BULBULS’ NESTS—II

The simplest observations often bring to light the greatest scientific

truths. The force of gravity was revealed to Sir Isaac Newton by the

falling of an apple. A kettle of boiling water gave the idea of the

steam-engine to James Watt. The watching of bulbuls, which are so common

in our Indian gardens and verandahs, suffices, apart from all other

evidence, to demonstrate how erroneous is the orthodox doctrine that the

survival of the fittest is the result of a struggle for existence among

adult organisms. This year (1912) six bulbul tragedies have occurred in

my garden, and the year is yet young.

The scene of one of these tragedies was the identical plant in which

occurred the disaster described above, which happened about nine months

ago. Thus we see that among bulbuls destruction takes place mostly in

the nest, whole broods being wiped out at a time. The same is, I

believe, true to a large extent of other species that build open nests.

There are three critical stages in the life of a bird—the time when it

is defenceless in the egg, the period it spends helpless in the nest,

and the two or three days that elapse after it leaves the nest until its

powers of flight are fully developed. When once a little bird has

survived these dangerous periods, when it has reached the adult stage,

it is comparatively immune from death until old age steals upon it. If

zoologists would perceive this obvious truth there would be an end to

nine-tenths of the nonsense written about protective colouring. Most

birds are not protectively coloured; moreover, if they were so clothed

as to be invisible amid their natural surroundings they would not derive

much profit therefrom.

The labour of the six-and-twenty little bulbuls who, to my knowledge,

have failed to rear their broods has not been lost altogether, for it

has taught me something about their ways that I did not know before.

Those birds showed me how quickly they are able to build a nest.

Very few observations regarding the duration of nest-building operations

are on record. The reason is not far to seek. A nest at the very

beginning of its existence is difficult to discover, and if come upon by

chance is not easy to recognise as an incipient nursery. The nests we

find are usually complete or in an advanced stage of construction.

I was strolling in the garden about 8 a.m. on the 3rd March last, when I

noticed a bulbul with a leaf in its bill. I saw the bird fly into a

small cypress bush and then emerge therefrom without the leaf. A short

search sufficed to reveal the place in the bush where the leaf had been

deposited. Placed by this leaf I found another leaf, a small branch of

Duranta with some yellow berries attached to it, two or three small

straws and some cobweb. These apparently had been thrown haphazard into

the bush. Had I not seen the bulbul go into the bush carrying a leaf, I

should not have suspected that these few things were the beginning of a

nest, for they had no semblance of one. The bulbuls could not have been

working at that nest for more than half an hour when I discovered it. On

my return thirty minutes later to look at it I found that the amount of

material collected had doubled, but the nest was still without any

definite form; it was a mere conglomeration of rubbish. The two leaves

already mentioned had dropped down nearly a couple of inches below the

other material. The additional material consisted of more Duranta twigs

with berries, straws, dried grasses, cobweb, and a piece of what looked

like tissue paper. Half an hour later the rapidly increasing collection

included a long piece of worsted, but this was not wound round any of

the branches. In most bulbuls’ nests that I have seen a certain amount

of cotton or such-like material is used to support the cup-like nest by

being bound to one of the neighbouring branches, although cobweb is the

chief means of attaching the nest to its surroundings. In this

particular instance, however, the worsted was not so utilised; possibly

the pliable, upright branches of the cypress did not lend themselves to

this kind of attachment. At this time (9 a.m.) the collected materials

had nothing of the shape of a nest, but some of the tiny twigs were

entwined in the cypress branches.

At midday, four hours after I had first seen the nest, I was astonished

to find that it had assumed a saucer-like form. I was not a witness of

the process whereby the original shapeless mass was made to take this

shape, but my observations on other nests have convinced me that the

nest is shaped entirely by the bird’s body and feet. When a bulbul

brings material to the nest, it drops this on to what has already been

collected, sits on it, and proceeds to arrange it with its feet, which

work so vigorously as to shake the whole plant in which the nest is

placed. In the middle of the process the bird usually turns on its axis,

a right angle, and thus the interior of the nest becomes rounded by the

bird’s breast. All new material is added to the inside of the nest.

At midday, then, the nest in question was a shallow saucer composed

chiefly of Duranta and other twigs, dried grass, and bast. The leaves

mentioned above had fallen some way below the nest, and the worsted and

tissue paper had been crushed into a ball at one side of the nest.

By the evening more material, chiefly bast in bands about a quarter of

an inch broad, had been added, and the nest looked almost as complete as

some bulbuls’ nests in which I have seen eggs. But that particular pair

were evidently bent on building a very substantial structure.

By 8 a.m. on the following day the cup of the nest had grown deeper, and

its walls had been considerably thickened. By the evening of the day the

nest was practically complete. On the 5th March the finishing touches

were put to it in the shape of a few grasses and prickly stems.

The diameter of the completed nest is between 2½ and 3 inches. The nest

is rarely quite circular. It is about 2½ inches in depth. The length of

its diameter appears to be determined by that of the bird’s body

(exclusive of head and tail) which is the mould that shapes it. A bulbul

sitting in the nest looks very cramped and uncomfortable, with the tail

projecting vertically upwards, the neck stretched out, and the chin

resting on the rim of the nest. The crest of the sitting bird is folded

right back.

On the early morning of the 8th March the first egg was laid. On the 9th

a second egg was deposited. My little boy, to whom I had shown the nest,

then thought that he would like a couple of bulbul’s eggs poached for

his breakfast, so, regardless of the feelings of the bulbuls, removed

both eggs and took them to the cook! As that individual declined to cook

them, my little son replaced them, or rather one of them, for he broke

the other. On the morning of the 10th a third egg was laid and deposited

in the nest beside the other. The usual clutch of _Otocompsa emeria_ is

three. On the morning of the 11th I found the nest half pulled down and

empty and on the ground beneath I saw a few bulbul’s feathers. Some

predaceous creature, possibly a cat or a mongoose, had seized the

sitting bulbul in the night.

The above notes show that a pair of bulbuls can build a nest in a couple

of days. This observation was confirmed by another pair who constructed

a nest in my verandah on the 23rd and 24th March. On the 22nd I noticed

a pair of bulbuls prospecting in a croton plant near my _daftar_ window;

nevertheless, although I examined that plant carefully, I found no

traces of a nest. On the next day, however, I saw that the nest had been

commenced. During the three following days I had no leisure in which to

look at the nest, but on the 28th I found a bulbul sitting on three

eggs, so that, as only one egg per diem is laid, the first egg must have

been deposited on the morning of the 26th at the latest.

On returning to my bungalow at about 10.30 p.m. of the 28th, I found

some of the servants collected in the verandah. They showed me a dead

brown tree snake (_Hipsas trigonata_) which they had killed in the plant

containing the bulbuls’ nest. The reptile had evidently discovered the

nest and crawled up the stem of the plant. At its approach the

incubating bulbul had made a great commotion which attracted the notice

of the servants. They promptly killed the snake. On my return the eggs

were lying broken on the ground, and I was not able to discover whether

the fluttering bulbul or the servants striking the snake had caused

their downfall. No further eggs were laid. Bulbuls seem always to desert

a nest when their eggs are destroyed. It is worthy of note that the

snake attacked the nest in the dark, and on all other occasions on which

I have observed similar tragedies they have been enacted at night. What,

then, becomes of the elaborate theory of protective colouration?

XXIV

NIGHTINGALES IN INDIA

The nightingale shares with the Taj Mahal the distinction of being an

object on which every person lavishes high praise. All who hear the song

of the nightingale go into ecstasies over it; similarly, every human

being who sets eyes on the Taj waxes enthusiastic at the sight thereof.

Some years ago a writer in the _Globe_ stated that a patient

investigator compiled a list of nearly two hundred epithets bestowed by

poets alone on the nightingale’s song, and I doubt not that an equally

patient investigator could compile an equally long list of adjectives

lavished on the Taj Mahal by those who have attempted to describe that

famous tomb. The consequence is that every superlative in the English

language has been appropriated by some person, so that he who nowadays

wishes to bestow something original in the way of praise on either the

nightingale or the Taj is at his wit’s end to know what to say. Recently

I met in a railway train a Portuguese gentleman who was paying a visit

to India. Needless to say, I asked him what he thought of the Taj. He

promptly replied: “_Le Taj, ah! c’est un bijou._” I feel that by way of

paying the necessary homage to the nightingale I cannot do better than

repeat “_c’est un bijou_.”

Ornithologists assure us that there are three species of nightingale.

There is the Western nightingale (_Daulias luscinia_), which visits

England in the summer and fills the woods with its glorious melody. Then

there is the Eastern species or variety which is also known as the

sprosser (_D. philomela_), and, lastly, the Persian nightingale, the

_hazar-dastan_ or _bulbul_ of the Persian poets. This last variety is

known to men of science as _Daulias golzii_.

It would puzzle the ordinary man to distinguish between these various

races. The length of the tail is one test. If the nightingale have a

tail well over three inches in length it is the Persian form, if well

under three inches it is a Western nightingale, and if about three

inches a sprosser. The nightingale, as every one knows, is a small bird

varying from 6½ to 7½ inches in length. Both sexes dress alike and in

the plainest manner possible, the upper plumage being russet brown and

the lower pale buff.

As we have seen, one of the Persian names of the nightingale is

“bulbul.” This has given rise to considerable misunderstanding regarding

the existence of nightingales in India. Every one knows that India teems

with bulbuls, and as “bulbul” is the Persian for nightingale, the

average Englishman labours under the delusion that Hindustan abounds

with nightingales which fill the soft Indian night with melody, at the

time

“When mangoes redden and the asoka buds

Sweeten the breeze and Rama’s birthday comes.”

Now, as a matter of fact, the Indian bulbul has nothing whatever to do

with the nightingale. There can, I think, be but little doubt that the

Persian poets have misapplied the word “bulbul” in using it to denote

the nightingale. The term “bulbul” is familiar to every native of India

as meaning one of the Brachypodous birds belonging to the genera

_Molpastes_, _Otocompsa_, etc., and as there are true bulbuls in Persia,

one of which, _Molpastes leucotis_, is a good singer, it is probable

that the poets, who are notoriously bad naturalists, have misapplied the

name of this songster to an even better singer, namely, the nightingale.

And this name, having been immortalised by Hafiz and others, will always

remain. We must, therefore, be careful to distinguish between the true

bulbuls, which are not very brilliant singers, and the nightingale,

which in India is known as the _bulbul bostha_, or _bulbul basta_.

Numbers of Persian nightingales are captured and sent in cages to India,

where they are highly prized on account of their vocal powers. A good

singing cock will fetch as much as Rs. 400 in Calcutta. The cock

nightingale alone sings, and as he is indistinguishable in appearance

from the hen, a would-be purchaser, before paying a long price for one

of these birds, should insist on hearing it sing. Nightingales thrive in

captivity if provided with a plentiful supply of insect food. The

Western and Eastern forms have both bred in captivity, and the Persian

variety will doubtless do likewise if given proper accommodation.

Indian bulbuls, then, are not nightingales. Nor are nightingales common

in that country. Oates, it is true, includes _Daulias golzii_ among the

birds of India, but, in my opinion, on insufficient evidence. He admits

that it is of extreme rarity in the country, “only two instances of its

occurrence being known.” Hume, in October, 1865, had a Persian

nightingale sent to him, which was said to have been procured in the

Oudh terai. It is probable that neither this specimen nor the other

whose presence is recorded in India was a wild bird at all; as likely as

not they were caged birds that had escaped from captivity! The

nightingale is certainly a very retiring bird, and since, if it occurs

in India, it can be only as a winter visitor when it is not in song, it

is possible that it might be overlooked. But in face of the fact that

many good ornithologists have spent long periods in Oudh without ever

having seen a nightingale, and the bird has never been observed anywhere

else in India, it seems most improbable that nightingales ever stray

into India. What, then, are we to think of the statement of Dr. Hartert,

a German ornithologist, who says of the Eastern nightingale that “it

winters in Southern Arabia, parts of India (e.g. Oudh) and East Africa”?

Here we have an excellent illustration of the adage “A little learning

is a dangerous thing,” a good example of how erroneous statements creep

into scientific books. Dr. Hartert has heard that nightingales have been

recorded in Oudh, so jumps to the conclusion that the species winters

there, even as it does in Egypt. This statement will doubtless be

copied, without acknowledgment, into many future text-books, for

plagiarism is very rife among men of science; and thus the popular

notion that nightingales are common in India will be fortified by

scientific support! Nightingales undoubtedly do winter in India—but only

in cages. We have many fine songsters in Hindustan, but the nightingale

is not one of them.

XXV

THE WIRE-TAILED SWALLOW

Were each species of bird to record in writing its opinion of men, the

resulting document would certainly not be flattering to the human race.

The inhumanity of man would figure largely in it. The majority of the

feathered folk have but little cause to love their human neighbours. Men

steal their eggs, destroy their nests, kill them in order to eat them or

to decorate women with their plumage, and capture them in order to keep

them in cages. A few species, however, ought to regard man with friendly

eyes, for they owe much to him. The swallow tribe, for example, must

acknowledge man as its greatest benefactor. Take the case of the common

swallow (_Hirundo rustica_), the joyful herald of the English summer,

the bird to which Gilbert White devotes a particularly charming letter.

All the places in which this species builds owe their origin to human

beings. The myriads of swallows that visit Great Britain in the spring

find in the chimneys of houses ideal nesting places—hence the birds are

known as house or chimney swallows.

“The swallow,” writes White, “though called the chimney swallow, by no

means builds altogether in chimneys, but often within barns and

outhouses against the rafters, and so she did in Virgil’s time:

‘Ante

Garrula quam tignis nidos suspendat hirundo.’

“In Sweden she builds in barns, and is called _ladu swala_, the barn

swallow. Besides, in the warmer parts of Europe there are no chimneys to

houses, except they are English-built. In those countries she constructs

her nest in porches and gateways and galleries and open halls. Here and

there a bird may affect some odd, peculiar place, as we have known a

swallow build down the shaft of an old well through which chalk had been

formerly drawn up for the purpose of manure; but in general with us this

_Hirundo_ breeds in chimneys, and loves to haunt those stacks where

there is a constant fire, no doubt for the sake of warmth. Not that it

can subsist in the immediate shaft where there is a fire, but prefers

one adjoining to that of the kitchen, and disregards the perpetual smoke

of that funnel, as I have often observed with some degree of wonder.”

In the days before man began to build substantial houses for his

habitation, the swallows can have nested only in caverns and under

natural ledges in cliffs, so cannot have existed in anything like their

present numbers. _Hirundo rustica_ is a common bird in India. During the

winter it spreads itself over the plains, and may be seen, as in

England, dashing through the air after tiny insects. In the East the

gentle twittering of the birds as they propel themselves through the air

sounds doubly sweet, since it recalls scenes in our distant island. The

swallows which winter in India migrate to the Himalayas or Kashmir or

Afghanistan, where they rear up their families.

But to-day I write of a more beautiful bird even than _Hirundo rustica_,

of the most beautiful of the swallow kind, of a species on which Gilbert

White could not have set eyes. Like the common species, the wire-tailed

swallow (_Hirundo smithii_) is a glossy, steel-blue bird. The forehead,

crown, and nape are chestnut, and all the lower plumage, including the

chin, is white. In this last respect it differs considerably from the

common swallow, which has the chin and throat chestnut, a black pectoral

band, and the rest of the under parts pale reddish brown. In both

species there is a white spot on each of the tail feathers, except the

median pair. These white spots are very conspicuous when the bird sits

with tail expanded.

The chief characteristic of _Hirundo smithii_ is the great development

of the shafts of the outer tail feathers. In most swallows the shaft is

elongated. In _H. rustica_ it extends 2½ inches beyond the other tail

feathers. In the wire-tailed swallow the shaft of each of the outer tail

feathers attains a length of seven inches, and is thus more than twice

as long as the body of the bird. This swallow, indeed, looks as though

two pieces of wire had been inserted into its tail; hence the popular

name, which is far more appropriate than the scientific one. Jerdon

called this species _H. filifera_, an excellent name, but among cabinet

ornithologists the excellence or appropriateness of a bird’s name counts

for nothing. Many years ago a member of the Smith family made the

acquaintance of the bird, and it was named after him. This name being

the oldest is the one by which we must call the bird until some

bibliophile manages to unearth some yet earlier name.

The elongated shafts of the outer tail feathers are brittle and easily

broken, so that it is the exception rather than the rule to see a bird

with both the delicate filiferous appendages complete.

The habits of this swallow are similar to those of other species, except

that it is probably not migratory. It is found all the year round in the

plains of North-West India. It is rare in Lower Bengal, Assam, Upper

Burma, and in South India. Although it occurs in the Madras Presidency,

it is not often seen as far south as the city of Madras. Since water is

always conducive to the presence of the small insects on which swallows

feed, these birds usually seek their quarry in the vicinity of the

liquid element, and naturally roost near their feeding grounds. This

fondness for the neighbourhood of water doubtless gave origin to the

once prevalent belief that some swallows did not leave England in the

autumn, but remained behind and hibernated underwater. This idea is, of

course, erroneous.

Wire-tailed swallows like to roost in considerable companies in the

minarets of mosques or in other lofty towers. Unlike swifts, swallows

frequently perch. Telegraph wires are a very favourite resting place.

When these are not available the birds will settle on stones or tufts of

grass.

As chimneys are scarce in the plains of India, the wire-tailed swallow

has to look elsewhere for nesting sites. True to the traditions of its

family, it almost invariably elects to build on some structure erected

by man. Nine out of ten nests are built under the arches of low bridges

or culverts, preferably those under which there is a little water lying.

The nest projects from the arch like a little shelf. It resembles a deep

saucer in shape, and is composed of a shell of mud, lined with feathers.

Wire-tailed swallows obtain the mud they use from the edge of water, and

carry it in the bill in precisely the same way as the house martin does

in England. One of the prettiest sights of a London suburb is to watch

the house martins taking the materials for their nests from a muddy

road, which they always contrive to do without soiling their

white-feathered legs. Muddy roads are not common in India, hence

wire-tailed swallows are not able to resort to them for nest-building

materials.

The cup of the nest is usually fairly thick, especially at the place

where the nest is attached to its foundation. The outside of the cup has

a rugged appearance, and each of the projections which it displays

corresponds to a mouthful of mud added to it by the bird. According to

Mr. James Aitken, the birds occupy about four weeks in building the

nest, “a narrow layer of mud being added each day and left to dry.”

When once a pair of wire-tailed swallows have made up their minds to

nest in a certain spot they are not easily deterred from carrying out

their intention. Mr. Aitken admits having on one occasion removed two

eggs, out of a clutch of three, but the little mother sat on and hatched

out the one egg that remained. A man of my acquaintance, who, although

an egg collector, is not altogether devoid of the milk of kindness,

always carries about with him one or two sparrow’s eggs which he

exchanges for the birds’ eggs he wishes to add to his collection. One

May day at Lahore this person came upon a wire-tailed swallow’s nest

which contained one egg. This he removed, and substituted for it a

sparrow’s egg. The owners of the nest either did not, or pretended not

to, notice the exchange, and the hen laid two more eggs, so that when I

visited the nest three days later I found that two legitimate eggs had

been placed beside the spurious one. The incubating bird sat very tight,

and allowed me to touch her, and had I wished to do so I could easily

have caught her; such is the strength of the incubating instinct in some

birds. The nest in question was built under a low arch, one end of which

was blocked up. The only other occupants of the arch were a number of

wasps. Birds seem to have little or no fear of wasps. Indeed, it is

rather the wasps that fear the birds, which have a disagreeable habit of

swallowing them, notwithstanding their sting and warning colouration!

Three weeks later I paid another visit to the arch in question, and

found that the swallow’s nest had been removed by some person or persons

unknown, but under the same arch was another nest containing two eggs.

It would seem that the plucky little birds, undaunted by the fate of

their first nest and eggs, had quickly set to work to make good the

loss.

XXVI

WINTER VISITORS TO THE PUNJAB PLAINS

Six months ago we welcomed the birds that came to spend the summer with

us—the tiny iridescent purple sunbird, the emerald bee-eater, its larger

blue-tailed cousin, the golden oriole, the superb paradise flycatcher,

the yellow-throated sparrow, the solemn night heron, and the noisy koel.

These have all built their nests, reared up their families (except, of

course, the koels who made the crows do their nursemaids’ work) and

departed. The sunbirds were the first, and the koels the last, to go. By

August the former had all disappeared, but throughout the first half of

October young koels were to be seen, perched in trees, flapping their

wings, opening a great red mouth, and making creditable but ludicrous

attempts at cawing.

Even the koels have now gone and will not reappear until the sun once

again causes us human beings to wonder why we have come to this “Land of

Regrets.”

The places left vacant by the summer visitors are being rapidly filled

up. Lahore has for birds a winter as well as a summer season. The former

is the more important of the two. So numerous are our winter bird

visitors that it is not feasible to enumerate them in this place; we

must be content with a glimpse at those which come in the greatest

numbers and are, therefore, most likely to attract attention.

The earliest to arrive are the rosy starlings (_Pastor roseus_) or

_Gulabi Mainas_, or _Tilyers_ as the natives call them. They are easy to

recognise. They go about in great flocks. When a flock settles on a tree

it is a point of etiquette for all the individuals that compose it to

talk simultaneously. The head, crest, neck, throat, upper breast, wings,

and tail are glossy black. The rest of the plumage is a beautiful rose

colour in the adult cock and pale coffee colour in the hens and young

cocks.

Rosy starlings arrive in Lahore as early as July. As they do not leave

us until the end of April, and are supposed to nest in Asia Minor, it

might be thought that they are the discoverers of some specially rapid

method of nest-construction, egg-incubation, and bird-rearing. This is

not so. The fact is they do not migrate simultaneously. The birds that

were in Lahore in such numbers last April are not those which appeared

in July. These latter probably migrated to Asia Minor in February.

It is only in the spring that the rosy starlings go about in very large

flocks; these are the result of “packing” prior to migration. At other

times the birds occur in nines and tens and associate with the ordinary

mynas, feeding either on fruit or grain.

They appear to be the favourite game bird of the native of the Punjab.

They are quite good to eat. A charge of small shot fired into a tree

full of them brings down a dozen or more, so that a “crack” shot is

easily able to secure a large bag and brag about it to his friends!

Several other species of starling visit the plains of the Punjab during

the winter, arriving in November. These, like the familiar English

starling, are all dressed in black, glossed with blue, green, and

purple, and spotted with white. The species-making propensity of the

professional ornithologist has led to the division of these into a

number of species, although it requires an expert with an ornithological

imagination to distinguish them from one another. They go about in

flocks and, like the rosy starlings, all “talk at once.”

The winter visitors that appeal most to the sportsman are the game

birds—the grey quail, the various species of duck, teal, geese, and

snipe. The quail (_Coturnix communis_) are the first to appear. They

arrive in Lahore late in August or early in September. It is the moon

rather than the temperature that determines the date of their arrival.

They migrate at night-time and naturally like to travel by moonlight. A

few grey quail remain with us all the year round. These are probably

birds that have been wounded by _shikaris_ and have not in consequence

sufficient strength for the long migratory flight across the Himalayas.

The fact that some quail remain in India throughout the hot weather, and

are able to breed successfully, shows that their migration is a luxury

rather than a necessity.

It is a universal rule that all migratory birds of the Northern

Hemisphere breed in the more northerly of their two homes. This seems to

indicate that they were formerly permanent residents in the latter.

Geology tells us that thousands of years ago the climate of this earth

suddenly became colder. The result was that the more northerly portions

of it were rendered uninhabitable for birds during the winter—the frost

killed insect life and the snow made vegetable food difficult to

procure; hence, the birdfolk were confronted with the alternative of

starving in winter or going south in search of food. They chose the

latter alternative. So powerful is the “homing instinct”—the instinct

that man has developed so wonderfully in the homer pigeon—that these

migrants invariably returned in the summer to their old homes for

breeding purposes.

The climate has again become milder, so that for many migratory birds

migration is no longer necessary; nevertheless, they still perform the

double journey every year. The force of habit is strong in birds. Those

Australian finches which are imported into India, even when kept in

aviaries in the Himalayas, nest in December and January as they did in

Australia, where these are summer months.

The ducks and geese that visit the Punjab in winter are too numerous to

be dealt with in this brief essay, which of necessity is not exhaustive.

It merely deals with such of the winter visitors to the Punjab as are

seen every day. Every winter Northern India is invaded by millions of

grey-lag and barred-headed geese, and by hundreds of thousands of

brahmany ducks, mallard, gadwall, teal, wigeon, pintails, shovellers and

pochards. The other game birds which visit the Punjab in great numbers

every winter are the jack and the common snipe.

The Indian redstart or firetail (_Ruticilla rufiventris_) is one of the

most striking of our winter visitors. No one but a blind man can fail to

notice the sprightly little bird with St. Vitus’ dance in its tail. The

head, breast, neck, and back of the cock are grey or black according to

the season of the year. Birds’ clothes wear out just as ours do. But

every bird is his own tailor. When his clothes wear out, instead of

resorting to the West-End tailor or the humble _darzi_, he grows a new

coat. This process is technically known as the moult and occurs at the

end of summer in most birds.

Each of the feathers composing the coat of the cock redstart is black

with a grey margin. When the feathers are new only the grey edges show,

the bird, therefore, looks grey; gradually the grey borders become worn

away, so that the bird turns black. The remainder of the plumage of the

cock, except the two middle tail feathers, is brick red. The hen is

reddish brown where the cock is black or grey. As the bird hops about in

the garden it looks very like a robin, but the moment it takes to its

wings it becomes transformed, as if by magic, into a flash of red. The

red of the tail and back is scarcely visible when the bird is not

flying, for the wings cover the latter and the tail is closed like a

fan; the red feathers all folding up underneath the middle brown ones

which act as a cover. During flight the red tail feathers open out and

the wings leave the red back exposed—hence the sudden transformation.

The redstart should be a favourite with Englishmen, because in habits

and appearance it resembles the familiar robin of our country. The

perverse Indian robin (_Thamnobia cambayensis_), it will be remembered,

insists on wearing its patch of red, as Phil Robinson hath it, on the

seat of its trousers.

The Indian redstart arrives towards the end of September. In the autumn

of 1906, September 22nd was the date on which I first noticed a redstart

in Lahore. In the following autumn I did not see one until September

27th. Bird-lovers of fixed abode in India would be rendering no small

service to ornithology if they would record carefully, year after year,

the dates on which they first observe each of our returning summer and

winter visitors.

When the migrant wagtails arrive we feel that the hot weather is really

over. Three species of wagtail are common in Lahore. One of these—the

pied wagtail (_Motacilla maderaspatensis_)—is a permanent resident. The

other two—the white wagtail (_Motacilla alba_) and the grey wagtail (_M.

melanope_)—come to us only for the winter. The last is easily

distinguished by its bright yellow lower plumage. The white and the pied

wagtails are both clothed in black and white, but whereas the face and

throat of the former are white, the whole head of the pied wagtail is

black save for a white eye-brow.

Wagtails live almost entirely on the ground. Throughout the winter

dozens of them are to be seen on the gymkhana cricket ground, sprinting

after tiny insects, and stopping after each capture to indulge in a

little tail wagging. All three species of wagtail feed exclusively on

insects, so that the migration in this case, as in that of the quail and

of many other birds, is obviously due to the force of habit.

Another winter visitor that cannot fail to attract attention is the

white-eared bulbul (_Molpastes leucotis_), a bird loathed by the

gardener on account of the damage it does to buds.

Two species of bulbul are abundant in Lahore: this one and the Punjab

red-vented bulbul (_Molpastes intermedius_). The latter, like the poor,

is always with us, while the former shakes the dust of Lahore off its

feet and departs when the weather becomes hot. The permanent resident

has a red patch under its tail and a black head and crest, while the

migrant wears yellow under the tail and has white cheeks.

The family of birds of prey furnishes us with a large number of winter

visitors. Those most likely to be seen in the neighbourhood of Lahore

are the steppe eagle, the long-legged buzzard, the sparrow hawk, the

peregrine falcon, the kestrel, and the merlin. It must not be thought

that _all_ our Indian birds of prey are migrants. A number of species

remain in the plains throughout the hot weather to vex the souls of

their weaker brethren. Curiously enough, there is among the permanently

resident raptores a counterpart, a nearly allied species—I might almost

say a “double”—of nearly every migrant. The tawny eagle (_Aquila

vindhiana_) and the steppe eagle (_A. bifasciata_) are so alike that

some authorities are inclined to regard them as a single species. But

the former lives in the plains all the year round and breeds in and

about Lahore, while the steppe eagle goes to the hills in the hot

weather to breed, and appears quite unable to endure heat. The one

caught at Wazirabad in the cold weather of 1906-7 and confined in the

local “Zoo” died comparatively early in the hot weather, whereas the

tawny eagle, kept in the same cage, has all along flourished like the

green bay tree. The shikra (_Astur badius_) and the sparrow hawk

(_Accipiter nisus_), although ornithologists now place them in different

genera, are so much alike that it is easy to mistake one for the other,

yet the former is a permanent resident while the latter is a migrant.

Similarly the peregrine falcon (_Falco peregrinus_) is a winter visitor

to the plains of the Punjab, while its cousin the laggar (_Falco

jugger_) is a permanent resident. In the same way the _Turumti_ or

red-headed merlin abides with us all the year round, while the common

merlin (_Aesalon regulus_) visits us only in winter.

Almost the only raptorial winter visitor that has not a cousin who lives

in the plains throughout the year is the kestrel (_Tinnunculus

alaudarius_), the bird known in England as the Windhover. This is

perhaps the easiest to identify of all the birds of prey, on account of

its habit of hovering on vibrating wings, like the pied kingfisher, high

in the air, over a spot where it thinks that there is quarry in the

shape of some small rodent. If the surmise be correct the kestrel drops

like a stone and seizes its quarry in its talons; if it sees nothing it

sweeps away with a few easy movements of its powerful wings and hovers

elsewhere. The only other bird of prey that hovers like the kestrel is

the black-winged kite (_Elanus caerulus_). This is mainly white and so

cannot be confounded with the kestrel.

The explanation of the fact that one species of bird of prey leaves the

plains in the hot weather, while a nearly related species remains, may

perhaps be found in the nature of their food. Birds of prey are to a

greater or lesser extent specialists; while quite ready to devour any

small bird, reptile, or mammal which comes their way, they lay

themselves out more especially to catch one particular species, and if

that species migrates it follows that the bird that preys upon it will

also migrate. Thus the peregrine falcon lays itself out to catch ducks

and naturally goes with them to their breeding grounds, just as the

hawker of cheap wares, who preys upon the _mem-sahib_, follows her to

the hills in the summer.

In conclusion mention must be made of the _Corvi_ which visit us in

winter. The arch-corvus, the grey-necked rascal (_Corvus splendens_), of

course, abides with us all the year round. The raven, too, is to be seen

at all times of the year, but is more abundant in the cold weather than

in the hot. During the summer months we see comparatively few ravens; in

the winter they are exceedingly numerous. Every evening towards sunset a

long stream of them may be observed flying in a westerly direction to

the common roosting place. There is a similar stream of crows that flies

in a north-westerly direction. The rook (_Corvus frugilegus_) is a

permanent resident of Kashmir and the North-Western Himalayas, but in

mid-winter many individuals are driven by the cold into the Frontier

Province and the Punjab; some come as far south as Lahore, where they

consort with the crows. If the winter is a severe one large numbers of

rooks come to Lahore, otherwise these birds are not very numerous. The

same applies to the jackdaw (_Corvus monedula_), but he never comes in

such numbers as the rook. There is in the octagonal bird house in the

Lahore “Zoo” a compartment in which there is a “Happy Family” of ravens,

rooks, and jackdaws, with an Australian crow-shrike and a Nicobar pigeon

to keep them company. Thus every one who cannot already do so may learn

to identify the various _Corvi_ which visit Lahore in the winter.

XXVII

A KINGFISHER AND A TERN

Nearly every village in India has its pond which becomes filled with

water during the monsoon and grows drier and drier during the winter and

hot weather. The pond is usually a natural depression, sometimes

enlarged and deepened by human agency. Occasionally a village is

situated on the edge of a lake, or _jhil_, but such fortunate villages

are few and far between; the average hamlet has to be content with a

small tank. This morning I came upon such a tank, in which the water had

become low, leaving a wide margin of mud between it and the artificially

made bank. At one end a couple of people were squatting. _Mirabile

dictu_, there was not a paddy bird to be seen, and the only feathered

creature disporting itself along the edge was a grey wagtail. In mid

pond four domestic ducks were feeding. A tern—the Indian river tern

(_Sterna seena_)—was busy at the tank, flying gracefully over the water

and dipping into it every few seconds. Judging from the frequency with

which the bird dived, the water must have teemed with food, but there

were no signs of fish rising, so that how the eye of the tern was able

to penetrate the very muddy water is a mystery. However, the tern did

manage to distinguish its quarry, for, although its movements were so

rapid that I was not able to discover what it was catching, I could see

distinctly that, when rising, it carried something tiny in its bill.

Terns are especially addicted to pieces of water that are rapidly drying

up, for under such conditions they find the creatures upon which they

prey literally jostling one another. After the water has been run off

from a canal, dozens of terns congregate at each hollow in the canal-bed

in which water lies.

The tern, when it plunges after its quarry, takes great care not to wet

its wings. Its habit is to drop from a height of about twenty feet head

foremost. In the course of the plunge the head and body are often

submerged, but, I think, never the wings; during the operation, these

are held almost vertically. So assiduously was this tern plying his

profession that he made thirty dives in about six minutes.

While he was thus employed a pied kingfisher (_Ceryle rudis_) appeared

on the scene and took up a position on one of three neem trees that grew

beside the tank. After sitting thus for a few seconds, he too began to

seek for food. Save that both he and the tern drop from a height of

about twenty feet into the water after their quarry, there is but little

similarity between their movements. The tern sails gracefully along on

pinions which move but slowly, while the kingfisher flies a little way,

then remains stationary in the air for a few seconds on rapidly

vibrating wings, with both tail and bill pointing downwards, so that the

shape of the bird is an inverted V with the apex at the neck. It then

either dives or passes on to another spot where it again hovers.

Frequently it makes as if it were going to dive, then seems to change

its mind, for it checks itself during its drop and passes on.

When the kingfisher was hovering in the air, the tern approached and

looked as though he were going to attack him. However, he contented

himself by skimming past very close to the “pied fish tiger.” This

appeared to disconcert the latter, who went back to the neem tree and

rested there for a few minutes. Meanwhile, the tern flew away. The

moment he had departed the kingfisher renewed his piscatorial efforts

and took up a position about twenty feet above the water almost directly

over the spot where the ducks were floating. I thought this rather

foolish on the part of the kingfisher, because the ducks must

necessarily scare away all the fish from that part of the water.

However, the little fisherman possessed more sense than I gave him

credit for. He had not been hovering for thirty seconds when he plunged

into the water and emerged with a large object in his bill. With this he

flew to the muddy border of the pond. Then, by means of my field

glasses, I saw that his quarry consisted of a frog about two and a half

inches long including the legs. The kingfisher experienced some little

difficulty in swallowing the frog. He had it crosswise in his beak and

the problem that confronted him was to get the frog lengthwise head

foremost in his bill without releasing the nimble little amphibian and

thus giving it a chance of escape. After a little manœuvring the

kingfisher got the frog in the desired position, and, having held it

thus for a few seconds, swallowed it.

Then the kingfisher remained squatting on the bank for a couple of

minutes looking pensive. This was scarcely to be wondered at, seeing

that as regards size the frog bore to him the same relation as a large

mackerel does to a man. I was interested to see whether the kingfisher

would consider this a sufficient meal, or whether he would immediately

resume his fishing operations. I expected him to adopt the latter

course, for birds have most voracious appetites. If horses were to eat

in the same ratio they would require at least a maund of oats per diem

to keep them in health! My surmise was correct. In a few seconds the

kingfisher flew to a large stake projecting from the water and squatted

there, cocking up his tail at frequent intervals. This motion of the

tail is possibly an aid to digestion! When he was thus seated, the tern

reappeared on the scene and at once recommenced fishing in the manner

already described. After the tern had been fishing for a couple of

minutes the kingfisher resumed operations and again sought the

neighbourhood of the ducks. He soon captured a second frog; but this

time, instead of being able to bear it to the bank and devour it in

peace, he had to reckon with the tern. He had not risen a yard above the

water when the tern noticed that he had quarry. Forthwith the tern

committed a breach of the tenth commandment and then proceeded to try to

violate the eighth. He made a swoop at the kingfisher, which the latter

adroitly dodged, squeaking loudly but without dropping the frog. Then

ensued a chase which was a sight for the gods. As regards pace on the

wing the kingfisher is no match for the tern. In an aerial contest the

slower flier has the advantage of being able to twist and turn more

quickly than the rapid flier. Of this advantage the kingfisher availed

itself to the full, so that the contest waxed fast and furious, the

combatants moving in a series of curves, zigzags, circles, and other

geometrical figures.

The kingfisher, notwithstanding that he had just swallowed a frog,

evidently had not the least intention of delivering up his catch. The

tern appeared equally determined to capture it. Seeing that he would

never be able to enjoy the fruits of his prowess while he remained at

the tank, the kingfisher changed his tactics and flew right away,

disappearing behind some trees, with the tern in pursuit. The latter,

however, did not follow far. He seemed suddenly to come to the

conclusion that honesty is the best policy, and returned to the pond to

endeavour to secure food in a more legitimate manner. I waited on for

about half an hour, expecting to see the kingfisher reappear, but was

disappointed. Then the tern went to seek pastures new, and left the

ducks and a solitary wagtail in possession of the tank.

XXVIII

THE RED TURTLE DOVE

Insects and birds, on account of the vast number of species they

present, furnish the best available material for the study of evolution.

It is owing to the fact that most Professors of Zoology are neither

entomologists nor ornithologists that biological science is in its

present deplorably backward condition. There exists scarcely a

zoological theory, be it neo-Lamarckian or neo-Darwinian, that the

competent ornithologist is not able to refute. For example, writing of

sexual dimorphism in animals, Cunningham states that in the case of

birds which exhibit such dimorphism the cocks differ essentially in

habits from the hens, and in this way he, as a Lamarckian, would account

for their external differences. “The cocks of common fowls and of the

_Phasianidæ_ generally,” he writes, “are polygamous, fight with each

other for the possession of females, and take no part in incubation or

care of the young, and they differ from the hens in their enlarged

brilliant plumage, spurs on the legs, and combs, wattles, or other

excrescences on the head. In the _Columbidæ_, _per contra_, the males

are not polygamous, but pair for life, the males do not fight, and share

equally with the females in parental duties. Corresponding with the

contrast of sexual habits is the contrast of sexual dimorphism, which is

virtually absent in the _Columbidæ_.”

Mr. Cunningham evidently is not acquainted with the red turtle dove

(_Œnopopelia tranqebarica_) so common in India, or he would not have

asserted that sexual dimorphism is virtually absent in the _Columbidæ_.

The sexes in this species are very different in appearance, and I know

of nothing peculiar in its habits to explain this dissimilarity. The

sexual dimorphism displayed by the red turtle dove is a fact equally

awkward for the Wallaceians, because the habits of this species appear

to be in no way different from those of the other doves. I have seen red

turtle doves feeding in company with the three other common species of

Indian dove; they eat the same kind of food, build the same ramshackle

nests, and lay the usual white eggs. But I will not spend time in

whipping a dying horse. The poor overburdened beast which we call

Natural Selection has done yeoman service; for years he has pulled the

great car of Zoology along the rugged road of knowledge, and now that he

is past work, now that he stands tugging impotently at the traces, it is

time to pension him and replace him by a new steed. Unfortunately, the

drivers of the coach happen to be old gentlemen, so old that they fail

to perceive that the coach is at a standstill. They believe that they

are still travelling along as merrily as they were in Darwin’s time. Ere

long their seats will be occupied by new drivers, who will give the good

steed Natural Selection a well-earned rest, and replace him by a fresh

animal called Mutation. Then once again the coach will resume its

journey.

The red turtle dove is a little bird, and the hen looks like an

exceptionally small specimen of the ring dove. So great is the

resemblance that a hen red turtle dove was shown at the United Provinces

Exhibition at Allahabad as a ring dove. The cock red turtle dove has a

pretty grey head, a black half-collar running round the back of his

neck, which, as Jerdon remarks, is “well set off by whitish above,”

while the remainder of his upper plumage is dull brick red. The hen is

clothed in greyish brown, in the hue known as dove colour, and her one

ornament is a black half-collar similar to that of the cock.

The best friends of turtle doves can scarcely maintain that they have

melodious voices. Phil Robinson, writing of the species which visits

England, contrasts its note with the “mellow voluptuous cooing of the

ring-dove.” “The call of the turtle dove,” he says, “is unamiable,

usually grumbling, and often absolutely disagreeable. To the imagination

it is a sulky and discontented bird, perpetually finding fault with its

English surroundings of foliage, weather, and food. ‘Do, for goodness’

sake get those eggs hatched, my dear, and let us get back to Italy.’

That is the burden of his grumble, morning, noon, and night.”

Phil Robinson’s opinion of the call of the red turtle dove is not on

record; this is unfortunate, for, assuredly, it would be a document

worthy to be placed side by side with Mr. Lloyd George’s invective

against the House of Lords!

To describe the note of the turtle dove as a coo would be to violate the

truth. It is a sepulchral grunt, the kind of sound one might expect of a

ring dove suffering from an acute sore throat. The only other bird which

makes a noise in any way resembling the call of the turtle dove is an

owl that makes itself heard in India shortly after the shades of night

have fallen. To what species this owl belongs I know not, for it is no

easy matter to fix on the owner of a voice heard only after dark, and

the descriptions of the cries of the various owls given in

ornithological works are anything but illuminating. The owl in question

is, I think, the brown fish owl (_Ketupa ceylonsis_), but of this I am

not certain.

The red turtle dove occurs throughout India, but, as in the case of the

other species of dove, its distribution appears to be capricious. It is

a permanent resident in the United Provinces, and, possibly, in South

India, although I am inclined to think that it goes north to breed. Of

this I am not sure. It never does to be sure of anything connected with

doves; they are most unreliable birds. To give a concrete instance.

Having lived for two years at Lahore, and having seen any number of red

turtle doves there during the hot weather, but not even the shadow of

one in the cold season, I was rash enough to assert in a scientific

journal: “There is no doubt that this species is merely a summer visitor

to Lahore.” As if to stultify me, some red turtle doves took into their

heads to remain on in Lahore during the following winter, and at the end

of September, when they ought to have been far away, a pair of them were

hatching out eggs. On the 27th of that month Mr. Currie found a nest

containing three fresh eggs. The laying of three eggs was an additional

piece of effrontery on the part of the lady turtle dove, and she was

rewarded by having them captured by Mr. Currie. As every one knows, two

is the correct number of eggs for a respectable pair of doves. I have

found dozens of doves’ nests, but have never seen more than two eggs in

any of them. Two is the normal number for the red turtle dove, but this

species has a trick of occasionally laying three, and so would seem to

be departing from the traditions of the family in the matter of

egg-laying.

As regards architecture, it has not made any advances on the vulgar herd

of doves. Its nursery is the typical slight structure over which so many

ornithologists have waxed sarcastic—a few slender sticks, or pieces of

grass, or both, so loosely and sparsely put together that the eggs can

generally be spied from below through the bottom of the nest. Hume

states that he has always found the nest at or near the extremities of

the lower branches of very large trees, at heights of from eight to

fifteen feet from the ground. My experience agrees with Hume’s in that

the nests are placed in tall trees, but all those that I have observed

have been situated high up in the tree at a level not less than twenty

feet above the ground. Mr. Currie states that the nests he found at

Lahore in May and June were also in high trees, forty or fifty feet from

the ground, but that the nests which he found in August and September of

the individuals who elected to winter at Lahore were placed in bushes or

low trees, and were not more than twelve feet above the earth, one of

them being at an elevation of but four feet.

XXIX

BIRDS IN THE MILLET FIELDS

The fields of _bajra_, or giant millet, which in late autumn or early

winter form so conspicuous a feature of the landscape of Northern India,

are a never-failing source of amusement to the naturalist, because they

are so attractive to the feathered folk. Were the bird visitors asked

why they came to the _bajra_, they would doubtless reply, if they could

speak, that the attraction was the insects harboured by the crops. And

the majority would be telling the truth. But there are, alas, some who

come for a less useful purpose, that of abstracting the grain. Let us

deal first with the avian black sheep. Of these, the buntings are the

most numerous, unless the particular field happens to be within a mile

of a village; in that case, of course, the sparrows outnumber them. On

_Passer domesticus_ I have not leisure to dwell. It must suffice that he

eats and twitters and squabbles to his heart’s content all day long, and

generally enjoys himself at the expense of the cultivator.

The buntings merit more attention. They are aristocratic connections of

the sparrow. They need no introduction to the Englishman, for of their

clan is the yellow-hammer, the little bird that sits on a fence and

calls cheerily “A little bit of bread and no che-e-e-se.” Like other

grain-eating birds, buntings possess a stout bill—not a coarse beak like

that of the bullfinch or even of the sparrow, but a powerful, conical,

sharply pointed instrument with which they are able to extract grain

from the ear and then husk it preparatory to swallowing it. A

peculiarity of the bill of the bunting is that the upper and lower

mandibles do not come into contact along their whole length, but are

separated in the middle by a gap which gives the beak the appearance of

having been used to crack grain too hard for it.

Fifteen species of bunting visit India. I am not going to attempt to

describe all these, for two excellent reasons. The first is that no one

would read my descriptions, and the second is that I have never set eyes

upon several of the Indian buntings. Three species, however, are very

abundant, and one fairly so, in Northern India, during the cold weather.

Buntings are not often seen south of Bombay. As they find plenty of

grain in northern latitudes, there is no necessity for them to penetrate

into the tropics. The grey-necked, the red-headed and the black-headed

are the three commonest species. The grey-necked bunting (_Emberiza

buchanani_) is an ashy-brown bird with a reddish tinge in its lower

plumage, and a whitish ring round the eye. It is a bird that is apt to

pass unnoticed unless looked for. This perhaps explains why Oates

wrongly states that the species is not found east of Etawah. The cock

red-headed bunting (_E. luteola_) is a handsome bird, nor has the hen

any reason to be ashamed of her appearance, whatever the ladies of the

other species may say. The wings and tail of the cock are greenish

brown. His head is a beautiful old-gold colour, while his rump and lower

parts are bright yellow. In the hen the colouring is everywhere more

subdued. In the cock black-headed bunting (_E. melanocephala_) the

feathers that adorn the head are black with a grey border, so that the

head looks grey when the bird first reaches India in the autumn, but

grows blacker as the grey edges of the feathers become worn away. The

back and shoulders are rich chestnut, the wings and tail are brown, the

cheeks and lower plumage rich yellow. The hen is brownish with dull

yellow under parts, and a bright yellow patch under the tail. This

species, which might at a casual glance be mistaken for a weaver bird

(_Ploceus baya_), is very abundant on the Bombay side, where, to quote

“Eha,” it “about takes the place of the yellow-hammer at home, swarming

about fields and hedges, and singing with more cheer than music.”

The fourth species of bunting has been promoted to a different genus

because it boasts of a conspicuous crest, not unlike that of the crested

lark (_Galerita cristata_). Its scientific name is _Melophus

melanicterus_, and its non-scientific, or popular, or vulgar name is the

crested bunting. The cock is a greyish black bird with russet-brown

wings. The hen is a dark brown bird. This is said to be a resident

species in the plains, whereas the other three are migratory. Otherwise

its habits are very like those of the ordinary buntings. These birds

spend the day in the fields. As they live in the midst of plenty they

enjoy much leisure. This they employ perched on a head of millet making

a joyful noise. Sometimes one will be sitting thus on a particular stalk

when a friend will fly up, drive him from his position, and in turn hold

forth, only to be playfully ousted by another of his comrades. Verily

the life of a bunting is a jolly one.

Like rosy starlings, the buntings are not very much in evidence until

they begin to collect in huge flocks preparatory to leaving India for

the hot weather. Then it is impossible to miss seeing them. At that

season golden corn takes the place of millet in the fields. Heavy is the

toll which the buntings levy on the ripening grain. When disturbed, they

take refuge in the nearest tree, and the moment the fear of danger is

past they are back again in the field. Hence Jerdon calls them corn

buntings.

The other black sheep of the _bajra_ field are the rosy starlings

(_Pastor roseus_) and the green parrots (_Palæornis torquatus_). For

noisiness and destructiveness these are a pair of species hard to beat.

Having considered the sinners, it now behoves us to turn to the saints.

Fortunately for the long-suffering ryot, the latter outnumber the

former; the majority of the avian _habitués_ of the millet field come

for the sake of the insects which are so abundant in this particular

crop. The most conspicuous of these is the Indian roller (_Coracias

indica_), who uses the heads of the millet as convenient perches whence

he can descend upon his quarry. It is not by any means every millet

stalk that is sufficiently stout to support so weighty a bird, and it is

amusing to watch a “blue jay” try in vain to find a perch on several

successive heads, on each occasion almost losing his balance. For this

reason the roller always selects for his watch-tower a castor-oil plant,

when any of these are interspersed among the millet.

King-crows are always in force on the millet field, but is there any

spot in India where they are not in force? They, like the roller, use

the heads as resting places whence to secure their quarry, but they take

it in the air in preference to picking it from off the ground.

On the highest stalk of the field sits a butcher bird, still and grim,

waiting for a victim. Though he is small, you cannot fail to notice him

on account of his conspicuous white shirt front. As a rule, there are no

thorny bushes in the vicinity of the millet field, so that here he must

devour his food without spitting it on a thorn.

Every millet field is visited by flocks of mynas—bank, pied, and common

mynas—with now and then a starling. These, I believe, visit the field

mainly for insects; but I would not like to assert that they do not

sometimes pilfer the grain. In any case, they are a cheery crowd, and

without them the _bajra_ fields would not be the lively spots they are.

Mention must also be made of the Indian bush chat (_Pratincola

maura_)—most unobtrusive of little birds. The hen is dressed in reddish

brown, and, when apart from her lord and master, it is scarcely possible

to distinguish her from several other lady chats, unless, of course, the

observer be so ungallant as to shoot her. The upper parts of the cock

are reddish brown in winter, black in summer. There is a large patch of

white on each side of the neck. The breast is orange red, the lower

parts russet brown. But what with the young cocks assuming gradually the

full adult plumage, and the adults changing from the plumage of one

season to that of the next, no two of these birds seem to be exactly

alike. The bush chats feed upon the small insects that live on the

millet plants.

Lastly, mention must be made of various species of pipits and warblers,

who feed on insects down in the depths of the millet field.

Such, then, are the principal of the _dramatis personæ_ of the gay

little scene that is enacted daily in the millet field. But, stay—I have

forgotten a very important class of personages—the birds of prey. In

India these are, of course, very numerous, and many of them, more

especially the harriers, habitually hunt over open fields, gliding on

outstretched wings a few yards above the crops, ready to swoop down upon

any creature that has failed to mark their approach. Great is the

commotion among the birds in the millet when a harrier appears on the

scene. The voices of the smaller birds are suddenly hushed, and their

owners drop on to the ground, where they are hidden from view by the

crop. The mynas, uttering harsh cries of anger, take to their wings and

fly off to right and to left of the path of the harrier, as though they

were soldiers performing a manœuvre. Thus the bird of prey flies over a

field which is apparently devoid of living creatures. But long before he

is out of sight the little birds have again come to the surface, the

mynas have returned, and all are feeding as merrily as before. So

cautious are the smaller birds that even a dove flying overhead causes

them to drop into the depths of the crop. They do not wait to see the

nature of the living object—to do so might mean death.

It may perhaps be thought that, if birds are thus in constant fear of

being devoured, their life must be fraught with anxiety. Far from it.

Birds know not what death is. Instinct teaches them to avoid birds of

prey, but they probably enjoy the sudden dash for cover. The smaller fry

appear to look upon the raptorial bird in much the same light as

children regard the “bogey man.” For some unknown reason, they are

afraid of him, but at the same time he affords them a certain amount of

amusement.

XXX

HOOPOES AT THE NESTING SEASON

_Uk-uk-uk_—soft and clear; _uk-uk-uk_—gentle and monotonous pipes the

nodding hoopoe with splendid pertinacity throughout the month of

February. This is the prelude to nesting operations. From mid-February

till mid-March hoopoes’ eggs to the number of several millions are laid

annually in India. During the months of March and April considerably

over a million hoopoes emerge from the egg. In Northern India during the

month of April it is scarcely possible to find an adult hoopoe who is

not employed from sunrise to sunset in digging insects out of the ground

with feverish haste and flying with them to the holes in which the

youngsters are calling lustily.

But let me begin at the beginning. Ordinarily the Indian hoopoe (_Upupa

indica_) is as sedate and prim as a maiden lady of five-and-fifty

summers. At the season of courtship the hoopoes cast aside their

primness to some extent. But even at that festive time the cock does

not, like the king-crow and the roller, disturb the whole neighbourhood

by his noisy love songs. In his wildest moments his voice is never loud.

Sometimes he chases his mate on the wing, and then the pair of lovers

perform the most wonderful gyrations, twisting, turning, and doubling

with greater rapidity and ease than the most mobile butterfly. The chase

over, the birds descend to the ground and remain motionless for a

little. Then the cock—it is impossible to distinguish the sexes by

outward appearance, but it is the custom to attribute all matrimonial

advances to the cock, hence I say the cock—opens out his beautiful

cinnamon-and-black corona and runs rapidly along the ground. The lady of

his choice pays no attention whatever to his display.

Mark this statement, gentle and ungentle readers! Mark it with a black

mark, because it is an example of that horrid heterodoxy of mine which

causes the worthy reviewers of a number of influential and highly

respectable newspapers to indulge at intervals in much gnashing of teeth

and to roar with impotent rage. The orthodox view is, of course, that

the lady only pretends that she does not see the display of the cock; in

reality she is watching it carefully out of the corner of her eye, and

is thoroughly appreciating it. Says she to herself (according to the

orthodox view), “My eye! Hasn’t John James got a magnificent crest! But

I must not let him know that I think it, otherwise he will suffer from

swelled head and be positively unbearable to live with!”

The orthodox would have us believe that the lady hoopoe is a consummate

actress. She may be. But, I submit that the burden of proof is on those

who make such assertions. If the hen looks as though she is taking no

notice, it is proper to assume that she is taking no notice until we can

prove that this assumption is incorrect. Now, I submit that it is not

possible to adduce one jot or tittle of proof of the hen’s alleged

pretence. All the evidence goes to show that the hen bird really does

not notice the display of the cock. I ask, why should the hen

dissimulate? Why should she show without hesitation her feelings on all

occasions that call for a display of feeling except this one?

I ask again, even if the hen does notice the display of the cock, has

she any sense of beauty? Is it likely that a bird, which lays its eggs

in a dirty dark hole and squats in that hole for a fortnight until it

stinketh in such a manner as to be perceptible to the Indian coolie,

appreciates the beauty of the corona of the cock or of the bold

black-and-white markings on his wings? I decline to attribute to the hen

hoopoe all the wiles of a human coquette. But, grant that she does

possess them. What of the cock? Is he supposed to see through them? If

not, why does he display his beauties to a lady who appears persistently

to refuse to notice them? I submit that the orthodox view of the nuptial

display is totally wrong. The cock does not try to show off, nor does

his display win him a mate. At the breeding season the sight of the hen

excites him, and his excitement shows itself in the form of dance, of

the erection of certain feathers, or of song. Even as a man’s joy often

finds expression in song or dance, so does the pleasure of a bird. A

fighting dove often goes through the antics we associate with courtship.

These antics are merely the expression of excitement, and not made

deliberately to attract a hen or alarm an enemy.

So much for conjecture. Let us now turn to facts. The hoopoe usually

lays its eggs in a hole in a tree or a building; on rare occasions only,

in a crevice of a rock or under a large stone. The most approved nesting

site is a roomy cavity, as dark and dirty as possible, with a very small

opening leading to the world without.

I have no wish to exaggerate, and I believe that I am understating facts

when I say that I have seen more than fifty hoopoes’ nests.

These have all been in cavities in trees or buildings opening to the

exterior by a very small aperture. I think I may safely assert that

forty-nine out of every fifty hoopoes’ nests are in such situations. I

emphasise this point in order to demonstrate the kind of nonsense that

finds its way into English periodicals.

In the issue of the _Fortnightly Review_ for February, 1912, an article

by Mr. Philip Oyler appeared entitled “Colour Meanings of some British

Birds and Quadrupeds.”

Mr. Oyler is a disciple of that eccentric artist, Mr. Abbot Thayer, who

imagines that all birds and beasts are invisible in their natural

surroundings.

Mr. Oyler’s article in the _Fortnightly Review_ is composed chiefly of

erroneous statements, wild guesses, and absurd interpretations of facts.

The climax of nonsense is reached by Mr. Oyler when he writes about the

hoopoe:—

“As it nests in hollow stems, and hollow stems mean decay, there is

invariably fungus on those stems. And how wonderfully the hoopoe’s white

copies them, and how wonderfully the black represents shadows; and then

again, in addition to colouration, is a crest to help break the

outline.”

For the benefit of those who have not visited India I may state that in

the greater part of the plains the trunks of old trees are not covered

with fungus. Practically every hoopoe nests in a place completely hidden

from the outer world. If the hen hoopoe were coloured with all the

colours of the spectrum she would while sitting on her eggs be invisible

from the outer world. It is sad to think that people exist who can bring

themselves to write such nonsense as Mr. Oyler has inflicted on the

readers of the _Fortnightly Review_.

It is said that a pair of hoopoes uses the same nest year after year. I

have not been able to verify this statement owing to the demands on my

peripatetic capacity made by the exigencies of the public service.

The eggs of the hoopoe are elongated ovals of a dirty white colour;

euphemists describe them as dingy olive-brown or green, while euphuists

portray them as having a delicate greyish blue tint. They are devoid of

markings.

The clutch is said to contain from four to seven eggs. This is another

assertion which I have never attempted to verify, because in order to

reach the eggs of the hoopoe one has usually to pull down part of a wall

or other edifice and at the same time wreck the nest. However, I can say

that I have never observed more than two young hoopoes emerge from a

nest, and on several occasions I have noticed that only one issued

forth.

As concrete instances are more interesting than generalities I propose

in what follows to give an account of the nesting operations of a pair

of hoopoes that recently reared up a youngster in a chink in the wall of

my verandah at Fyzabad between a wooden rafter and the brickwork. The

cavity in question was so situated that I could see its orifice as I sat

at my dressing table. I noticed for the first time a hoopoe bringing

food to the nest on the 17th March. The food brought appeared to consist

chiefly of caterpillars. Whenever the bird arrived at the nest it

uttered a soft, pretty, tremulous _coo-coo-coo_. This was to inform its

mate that it had come.

The hen hoopoe is said not to leave the nest from the time she begins to

incubate until the young emerge from the eggs. This statement is, I

believe, correct. It is not one that can be very easily verified because

the sexes are alike in outward appearance. Certain it is that the hen

sits very closely and the cock continually brings food to her.

As soon as the young are hatched out the hen leaves the nest and assists

the cock in finding food for the baby hoopoes. I cannot say on what day

the particular hen whose doings are here recorded left the nest. April

9th was the first date on which I noticed both birds feeding the young.

At that period the parents were bringing food faster than the occupant

of the nest could dispose of it, and one or other of them had often to

wait outside with something in the beak until the nestling was ready to

receive it. At that time I had no idea how many young birds were inside

the nest. The chink that led to it was too narrow to admit of the

insertion of one’s hand. It was not until the young bird emerged that I

discovered that only one nestling had been reared.

While the parent was thus waiting outside with a succulent caterpillar

hanging from its bill, it used to utter its call _uk-uk-uk_. Sometimes

while one bird was thus waiting the other would appear. Then the first

bird would transfer the quarry to its mate, and the latter would either

devour it or wait outside the nest with the morsel.

Most birds when they feed their young collect several organisms in the

beak between the visits to the nest. Not so the hoopoe; it brings but

one thing at a time, which it carries at the extreme tip of the bill.

The reasons for this departure from the usual practice are obvious. The

long bill of the hoopoe, like that of the snipe, is a probe to penetrate

the earth. During this operation any food already in the bill would be

torn and damaged. Moreover, if the hoopoe were to carry the food to the

nest in the angle of the beak as most birds do, it would be difficult to

transfer this to the long bill of the young bird. Hence it comes to pass

that hoopoes visit their nestlings a very great number of times in the

course of the day.

When young hoopoes emerge from the egg they are silent creatures, but

before they are many days old they begin to welcome with squeaks the

arrival of the parents with food. The older the young birds grow the

more vociferous they become.

Like the majority of birds that nestle in holes, hoopoes with young

display but little fear of man. The nest of which I write was situated

over the door of the pantry, where servants work during the greater part

of the day. The hoopoes did not seem to object at all to the presence of

the servants, but they took great exception to my arrival. Whenever I

came upon the scene the parent hoopoes used to greet me with a harsh

_chur_ uttered with crest folded back and tail expanded.

One day a corby (_Corvus macrorhynchus_), who doubtless had done to

death many a promising nestling, alighted on a table placed in the

verandah outside the pantry. The hoopoes were furious at the intrusion.

They took up positions, to right and to left of the crow, at a safe

distance, and scolded it with great vehemence. The crow took no notice

whatever of this hostile demonstration. After a little one of the

hoopoes flew to the ground, and from there continued its abuse of the

crow. Then, while waiting to regain its breath, it expanded its crest

and repeatedly bobbed its head so that the tip of the bill almost

touched the ground. This bowing performance is evidently an expression

of great excitement. I have seen doves behaving in a similar manner in

the midst of a fight, and also when courting. Here, then, we have a case

of what is usually considered to be showing off or display to the

female, taking place at a time when a bird is very angry. The hoopoe in

question was not showing off either to the crow or to its mate; it was

assuredly no time, “no matter for his swellings nor his turkey cocks.”

On the 25th April the young hoopoe began to call even when its parents

were not at the nest. Each time they brought food it uttered a series of

squeaks much like those that emanate from a cycle pump when air is being

pumped through it into a nearly fully inflated tyre. By this time the

young bird had developed to such an extent that when a parent arrived it

would push its head through the aperture of the nest hole.

On the 26th April the young bird left the nest. Assuming that the 17th

March was the day when the hen began to sit, we find the young bird

emerging from the nest forty days later. It is, however, improbable that

I noticed the cock feeding the hen on the very first day of incubation.

It is my belief that young hoopoes do not leave the nest for fully a

month after they are hatched. When they do leave the nest they differ

very little in appearance from the adult. They have the crest and the

colouring fully developed. The only difference is that the bill is not

quite so long or so curved.

From the time the bird emerges from the nest until the moment when it is

gathered unto its fathers, the hoopoe’s plumage does not undergo any

change in appearance. This being so I am puzzled to know what a

correspondent meant when he recently wrote to the _Field_ about a hoopoe

in full breeding plumage that appeared in Yorkshire.

But let us return to the young hoopoe that emerged from the nest in my

verandah at Fyzabad on the 26th April, 1912. Not content with thrusting

its head and shoulders through the aperture at the visit of its father

or mother as it had been doing for some time, it suddenly came right out

on to the beam to meet its food-laden parent. After it had eaten the

proffered caterpillar and the parent had left, the young bird caught

sight of me. Immediately it opened out its crest and began bowing in the

manner described above as betokening excitement. Then it fluttered on to

a ledge at the distance of six feet. A minute later it flew out of the

verandah and alighted on a creeper growing on a wall fifteen yards away.

Its flight was wonderfully strong, but I noticed that it was breathing

heavily after it had alighted, showing that the short flight entailed

considerable exertion. It appeared to dislike the interest I was taking

in it, and so flew on to the roof of the bungalow, where I lost sight of

it.

These little incidents are, I submit, utterly subversive of the

anthropomorphic theory, so much in favour nowadays and expounded by Mr.

Walter Long in that much-read book _The School of the Woods_, that birds

and beasts are born with their minds a blank, and that they have to be

taught how to walk and how to fly just as human babies are taught how to

talk and walk. As a matter of fact, young birds require and receive very

little education from their parents. A young bird flies as instinctively

as a baby cries.

I saw nothing more of the young hoopoe until the morning of the 28th

April, when I noticed a hoopoe on the roof of my bungalow calling

_uk-uk-uk_ repeatedly, notwithstanding the fact that it had a

caterpillar in its beak. Birds can sing with the mouth full! Presently a

young hoopoe appeared on the roof. The adult bird ran to the latter and

thrust the caterpillar into its mouth. This was acknowledged by a little

squeak of thankfulness.

Most young birds flap their wings and make a great commotion when they

think it is time they received a beakful of food. Baby hoopoes, however,

do not behave in this way at all. They toddle sedately in the wake of

the mother or father, but make no clamour for food. They receive this in

a most dignified manner, merely uttering a little squeak of thanks.

To return to the young hoopoe of whose exploits I have been writing. I

saw a parent come repeatedly and feed him on the roof of the bungalow on

that day and on the 29th and the 30th. This, of course, I was prepared

for. But I was not prepared for the next event, which was the

revisitation of the nest in the verandah by the two parent birds on the

1st May. On the following days they continued to visit the nest hole,

but I had no leisure for watching them. On the 5th May I saw one hoopoe,

presumably the cock, literally drive the other into the nest hole. They

both flew into the verandah and alighted on a ledge that runs round it a

little way below the roof. There the cock emitted some harsh cries,

expanded his crest and bowed as described above. Then he advanced

towards her. She disappeared into the nest hole. He flew up to the

aperture and remained outside on guard for some time. After a little he

put his head into the aperture and gave vent to his gentle _uk-uk-uk_.

Then he withdrew his head, remained standing outside the nest aperture

for a few minutes and flew off. The hen emerged from the hole a couple

of minutes later.

The next day the cock was bringing food to the nest, and the hen was

apparently incubating. On the 7th, 8th, 9th, 10th, and 11th I saw the

cock still at work feeding the hen, uttering at each visit to the nest a

soft _coo-coo-coo_. From this date I did not see the cock visit the nest

again until the 24th, when I saw him fly to the verandah with some food

in his mouth, but he emerged from the nest hole without having disposed

of the food he was carrying. He then dropped down on to the lawn and

gave this to another hoopoe feeding on the grass. From that day onwards

I have not seen a hoopoe visit the nest hole in the verandah. It would

seem that after sitting on the second batch of eggs a few days the hen

hoopoe went on strike! Or, to speak more correctly, the fury of

incubation left her, and she regained her normal taste for a life in the

open.

XXXI

THE LARGEST BIRD IN INDIA

It has always been a cause of wonder and sorrow to me that the sarus

crane (_Grus antigone_) does not occur in the neighbourhood of Madras,

or indeed in South India at all. The tropical portion of the Indian

peninsula, with its millions of acres of green paddy, should be a

paradise for cranes; yet not one of these fine birds is likely to be

found south of the Godavery, or, at any rate, of the Kistna. There is

presumably some good reason for this, but that reason has yet to be

discovered.

The sarus might well be called the Indian crane, for it is one of the

most characteristic and beautiful birds of Northern India; moreover, it

appears to be found nowhere outside India. Saruses occur in Burma, but

the Burmese birds have fallen into the hands of the ornithological

systematist, and he has, of course, made a separate species of them. The

sarus from Burma is now known in the scientific world as _Grus

sharpii_—not because very sharp eyes are necessary in order to

distinguish him from the Indian form!