a large family of birds which has been truly domesticated. The kindred
pheasants and grouse, though abounding in the Old World and the New, and
much disposed to abide about the cultivated fields, appear to be rather
untamable. However well cared for, the wilderness motive seems never to
have been eradicated. The domesticability of the cock, as is that of
most other wild animals, is doubtless to be explained by the conditions
of the life in which it has dwelt for ages before it was introduced to
the society of man. In its wild state this bird had already to a great
extent lost the power of flight, using its wings only for escaping from
four-footed pursuers or to attain the branches of the trees in which it
sought safety in the night time. With this measure of loss of the flying
power, the creature abandoned the habit of ranging over a wide field,
and thus was made more fit for domestication. Moreover, in their
wilderness life these birds dwelt in more established communities than
their kindred species. The most of these wild forms do not keep together
through the year, but scatter after the young are able to shift for
themselves. The Indian species of _Gallus_, however, from which our
cocks and hens descend, have organized their life so that the
individuals remain associate in a friendly way throughout the year.
A part of the fitness of this creature to cast in its lot with man
arises from the fact that they have very sympathetic natures. This is
shown by the way in which the cocks will fight for their hens, even
against their dreaded enemies, the hawks; and by the manner in which the
mother, overcoming her natural fears, will do battle for her brood. It
is shown also in the curious mingling of gallantry and kindliness with
which the cock will call a hen to give her some choice bit of food which
he has captured. As he grows older and becomes Philistinish, we may note
that, after the manner of unfeathered bipeds, he is often disposed to
indulge his selfishness, and summons his flock only to see him devour
the morsel. Even in old age, however, the males of the varieties which
are nearest the parent stock maintain their helpful motives and will
struggle with infirmity to beat off a bird of prey.
The sympathetic and affectionate quality of our barnyard fowl is perhaps
best indicated by the singular variety and denotative value of their
various calls and cries. Those who know these birds well will find no
difficulty in recognizing about a score of diverse sounds, each of which
indicates a particular turn of their mind. Almost all of these different
notes have slight variations of expression which fit particular
situations. Thus the crow of these birds, which may seem to the
unobservant a very unvaried sound, discloses to those who have lovingly
studied them at least half a dozen distinct modifications. In the
fledgling male who just begins to feel the spirit of his kind, and who
goes through his performance in the adolescent way, it is a cheap and
often pitiful call. From the open roost in the trees, where the birds
are gradually aroused by the slow-coming day, we can often hear the note
of the half-awakened cock, as full of the sense of slumber as the speech
of a sleeping man. As the creature gradually awakens, his cry becomes
more resonant until it has the true morning ring. Brave as is this note
of the full day, it is not to be compared with the crowing of a
game-cock, the most splendid braggart sound of all the animal world.
The really sympathetic notes of our fowls are uttered in their ordinary
intercourse. Here the gradations of sounds have a range and fineness
which, it seems to me, we can observe in no other creature below the
level of man. Attention, astonishment, fear, commonplace distress,
exultation, and agony are all set forth with cries which we, in a way,
recognize as appropriate. Although some of these sounds relate to the
larger experiences of the creatures, the most instructive of them are
uttered in their ordinary intercourse, where they clearly maintain a
kind of consensus in the flock by unending small bits of emotional
speech, the notes being shaded in a wonderful way. These fine
variations of utterance can sometimes be observed to be related to
slight differences of situation. Thus the cackle of a hen when she
leaves her nest after laying an egg is quite different from that which
is made by the same hen when, during the period of incubation, she
quits her eggs in search of food and water.
It is not unlikely that the eminent domesticability of our common fowls
is in a way associated with the singular variety of their notes. This
variety indicates that the creatures are in constant and effective
communication with one another; in a word, they are very sympathetic.
With this intellectual helpfulness naturally goes the love of the
domicile and a disposition to submit to control.
So nice and well understood are the differences between the sounds
which these birds give forth, and so well are their notes appreciated
by their companions, that the creatures may well be said to have a
language. Though it probably conveys only emotions and not distinct
thoughts, it still must be regarded as a certain kind of speech. The
modes of expression indicate that in this creature, as in the other
feathered forms, the intellectual life consists largely in the
movements inspired by the emotions. On the rational side our fowls seem
weaker than many other less interesting species. In their nesting and
other habits there are no evidences of constructive ingenuity; and in
all my observations on them I have never seen any evidence which showed
either considerable powers of memory or a capacity to act in any
complicated way with reference to an end. It is evident, however, that
they make a very good classification of the world about them. They
have, for the limited field over which they roam, a keen topographic
sense; they never are lost, and this in connection with their
sympathetic homing instinct prevents them from wandering from their
accustomed places to take up again with a wilderness life.
In their adhesion to domestication our common fowls differ in a
remarkable way from all other of our captive animals except the dog, and
these birds are even more ineradicably attached to man than their older
companion. While the dog will sometimes become half wild, or, as we may
phrase it, undomiciled, fowls seem incapable of maintaining themselves
apart from human care. In much ranging of the wilderness I have never
found one of these creatures more than a thousand feet away from a human
habitation. When we consider how common must be the chances of their
going astray, and how easy it is in many parts of the country, as in our
Southern States, for them to obtain in the wilderness food throughout
the year, the fact that they never go wild is indeed remarkable. It can
only be explained by the great development of the homing instinct which
man has brought about in their sympathetic souls.
[Illustration: Houdin, Cochins, Leghorns, and Game]
Although our unnatural process of breeding has done much to degrade the
original beauty of the cocks and hens, destroying the delicate
coloration of the feathers as well as the admirable blending and
contrasts of their pristine hues, it seems likely that the effect on the
physical and mental development as a whole has not been unfavorable.
Though less courageous, they are stronger creatures than in their wild
state; they are clearly more fecund; they are gentler natured; and, so
far as I have been able to compare the high-bred with the primitive
forms, their range of expression through the voice has been much
increased, a feature which may be noted in other domesticated species of
birds, as, for instance, in the canaries. The most remarkable alteration
which has been brought about in the minds of these creatures consists
in the very great diminution in the combative motive of the males. In
the wild forms, as well as in the kindred variety of the game-cock, this
impulse to battle attains a truly phenomenal development, the like of
which is probably not to be found in any other creature. The male birds
begin their warfare before they are more than half grown, and in their
adult state will attack anything which they can conceive to be an enemy.
They will, with slight provocation, assail any of the other domesticated
species of birds, and even the lesser mammals, such as the dogs and
cats. They will fight their own image in a looking-glass. I have had
game-cocks attack my hand when it was held near the ground and given an
up-and-down movement in imitation of their antagonist's head.
I once reared a game-cock by hand, keeping him secluded from his kind
until he was adult. I then placed him in a large collection of barnyard
fowl where there were half a dozen mongrel cocks, a drake of the muscovy
variety, several ganders, and two turkey-gobblers. Immediately and in
rapid succession he settled his accounts with the males of his own kind.
He shortly overcame the drake and the ganders. He then devoted what was
left of his forces to battles with the turkeys. Here he found himself in
great difficulty, for the reason that these great birds would seize him
by the head and lift his body off the ground. However, he soon learned
an ingenious trick which protected him from this danger. When gathering
breath in the intervals between his assaults, he would hover himself
between his antagonist's legs, keeping step with the awkward creature in
its efforts to get away from him. In a few days he wore out these
doughty foemen and remained the battered master of the field.
Although the indomitable valor of the game-cock may be in some measure
due to the selection which the breeder has applied to the variety, there
can be no question that it is essentially natural to the species and is
the result of an age-long habit which in the native wilds of the
creature did much to insure its safety. The antiquity of the state of
mind may be judged by the perfection to which the spurs have attained
and the remarkably skilful and definite way in which the creatures use
them. The spur, which has arisen from the development of the scales and
underlying bone of the bird's leg, is a singularly perfect structure,
the finish of which cannot be judged in the degraded form in which it is
found in our ordinary barnyard species. Although in its construction
this weapon is admirably devised, it is placed in a position where only
a remarkably well-addressed movement can give effect to its blow. Those
who have watched game-cocks in combat have had a chance to see the
vaults by which the creature, partly turning in the air, is able to
throw the spur in such a manner that it shares the impulse of the body
when it strikes the antagonist. This peculiar craft has been in good
part lost among our common varieties. Their spiritless contests differ
as much from those of the game-birds as do the fist fights of untrained
men from the contests of skilled pugilists.
[Illustration: Bantams, Brahma, and Dorkings]
Although to persons unaccustomed to the spectacle the combats between
game-birds may seem disgusting, almost every one must admire the valor,
grace, and address which such scenes exhibit. Except where the brutal
custom of putting steel points on the spurs prevails, the birds rarely
receive fatal wounds. The defeated cock is soon brought to confess his
inferiority and takes himself away. At no other time in the life of
these birds does their organic beauty appear to such advantage as when
they are struggling with each other. Then alone do we perceive the
singular efficiency of their bodies and the quick as well as appropriate
action of their instincts. They set themselves against each other in
attitudes as well chosen and as peculiar as those of a well-trained
fencer. Before the assault they often go through a singular performance,
which consists in picking up bits of twigs or pebbles. These they cast
into the air, an unmeaning movement which may be compared to the like
meaningless though similarly graceful salute with which swordsmen
preface their contests. Then, with their legs flexed so that they may be
ready for the spring, and with the rather stiff feathers about the neck
erected so as to serve as a shield, they creep toward each other until
they are separated by the distance appropriate for the spring. When
fairly placed for battle they begin a system of fence which is intended
to provoke the enemy to an untimely assault. The art of the game appears
to consist in persuading the adversary to venture an attack where his
force will be spent in the air, so that a blow can be given him before
he has time to recover position. The issue depends much on the endurance
of the birds. Their movements require so much energy that one of them is
apt to become exhausted before the other is quite spent. In rare cases,
only one of which has been seen by me, a weary bird will feign death for
a minute or so and thus obtain new strength with which to renew the
combat, profiting also by the confusion which he will bring upon his
adversary by his sudden revival.
Although the combatant motive which we find in the males among our
barnyard fowls has doubtless been developed through their combats with
each other, the valiant spirit which has come from it often leads the
creatures to attack the enemies of their flock. I have seen a nimble
game-cock strike a hawk which was pouncing to its prey, delivering the
blow some feet above the surface of the ground, and this so effectively
that the marauder was driven away in a sorely hurt condition. I have
seen males of the game variety attack a number of other larger animals
which in any way threatened their charges.
Although our barnyard fowl are almost the only ground birds which
have ever been brought to a state of perfect domestication, there are
several other species of the same group which have been taught in a
measure to adhere to man. Of these perhaps the longest in
domestication is the peafowl. This creature, though it has edible,
indeed we may say savory flesh, has retained its small place in
civilization solely on account of its extraordinary beauty. For its
size it is doubtless the most beautiful of animals, its plumage,
especially the magnificent display of the tail, exceeding that of any
other natural object. There are other birds of small size which vie
with the peacock in the details of ornamentation. Those jewels among
the feathered tribes, the humming-birds, have a more delicate beauty.
The birds-of-paradise and the lyre-birds have a grace in the attitudes
of particular feathers which is unequalled; but for splendor none of
them approach the peacock in his best estate.
[Illustration: Contributions from Asia, Africa,
and America--Peacocks, Guinea-fowl, and Turkey]
The peacock is a native of Southern Asia, a realm in fact in which the
species of the group attain an uncommonly rich development. The creature
appears to have been domesticated some thousands of years ago, but has
undergone no considerable changes in its experience with man. It has in
truth not been completely tamed. It does not willingly remain near the
dwellings of man, but prefers to abide apart, only resorting to the home
when in need of food. It is very intolerant of the other barnyard
creatures, and often becomes possessed of a kind of mania for slaying
their young, not for food but from pure spirit of mischief.
Intellectually speaking, the peacocks are much below the cocks and
hens; although they flock together, their sympathies do not seem
quick; their cries and calls do not number a fifth part of those which
we hear from our chickens, and their notes are prevailingly very
discordant. Their cry of defiance, answering to the crow of the cock,
is one of the rudest and least sympathetic sounds which is heard among
the birds. Its only merit is that it can be heard very far. It is
readily audible at the distance of a mile when it breaks the stillness
of a summer night. At present the bird seems out of favor. At best it
is a beautiful but annoying ornament to pleasure-grounds. It is
likely, indeed, that it may in time become limited to its native
wildernesses and to zoological gardens.
From Africa we have derived one rather uncommon tenant of our barnyards
and fields, the guinea-hen. This creature, though of convenient size,
hardy, and commendable from the number of eggs it lays, has never won a
large place in the esteem of our rural people, and is now not much kept,
except in some parts of the Southern States of this country. The
difficulty with this creature, as with the peacock, is that it is not
truly domesticated; though it will not betake itself altogether to
the woods, it prefers to maintain a half-wild habit. It will not, if
it can possibly avoid it, lay its eggs in any place where they are
likely to be found by man. Moreover, their rude and little-modulated
cries are in the summer season almost incessant, and the din which a
considerable flock can produce is exceedingly vexatious. They thus do
not fit the needs or comfort of man to the degree which is likely to
give them a permanent place among his associates.
[Illustration: The Domesticated Turkey]
The last considerable addition to our barnyards has come to us in the
form of the turkey. This species has the peculiar distinction of
being the only animal form of definite use to man over a wide field
which has been contributed from the life of the New World. Although
the creature was much hunted by our North American Indians, and is
of a type which lends itself to domestication, it does not appear to
have become a companion of man until it was taken from the West
India Islands to Europe shortly after the discovery of this country.
Thence the domesticated form appears to have been returned to this
country, where it has been a favorite in a measure unknown in the
Old World. Ornithologists deem the Cuban turkey, whence our tame
form came, to be specifically distinct from those which are found on
the mainland of this continent. Although these kinds are
distinguishable by plumage, they are probably only varieties of a
common species. This is indicated by the fact that our tame flocks
readily intermingle with their wild kindred.
The ease with which the turkey becomes domesticated is remarkable. In
this regard the creature may be compared to our cocks and hens. In both
cases the tamableness is doubtless to be explained by the fact that the
primitive forms dwelt in permanent association, the movements of which
were in a way controlled by the adult males, and by the fact that the
forms had abandoned the use of wings for wide-ranging flight. The
change which has been brought about in the turkeys with their adoption
into the human association has been slight. No distinct varieties of
breeds have been originated, though here and there the observer may
note slight local variations in the coloration of the plumage, which
are probably due to varying admixtures with the wild forms of our
forests. Thus in Kentucky and other parts of the South, where the
opportunities for the intermingling of blood of the tame and wild forms
are frequent, the domesticated creatures often resemble so nearly the
wilderness forms that even the wary hunter may make mistakes as to
whether the bird he sights be fair game or not. Unless carefully
watched, a drove of these creatures on the border of the wilderness is
apt gradually to return to the wild state, the three or four centuries
of life about the home of man not having been sufficient to do away
with their ancient love of freedom.
Among the English folk of North America the turkeys found a large place
as an element of the food-supply. It has become curiously associated
with the Puritan festival of Thanksgiving, an institution which has
spread throughout the United States and which has in a way taken the
place of the harvest-home festivities of the Old World and bygone ages.
It is probable that the relation of this bird to our national
festivities has done much to keep it in use in this country. It is a
well-recognized fact that it is costly to keep and that the eggs are not
desirable for culinary use. The species requires a wide range. It does
not do well in the confined conditions in which cocks and hens can
readily be maintained. It therefore is not likely to be kept in any
region where the agriculture is of a high grade. It is best suited to
farms where there are considerable areas of half-wild pastures.
Although the turkey is a truly gregarious form, its mental endowments
are of a lower grade than those of most social birds. Their calls are
few in number and have little of that conversational quality which we
note in those of our ordinary barnyard fowls. Although the males contest
the field with each other by personal combats, they are not very
valiant, the creatures trusting for favor with the females rather to the
parade of their plumage and the pomp of their carriage than to the wager
of battle. In the matter of show they are, however, very effective,
being surpassed only by the peacock in the splendor of their attire. In
their domesticated state they lose much of the beauty which they have in
the wilderness, as they do their pristine dimensions. Those who have
hunted our wild species are likely to remember scenes where in some
forest glade they have beheld a gobbler displaying his graces to an
admiring harem. As he struts about with his tail feathers erect and his
neck arched back, now and then pausing to utter an exultant gobble, the
spectacle is one of the most amusing displays of animal pride which the
naturalist has a chance to behold.
[Illustration: The Largest of all Poultry--The Ostrich]
Recent experiments in ostrich farming seem to indicate that we are on
the eve of introducing into our "happy family" the noblest remaining
member of that group of great birds which characterized the life of
the later geological periods. As yet the efforts in taming ostriches
are too new for us to tell just what the effect of man's skill on the
development of this creature will be. It is evident, however, that the
creature can be won from its wilderness state, at least to something
like the imperfect companionship with man which has been attained by
the guinea-fowls and turkeys. All we know of the variations in plumage
of birds indicates that the breeder's art may bring about great
changes in the highly decorative feathers for which this bird is to be
reared. It is also probable that with the better food which domestic
conditions imply, this wanderer of the desert may be brought to attain
a very much greater size than it wins in the hard life of its native
land. If the form should prove as plastic as that of our ordinary
barnyard species, we may indeed succeed in developing a variety
approaching in dimensions the gigantic moa of New Zealand, or the
aepyornis of Madagascar, those magnificent creatures of the past which
passed away just before their native lands were known to our race. The
variations in size of the wild ostrich appear to indicate that this
interesting result may be attainable.
Next after the cocks and hens the most important birds of economic
value have come from the water fowl. In this field there are great
opportunities for domestication, only a few of which have been
adequately used. The aquatic birds, save for the fact that they are in
all cases inspired with a more or less strong migratory humor, lend
themselves to the shaping hand of man more readily than most other
forms. These creatures have the habit of association in a much more
perfect way than our ground birds. They normally dwelt in rather close
order and in relations which are necessarily very sympathetic. Whoever
has watched the flight of wild geese must have remarked the beautiful
way in which they arrange at once for close companionship and for
safety in the violent movements which impel their heavy bodies at high
speed through the air. In the order of their flight the alignment is
more perfect than in the march of trained soldiers. Each bird keeps as
near to his neighbor as possible; but manages always to preserve the
interval which will insure against a collision of the strong and
swift-moving wings, an accident which might well disable them for
flight. I have repeatedly undertaken to confound their motion by
firing a rifle bullet at the head of the moving wedge. Although the
sound of the projectile, if well directed, will disturb their
processional order, it never brings confusion. The startled birds sink
down or rise above the plane of the air in which their comrades are
moving, but they never strike against them.
[Illustration: An Eider Colony]