued to feed, although they
seemed to find the nest difficult of access in its new position. The
next morning I found the young bird alive and well in the nest, but this
latter was now a lower branch of the aralia, to which it had been tied
by string. Some officious _chaprassi_ had doubtless done this. He had
probably found the nest pulled down as I had found it on the previous
day. Our efforts, however, were of no avail. On the following morning I
again found the nest torn down, and this time the young bird was lying
lifeless on the ground. The parents were somewhat disconsolate, and hung
about for a little with food in their bills. But they soon seemed to
realise that it was useless to bring food to a little bird that would
not open its mouth. So they went off. They are, I believe, looking out
for a suitable nesting site at the opposite end of my verandah. Bulbuls
are as philosophical as they are foolish.