CHAPTER VIAbout all Birds of Paradise, and Some ExplanationsAs I have told you, there are some forty or fifty different kinds of Birds of Paradise, and they are all of them as beautiful, or nearly as beautiful, as those that I have described, each one in its own special way. Of course you must know yourself, or your mother will tell you, that all this wonderful beauty has not been given to these birds for nothing, and I have told you that the male Birds of Paradise, who alone have it, show it off to the poor hen birds, whose plumage is quite sober in comparison—though you must not think thattheyare not pretty birds too—because they are pretty, though in a quieter style. So they are notreally“poor” hen birds, that is only just a way of speaking. They are happy enough, you may be sure, for they have their husbands' fine clothes to look at. But what is so interesting, is that each of these different kinds of Birds of Paradise has some different way of arranging and showing offhis fine clothes—for, of course, a bird's feathers are his clothes just as much as our coats and dresses are ours. And, besides that, each one of them puts himself into some peculiar attitude, which he thinks is the best one to let his plumage be seen as he would like it to be. We may be quite sure of this, because it is what all birds do that have beautiful plumage; and many of them have regular places that they come to, to run or jump about in, just as soldiers come into a park or common to march about in it, and show off their nice pretty uniforms. There will always be a great many hen birds round these places, to look at the beautiful males, and there are always a great many ladies round the park or common, to look at the beautiful soldiers.Now, would it not be interesting if we knew what all these different Birds of Paradise did, and how they arranged their plumage, and what attitudes they went into, and whether they ran or jumped or flew or did all three, and all the rest of it? If only there was somebody who knew all that, I think he could write a very interesting book, and if only some one would go out into those countries, with a pair of glasses (or even a pair of eyes) instead of with a gun, and whenever he saw a Bird of Paradise would just look at it through the glasses (or with his own eyes, if it was near enough) instead of shooting it, I thinkhemight write an interesting book. I am sureIshould find it interesting, and Ithinkyou would too. Depend upon it, if any one could tell people what a Bird of Paradise did, he would interest them very much more than by telling them how he shot it. That is not at all interesting, how he shot it. Do you think it would be soveryinteresting for people to know how you broke a very handsome ornament in your mother's drawing-room? Why, I don't think it would interest even your mother—much; but she would be very sorry you broke it. And that is just howIfeel (and I think some other people do too) when a person tells me how he shot a Bird of Paradise. Things of that kind interest the little demon. If they interest any one else, I am afraid it is onlybecauseof that little demon, because of his wicked powders and his having sent the Goddess of Pity to sleep.But I am sorry to say that there is hardly anybody who knows anything about all these Birds of Paradise, anything about their habits and how they live and how they dance and the way they arrange their wonderful plumage, so as to make it look as beautiful as possible. Perhaps there are a few people who know just a little—averylittle—about some of the more common kinds, but as for all the rest, if any one knows anything about them, it must be those black or yellow people that we call savages, wholive in the same countries that they live in. That is because, when a traveller from Europe goes out to those countries he always takes a gun—not glasses (or if he does take a pair of glasses he does not use them, or his eyes either, in the right way), and when he sees one of these rare Birds of Paradise, he shoots it, or else frightens it away, as I told you. Then, when he comes back, he writes his book and tells you how he shot it, or tried to shoot it, and then he says: “Unfortunately, nothing whatever is known of the habits of this species.” It is not very wonderful thatheknows nothing of them, is it? And yet this traveller, with his gun, almost always calls himself anaturalist. Now arealnaturalist is a person who loves nature. But is not that a funny way to love her—to shoot her children? Depend upon it, that one of those little bottles that the demon keeps his powders in, is labelled “Natural History” or “Love of Nature.” You know thathisbottles have generally a false label on them.So, I am afraid I cannot tell you much about what the Birds of Paradise do, or how they show off their beautiful feathers. Indeed, it is very much the same with most other beautiful birds, and for the very same reason that I have been telling you, because peoplewillshoot, instead of looking and watching. Just the little that we know about theGreat Bird of Paradise, how he has a special tree that he comes to, to have those dances that the natives call “Sácalelis,” and how he flies about with his plumes waving, or sits underneath them as if he were in the spray of a falling fountain, that I have told you; but, besides this, I can only tell you just a very little about a Bird of Paradise that I have not said anything about, because, you know, there are so many of them. The little I can tell you is this. Two gentlemen—one of them a Mr. Chalmers and the other a Mr. Wyatt—were once travelling in the part of New Guinea where this Bird of Paradise lives, and one morning, when they were up early, they saw four of the cock birds and two of the hens, in a tree close by them. This is what one of these gentlemen says about them (if there is any word too long for you, or that you don't understand, you must ask your mother to explain it):—“The two hens were sitting quietly on a branch, and the four cocks, dressed in their very best, their ruffs of green and yellow standing out, giving them a handsome appearance about the head and neck” (yes, I feel sure of that), “their long flowing plumes so arranged that every feather seemed combed out, and the long wires” (he means the “funny feathers”)“stretched well out behind, were dancing in a circle round them.” (Just fancy!) “It was an interesting sight.” (I shouldthinkso!) “First one and then another would advance a little nearer to a hen, and she, coquette-like” (you will have to ask your mother whatthatmeans), “would retire a little, pretending not to care for any advances. A shot was fired, contrary to our expressed wish, there was a strange commotion, and two of the cocks flew away” (you see what shooting does), “but the others and the hens remained. Soon the two returned, and again the dance began, and continued long. As we had strictly forbidden any more shooting, all fear was gone; and so, after a rest, the males came a little nearer to the dark brown hens. Quarrelling ensued, and in the end all six birds flew away.”Fancy seeing all that! I think it is wonderful that any of the birds stayed after the shot had been fired, and if another one had been, no doubt they would all have gone. Those travellers, you see, were a little better than most travellers are. They did not kill the birds (perhapstheywerenotnaturalists), and the consequence is they have had something interesting to tell us about them. Still, I think if I had been there I should have had alittlemore to say, and instead of just saying that the cock birds were dancing, I should have describedhowthey were dancing, and what sort of attitudes they put themselves into.And I think I would have waited at that place, and gone to those trees again very early next morning, all by myself, to see if those birds came back to dance there. Still, what these travellers do tell us is very interesting, very much more interesting than if they had only written, “Here we shot,” or “Here we obtained another specimen of Paradisea Something-elsea”—which, of course, would be the Latin name. Naturalists like to tell us the Latin name of the animals they shoot. If they only had an English name I don't think they would care nearly so much to shoot them. How sorry we ought to be that animals have Latin names!But, now, how is it that it is only the cock bird—the male—of all these Birds of Paradise who is so beautiful, whilst the poor hen—the female bird—is quite plain, in comparison? Well, I must tell you, first, that this is not only the case with Birds of Paradise, but that it is just the same with other birds as well. In most, if not all, of the beautiful birds I am going to tell you about, it is the male bird that is soverybeautiful, so that perhaps you will begin to think that this is the case withallbeautiful birds, and that there is no hen bird that hasverysplendid or brilliant plumage. But this is not so at all. You would make a great mistake if you were to think that. In most of the parrots—those brightly-coloured birds that you know so well—the male and female are alike, and if you were to see a kingfisher—the star-bird that I told you about in the first chapter—gleaming and glancing up a river, you would not know whether it was the one or the other. The feathers of the female scarlet flamingo are almost—if not quite—as scarlet as those of the male; the cock robin's breast is not more red than the breast of the hen robin, at least you would find it difficult to tell the difference; male and female pigeons—and some of them are very splendid—are as bright as each other, and so it is with a very great number of other birds.Now does not this seem funny, that some male birds should be so much handsomer than their wives, whilst somehenbirds should be just as handsome as their husbands? Is there any way of explaining this, or, rather, do we know how to explain it? for thereisa way of explaining everything—a right way, I mean, of course. The difficult thing is to find it out. Well, there are some clever people who have been thinking about this funny thing, and they try to explain it in this way.Of course, when the male Birds of Paradise (and it is the same with other birds) show off their fine plumage to the hen birds, it is because they want to marry them, which is just the same as with people; for, you know, when a gentleman wishes to marry alady he dresses as nicely as he can, and sometimes he goes into attitudes as well. Now, the hen Birds of Paradise—so these clever people say—always choose for their husbands the birds that have the finest feathers, and the other ones, whose feathers are not so fine, have to look about for another wife. Of course, after the Birds of Paradise have married, they make a nest, and very soon there are eggs in it, and then the eggs are chipped and little Birds of Paradise come out of them. Some of these little Birds of Paradise will be males and some females, and the male ones will grow up with feathers like the cock birds, and the females with feathers like the hen—just as with us, the boys sometimes grow up like the father, and the girls sometimes grow up like the mother—only with Birds of Paradise it is always so. But now, amongst these young Birds of Paradise, though all will be beautiful, some will be more beautiful than the others, more beautiful even than their father, perhaps, and you may be sure that those will be the ones who will find it most easy to marry, and who will have the greater number of children. Some of those children will be more beautiful thantheirfathers, and thentheywill marry and have children that are still more beautiful than themselves, and so it will always be going on. The young male Birds of Paradise will always have feathers like their fathers,and gradually they will get more and more beautiful, because their wives will always choose them for their beauty. But the young female Birds of Paradise will always be like their mothers, and will not become more beautiful than they are, because hen Birds of Paradise are not chosen for their beauty, but only for their good qualities.Now, if this is true, it shows how sensible the Birds of Paradise must be, for allsensiblepersons would choose their wives for their good qualities, and not just for their beauty. The worst of it is that there are so manypersonswho are notquitesensible. Still, even with us, there are a good many wives who must, I think, have been chosen, like the hen Birds of Paradise, for their good qualities—which, of course, is what theyoughtto be chosen for.That is how some people explain why the male Birds of Paradise, and other beautiful male birds, are so much more beautiful than the females. They say that they have gradually got more and more beautiful, whilst the hens have remained plain, and that once upon a time there was not so very much difference between them. And if you ask them why the males and females of other birds are both as beautiful as each other, they will tell you that the children ofthosebirds were always like the father, so that, as the father birds became beautiful—for they were chosenin the same way—all the little daughter birds became beautiful too, as well as the little sons.But I am afraid the people who explain it all in this way must have forgotten how the Birds of Paradise, at any rate, used once to live in Paradise, where, of course, they were all as beautiful as each other, and though their plumage got spoilt when they came out of it (beautiful though it seems to us) in the way I told you, yet it does seem funny that the hens should have had it spoilt so much more than the cock birds. But you know it was spoilt by the glory which streamed out of the gates of Paradise, and which was so bright and burning that it burnt off all the most beautiful parts of it, and scorched and singed the rest. Now, of course, the nearer any bird was to the gate of Paradise when it opened, the worse he would have got scorched, and so if the cocks flew faster than the hens—and I am sure they did—they would have got soonest away, and the hens would have suffered most.Thatexplanation seems much more simple; but, you see, thesecleverpeople do not believe about the Birds of Paradise having once lived in Paradise. They have their own explanation of it all (which I have just told you), and they like to believe in that. Then which of the two are you to believe in? Well, I think the simpler one—which is prettier as well—would be the best for you to believeinnow, but later on—whenyouare a clever person—you can try the other. Now, you know, you are only a little child, and something that is simple and pretty is the right thing for a little child. But a clever person wants a different kind of explanation tothat.Hewants a clever one, and as soon as you feel thatyouhave become a clever person, there will be a clever explanation all ready for you.But now, whilst you are still a little child, I can give you another explanation of why the males and females of some birds are as beautiful as each other, whilst the males of some other ones are ever so much the most beautiful. This other explanation will do in case the one about the cock Birds of Paradise flying faster than the hens is not the right one, for, of course, we cannot be quite sure that they flew faster. I did say I was sure, but that was just a little mistake of mine. One is notreallysure of a thing until one knows it, and I don't quiteknowthat it happened like that, however much I may think it did. Besides, this new explanation that I am going to give you will do for all other birds as well as for the Birds of Paradise, and, of course, the more anything explains the better explanation it is. So now I will give it you, and, if you like it better than the other, you can take it instead, and if you only like it as well, then you will have two nice explanations instead of only one. Here it is.In the old days, a long, long time ago, the males and females of all the birds were as beautiful as each other, and they were all in love with each other. Only the question was which of them were the most in love, and, as to that, they often had disputes. “We love you better than you love us,” said the male birds to the females; “you love us only for our beauty, you do not love us for ourselves, as we love you.” “If you think so,” said the female birds (the beautiful hens), “give us your beauty, and you shall find that we love you just as well, without it.” But the male birds, who were quite content,really, to be loved for their beauty, and who did not wish to part with it, made haste to change the conversation. “Butyouloveusforourbeauty,” said the hen birds (for they soon got round again to the same subject); “it is not for ourselves that you love us, but only because we are beautiful.” “If that is your idea,” said the male birds, “bestow your beauty upon us, and you shall soon be undeceived.” Then the female birds, who only wished to be loved for themselves and not for what they looked like, gave all their beauty to their beautiful husbands, and remained without any. So now, of course, the male birds were twice as beautiful as they had been before, whilst the poor hens were not beautiful at all, and would even have been quite ugly if they had not been birds, for a birdcannotbe ugly.And now it was found that, whilst some of the male birds had loved their wives so much that they went on loving them still, in spite of the change in their appearance, others (and I am afraid they were the greater number) left off loving them, as soon as they had left off being beautiful, and were not able to love them again, although they tried ever so hard. You see, they had only loved them for their beauty, not for themselves, so as soon as there was no more beauty, there was no more love. So those male birds who had loved for love only, and not because their wives were beautiful, kept this beauty and added it to their own. Their wives did not want it back again, for love was enough for them. But the ones who had loved their wives, only because of their beauty, had to give it them back, for otherwise they would not have been able to go on loving them, and that would have been very awkward indeed. That is why, in some birds, the males and females are as beautiful as each other, whilst in others, the males are twice as beautiful as the females. As I told you, this is an explanation which does as well for any other bird as it does for the Birds of Paradise, and, if you like it, you can believe in it till you have grown up from a simple little child into a complicated clever person.So now there are six Birds of Paradise that yourmother has promised not to wear in her hats, not in any hat that she buys or has given to her, whether it has the whole skin of one in it, or only just a few feathers, or even one. She will not buy such a hat, and she will not go into a shop to ask the price of it. She will have nothing to do with it whatever, because she has promised.But now, do you not see that, as your dear mother has only promised about six kinds of Birds of Paradise, and as there are some forty or fifty kinds in the world, she might easily buy a hat that had some kind of Bird of Paradise in it, without its being any of these six? How much better it would be, then, if your dear, dear mother were to promise never to wear a hat that had any kind of Bird of Paradise in it. And I am sure she will, now that you have explained to her about the wicked little demon, and how much more beautiful these Birds of Paradise are when they are alive, and how happy they are, too, and how their wives want them, to look at, and how there will be no more of them left, soon, if people keep on killing them, just to put into hats. Just talk to her about it a little, and then throw your arms round her neck and say: “Oh mother, dopromisenever to wear a hat that has the feathers ofanyBird of Paradise in it.” There! And now she has promised. Well, you see how easy it is.
As I have told you, there are some forty or fifty different kinds of Birds of Paradise, and they are all of them as beautiful, or nearly as beautiful, as those that I have described, each one in its own special way. Of course you must know yourself, or your mother will tell you, that all this wonderful beauty has not been given to these birds for nothing, and I have told you that the male Birds of Paradise, who alone have it, show it off to the poor hen birds, whose plumage is quite sober in comparison—though you must not think thattheyare not pretty birds too—because they are pretty, though in a quieter style. So they are notreally“poor” hen birds, that is only just a way of speaking. They are happy enough, you may be sure, for they have their husbands' fine clothes to look at. But what is so interesting, is that each of these different kinds of Birds of Paradise has some different way of arranging and showing offhis fine clothes—for, of course, a bird's feathers are his clothes just as much as our coats and dresses are ours. And, besides that, each one of them puts himself into some peculiar attitude, which he thinks is the best one to let his plumage be seen as he would like it to be. We may be quite sure of this, because it is what all birds do that have beautiful plumage; and many of them have regular places that they come to, to run or jump about in, just as soldiers come into a park or common to march about in it, and show off their nice pretty uniforms. There will always be a great many hen birds round these places, to look at the beautiful males, and there are always a great many ladies round the park or common, to look at the beautiful soldiers.
Now, would it not be interesting if we knew what all these different Birds of Paradise did, and how they arranged their plumage, and what attitudes they went into, and whether they ran or jumped or flew or did all three, and all the rest of it? If only there was somebody who knew all that, I think he could write a very interesting book, and if only some one would go out into those countries, with a pair of glasses (or even a pair of eyes) instead of with a gun, and whenever he saw a Bird of Paradise would just look at it through the glasses (or with his own eyes, if it was near enough) instead of shooting it, I thinkhemight write an interesting book. I am sureIshould find it interesting, and Ithinkyou would too. Depend upon it, if any one could tell people what a Bird of Paradise did, he would interest them very much more than by telling them how he shot it. That is not at all interesting, how he shot it. Do you think it would be soveryinteresting for people to know how you broke a very handsome ornament in your mother's drawing-room? Why, I don't think it would interest even your mother—much; but she would be very sorry you broke it. And that is just howIfeel (and I think some other people do too) when a person tells me how he shot a Bird of Paradise. Things of that kind interest the little demon. If they interest any one else, I am afraid it is onlybecauseof that little demon, because of his wicked powders and his having sent the Goddess of Pity to sleep.
But I am sorry to say that there is hardly anybody who knows anything about all these Birds of Paradise, anything about their habits and how they live and how they dance and the way they arrange their wonderful plumage, so as to make it look as beautiful as possible. Perhaps there are a few people who know just a little—averylittle—about some of the more common kinds, but as for all the rest, if any one knows anything about them, it must be those black or yellow people that we call savages, wholive in the same countries that they live in. That is because, when a traveller from Europe goes out to those countries he always takes a gun—not glasses (or if he does take a pair of glasses he does not use them, or his eyes either, in the right way), and when he sees one of these rare Birds of Paradise, he shoots it, or else frightens it away, as I told you. Then, when he comes back, he writes his book and tells you how he shot it, or tried to shoot it, and then he says: “Unfortunately, nothing whatever is known of the habits of this species.” It is not very wonderful thatheknows nothing of them, is it? And yet this traveller, with his gun, almost always calls himself anaturalist. Now arealnaturalist is a person who loves nature. But is not that a funny way to love her—to shoot her children? Depend upon it, that one of those little bottles that the demon keeps his powders in, is labelled “Natural History” or “Love of Nature.” You know thathisbottles have generally a false label on them.
So, I am afraid I cannot tell you much about what the Birds of Paradise do, or how they show off their beautiful feathers. Indeed, it is very much the same with most other beautiful birds, and for the very same reason that I have been telling you, because peoplewillshoot, instead of looking and watching. Just the little that we know about theGreat Bird of Paradise, how he has a special tree that he comes to, to have those dances that the natives call “Sácalelis,” and how he flies about with his plumes waving, or sits underneath them as if he were in the spray of a falling fountain, that I have told you; but, besides this, I can only tell you just a very little about a Bird of Paradise that I have not said anything about, because, you know, there are so many of them. The little I can tell you is this. Two gentlemen—one of them a Mr. Chalmers and the other a Mr. Wyatt—were once travelling in the part of New Guinea where this Bird of Paradise lives, and one morning, when they were up early, they saw four of the cock birds and two of the hens, in a tree close by them. This is what one of these gentlemen says about them (if there is any word too long for you, or that you don't understand, you must ask your mother to explain it):—
“The two hens were sitting quietly on a branch, and the four cocks, dressed in their very best, their ruffs of green and yellow standing out, giving them a handsome appearance about the head and neck” (yes, I feel sure of that), “their long flowing plumes so arranged that every feather seemed combed out, and the long wires” (he means the “funny feathers”)“stretched well out behind, were dancing in a circle round them.” (Just fancy!) “It was an interesting sight.” (I shouldthinkso!) “First one and then another would advance a little nearer to a hen, and she, coquette-like” (you will have to ask your mother whatthatmeans), “would retire a little, pretending not to care for any advances. A shot was fired, contrary to our expressed wish, there was a strange commotion, and two of the cocks flew away” (you see what shooting does), “but the others and the hens remained. Soon the two returned, and again the dance began, and continued long. As we had strictly forbidden any more shooting, all fear was gone; and so, after a rest, the males came a little nearer to the dark brown hens. Quarrelling ensued, and in the end all six birds flew away.”
Fancy seeing all that! I think it is wonderful that any of the birds stayed after the shot had been fired, and if another one had been, no doubt they would all have gone. Those travellers, you see, were a little better than most travellers are. They did not kill the birds (perhapstheywerenotnaturalists), and the consequence is they have had something interesting to tell us about them. Still, I think if I had been there I should have had alittlemore to say, and instead of just saying that the cock birds were dancing, I should have describedhowthey were dancing, and what sort of attitudes they put themselves into.And I think I would have waited at that place, and gone to those trees again very early next morning, all by myself, to see if those birds came back to dance there. Still, what these travellers do tell us is very interesting, very much more interesting than if they had only written, “Here we shot,” or “Here we obtained another specimen of Paradisea Something-elsea”—which, of course, would be the Latin name. Naturalists like to tell us the Latin name of the animals they shoot. If they only had an English name I don't think they would care nearly so much to shoot them. How sorry we ought to be that animals have Latin names!
But, now, how is it that it is only the cock bird—the male—of all these Birds of Paradise who is so beautiful, whilst the poor hen—the female bird—is quite plain, in comparison? Well, I must tell you, first, that this is not only the case with Birds of Paradise, but that it is just the same with other birds as well. In most, if not all, of the beautiful birds I am going to tell you about, it is the male bird that is soverybeautiful, so that perhaps you will begin to think that this is the case withallbeautiful birds, and that there is no hen bird that hasverysplendid or brilliant plumage. But this is not so at all. You would make a great mistake if you were to think that. In most of the parrots—those brightly-coloured birds that you know so well—the male and female are alike, and if you were to see a kingfisher—the star-bird that I told you about in the first chapter—gleaming and glancing up a river, you would not know whether it was the one or the other. The feathers of the female scarlet flamingo are almost—if not quite—as scarlet as those of the male; the cock robin's breast is not more red than the breast of the hen robin, at least you would find it difficult to tell the difference; male and female pigeons—and some of them are very splendid—are as bright as each other, and so it is with a very great number of other birds.
Now does not this seem funny, that some male birds should be so much handsomer than their wives, whilst somehenbirds should be just as handsome as their husbands? Is there any way of explaining this, or, rather, do we know how to explain it? for thereisa way of explaining everything—a right way, I mean, of course. The difficult thing is to find it out. Well, there are some clever people who have been thinking about this funny thing, and they try to explain it in this way.
Of course, when the male Birds of Paradise (and it is the same with other birds) show off their fine plumage to the hen birds, it is because they want to marry them, which is just the same as with people; for, you know, when a gentleman wishes to marry alady he dresses as nicely as he can, and sometimes he goes into attitudes as well. Now, the hen Birds of Paradise—so these clever people say—always choose for their husbands the birds that have the finest feathers, and the other ones, whose feathers are not so fine, have to look about for another wife. Of course, after the Birds of Paradise have married, they make a nest, and very soon there are eggs in it, and then the eggs are chipped and little Birds of Paradise come out of them. Some of these little Birds of Paradise will be males and some females, and the male ones will grow up with feathers like the cock birds, and the females with feathers like the hen—just as with us, the boys sometimes grow up like the father, and the girls sometimes grow up like the mother—only with Birds of Paradise it is always so. But now, amongst these young Birds of Paradise, though all will be beautiful, some will be more beautiful than the others, more beautiful even than their father, perhaps, and you may be sure that those will be the ones who will find it most easy to marry, and who will have the greater number of children. Some of those children will be more beautiful thantheirfathers, and thentheywill marry and have children that are still more beautiful than themselves, and so it will always be going on. The young male Birds of Paradise will always have feathers like their fathers,and gradually they will get more and more beautiful, because their wives will always choose them for their beauty. But the young female Birds of Paradise will always be like their mothers, and will not become more beautiful than they are, because hen Birds of Paradise are not chosen for their beauty, but only for their good qualities.
Now, if this is true, it shows how sensible the Birds of Paradise must be, for allsensiblepersons would choose their wives for their good qualities, and not just for their beauty. The worst of it is that there are so manypersonswho are notquitesensible. Still, even with us, there are a good many wives who must, I think, have been chosen, like the hen Birds of Paradise, for their good qualities—which, of course, is what theyoughtto be chosen for.
That is how some people explain why the male Birds of Paradise, and other beautiful male birds, are so much more beautiful than the females. They say that they have gradually got more and more beautiful, whilst the hens have remained plain, and that once upon a time there was not so very much difference between them. And if you ask them why the males and females of other birds are both as beautiful as each other, they will tell you that the children ofthosebirds were always like the father, so that, as the father birds became beautiful—for they were chosenin the same way—all the little daughter birds became beautiful too, as well as the little sons.
But I am afraid the people who explain it all in this way must have forgotten how the Birds of Paradise, at any rate, used once to live in Paradise, where, of course, they were all as beautiful as each other, and though their plumage got spoilt when they came out of it (beautiful though it seems to us) in the way I told you, yet it does seem funny that the hens should have had it spoilt so much more than the cock birds. But you know it was spoilt by the glory which streamed out of the gates of Paradise, and which was so bright and burning that it burnt off all the most beautiful parts of it, and scorched and singed the rest. Now, of course, the nearer any bird was to the gate of Paradise when it opened, the worse he would have got scorched, and so if the cocks flew faster than the hens—and I am sure they did—they would have got soonest away, and the hens would have suffered most.Thatexplanation seems much more simple; but, you see, thesecleverpeople do not believe about the Birds of Paradise having once lived in Paradise. They have their own explanation of it all (which I have just told you), and they like to believe in that. Then which of the two are you to believe in? Well, I think the simpler one—which is prettier as well—would be the best for you to believeinnow, but later on—whenyouare a clever person—you can try the other. Now, you know, you are only a little child, and something that is simple and pretty is the right thing for a little child. But a clever person wants a different kind of explanation tothat.Hewants a clever one, and as soon as you feel thatyouhave become a clever person, there will be a clever explanation all ready for you.
But now, whilst you are still a little child, I can give you another explanation of why the males and females of some birds are as beautiful as each other, whilst the males of some other ones are ever so much the most beautiful. This other explanation will do in case the one about the cock Birds of Paradise flying faster than the hens is not the right one, for, of course, we cannot be quite sure that they flew faster. I did say I was sure, but that was just a little mistake of mine. One is notreallysure of a thing until one knows it, and I don't quiteknowthat it happened like that, however much I may think it did. Besides, this new explanation that I am going to give you will do for all other birds as well as for the Birds of Paradise, and, of course, the more anything explains the better explanation it is. So now I will give it you, and, if you like it better than the other, you can take it instead, and if you only like it as well, then you will have two nice explanations instead of only one. Here it is.
In the old days, a long, long time ago, the males and females of all the birds were as beautiful as each other, and they were all in love with each other. Only the question was which of them were the most in love, and, as to that, they often had disputes. “We love you better than you love us,” said the male birds to the females; “you love us only for our beauty, you do not love us for ourselves, as we love you.” “If you think so,” said the female birds (the beautiful hens), “give us your beauty, and you shall find that we love you just as well, without it.” But the male birds, who were quite content,really, to be loved for their beauty, and who did not wish to part with it, made haste to change the conversation. “Butyouloveusforourbeauty,” said the hen birds (for they soon got round again to the same subject); “it is not for ourselves that you love us, but only because we are beautiful.” “If that is your idea,” said the male birds, “bestow your beauty upon us, and you shall soon be undeceived.” Then the female birds, who only wished to be loved for themselves and not for what they looked like, gave all their beauty to their beautiful husbands, and remained without any. So now, of course, the male birds were twice as beautiful as they had been before, whilst the poor hens were not beautiful at all, and would even have been quite ugly if they had not been birds, for a birdcannotbe ugly.And now it was found that, whilst some of the male birds had loved their wives so much that they went on loving them still, in spite of the change in their appearance, others (and I am afraid they were the greater number) left off loving them, as soon as they had left off being beautiful, and were not able to love them again, although they tried ever so hard. You see, they had only loved them for their beauty, not for themselves, so as soon as there was no more beauty, there was no more love. So those male birds who had loved for love only, and not because their wives were beautiful, kept this beauty and added it to their own. Their wives did not want it back again, for love was enough for them. But the ones who had loved their wives, only because of their beauty, had to give it them back, for otherwise they would not have been able to go on loving them, and that would have been very awkward indeed. That is why, in some birds, the males and females are as beautiful as each other, whilst in others, the males are twice as beautiful as the females. As I told you, this is an explanation which does as well for any other bird as it does for the Birds of Paradise, and, if you like it, you can believe in it till you have grown up from a simple little child into a complicated clever person.
So now there are six Birds of Paradise that yourmother has promised not to wear in her hats, not in any hat that she buys or has given to her, whether it has the whole skin of one in it, or only just a few feathers, or even one. She will not buy such a hat, and she will not go into a shop to ask the price of it. She will have nothing to do with it whatever, because she has promised.
But now, do you not see that, as your dear mother has only promised about six kinds of Birds of Paradise, and as there are some forty or fifty kinds in the world, she might easily buy a hat that had some kind of Bird of Paradise in it, without its being any of these six? How much better it would be, then, if your dear, dear mother were to promise never to wear a hat that had any kind of Bird of Paradise in it. And I am sure she will, now that you have explained to her about the wicked little demon, and how much more beautiful these Birds of Paradise are when they are alive, and how happy they are, too, and how their wives want them, to look at, and how there will be no more of them left, soon, if people keep on killing them, just to put into hats. Just talk to her about it a little, and then throw your arms round her neck and say: “Oh mother, dopromisenever to wear a hat that has the feathers ofanyBird of Paradise in it.” There! And now she has promised. Well, you see how easy it is.
CHAPTER VIIAbout Humming-Birds, and Some More ExplanationsPerhaps, when I was telling you about the Birds of Paradise and how very, very beautiful they are, you thought they were the most beautiful birds in the whole world. They are nearly, but not quite. There are the Humming-birds—theyare even more beautiful. At least they are more like jewels, and the Indians who live in the countries where they are found call them “living sunbeams.”“By western Indians living sunbeams named.”You can remember it by that line, which is from a poem by Mrs. Hemans, a clever lady whom your mother will tell you about. For the Indians, you know, live in America, that great country—so large that we call it “the new world”—which Columbus discovered. They do not live in India, as you might think. At least, when we talk of the Indians, it is the ones that live in America and not India that wemean. The ones that live in India we call Hindoos. It seems funny, but the reason of it is that when Columbus discovered America, he thought it was India; for it was India he had been trying to find, and he thought he had found it. But it was America, not India, and it is only in America that the beautiful Humming-birds live—birds that are so beautiful as they are want a world to themselves to live in.Now the birds that we have been talking about—the Birds of Paradise—are not such very small birds. The largest of them is nearly as large as a crow, and even the very smallest is not so much smaller than a thrush or a starling. But the largest Humming-bird is not so large as a sparrow or chaffinch, and the smaller ones are the very smallest birds in the whole world, some of them being not soverymuch larger than a large humble-bee, which is quite wonderful to think of. Then they are wonderful fliers. The Birds of Paradise fly very well—quite well enough—but still there is nothing extraordinary in the way they fly. But the little Humming-birds dart about quite like lightning, and move their wings so fast that, when you look at them, they do not seem to be wings at all, but only two little hazy patches in the air, with a bright jewel between them, which is the gleaming breast of the Humming-bird. All the time theirwings are moving so quickly, they make a humming sound, just as a top does when it is spinning very fast, which is why we call them Humming-birds, just as we call tops that hum very much, humming-tops.We have named the Humming-birds from the sound they make when they fly, and the Indians from their bright radiance and the speed at which they dart about. It is from flower to flower that they dart, and whilst you are looking at one sunbeam that is dancing about one flower, all at once there is a ray of light through the air, and another sunbeam is dancing about another flower. That is what it looks like, only, really, it is the same sunbeam that has flown from one flower to another.Sometimes when you are walking in the garden in England and looking at the geraniums in your flowerbeds, you will see a little brown moth hovering over one of them, and putting a long, slender thread-like thing that we call a proboscis (though we call an elephant's trunk a proboscis too) right down into the centre of the flower.Hiswings move so fast that you can hardly see them, and in a second or twohewill dart away too, so quickly that you only know he is gone, and then, all of a sudden, you will see him again, hovering over another geranium and probing it with his wonderful, long, thin proboscis. It is a tube, that proboscis, and through it, the moth issucking up the nectar of the flower, which is what it lives on. That moth is the humming-bird hawk-moth, and, if you have seen it, you have seen what looks more like a Humming-bird than anything else in England. It hovers over or under or in front of a flower, as the Humming-birds do, it keeps moving its wings in the same rapid way as they move theirs, and making the same humming noise with them, and it puts a long, slender, little brown thing, that lookssomethinglike the beak of a Humming-bird, right down into the flower, and sucks up the nectar that is in it, which is just what a Humming-bird does. So if the humming-bird moth were bright and gleaming, as Humming-birds—sunbeams—are, it would seem to be a Humming-bird and not a moth at all. But you must not think that it really would be one. Oh no, it never could be, because it is an insect, and an insect is a very different thing to a bird.The humming-bird moth and the Humming-bird look like each other because they live in the same way and do the same things. They both fly, so they both have wings; and they both sip nectar, so they both have a long thing to stick into the flowers and suck it up with: so they look like each other, but they are not a bit the same. A petticoat, you know, looks a little like an upper skirt, for they both have to be worn round the waist,which makes them the same kind of shape, and when the skirt is part of a white dress then they are of the same colour. But think how different they really are! Why, one is a petticoat and the other is an upper skirt. So you must always remember that, though two animals look the same, they may really be very different.Now although the Humming-birds, or living sunbeams, are all of them small birds, yet they are not all of the same size, and some are quite big compared to others, just as a peacock butterfly is quite big, compared to a tiny blue one, whilst even the tiny little blue one may be big compared to some very small moths. Then, again, their beaks are of all kinds of different shapes and lengths. Some are quite straight, whilst others are bent like a sabre or even a sickle, and one Humming-bird has his so very much bent indeed, that it looks like half of a black ring or bracelet or something else that is quite round. As for length, some are shorter than a quite short pin, whilst others are longer than a very long darning-needle.RACQUET-TAILED HUMMING-BIRDOf course there is a reason for the beaks of Humming-birds being so different, and the reason is that they have to go into different flowers, and must fit into them as a finger fits into a fingerstall or a periwinkle into its shell. If the part of the flower that holds the nectar is straight, thenthe beak of the Humming-bird that feeds on the nectar of that flower must be straight too, but if it is curved, then, of course, the beak must be curved, or else how could it be pushed into it?And if the nectary of any flower (for that is what the place that the nectar is in is called) were shaped like a corkscrew, then the beak of the Humming-bird that sucked out the nectar fromthatflower would have to be shaped like a corkscrew too. But there are no flowers shaped like that, and so there are no Humming-birds with corkscrew beaks, like the tail of a periwinkle. But thereisa flower that has its nectary, or honey-tube, bent round into almost a half circle, and it is just that one Humming-bird that has its beak bent in the same way, that sips the nectar from that flower. No other one is able to do it, and there is no other flower that that Humming-bird can sip the nectar from.And there are more than 400 different kinds of Humming-birds, and the beak of every one of them must fit into some flower or another, and often into a great many more than one. Oh then, what a lot of different kinds of flowers there must be, for all these beaks to fit into! Ah, there are indeed, for it is in the great forests or plains of America—the largest in the whole world—or on the slopes of the great mountain ranges there—the highest in theworld except the Himalayas—that the Humming-birds live, and everywhere there are wonderful trees and wonderful flowers. As for the trees, I have told you what some of them are like in the forests of the Malay Archipelago, and in the great forests of Brazil; I think they are still larger and more wonderful. And as for the flowers that grow in those wonderful forests or on the great plains or the slopes and sides of those great, high mountains, how could I ever give you an idea of what they are like, or how should I know where to begin, when there are so many? For there are some that are like great scarlet trumpets on the outside of their petals, but when you look inside them they are like the open mouths of fierce dragons shooting out a lot of fiery-orange tongues, all forked and cloven ever so many times over, each tongue looking as if it were the tongues of twenty little hissing snakes, all tied together in a bundle and ready to dart at you. And there are some that are in bunches, and each bunch looks as if a lot of oxen had put their heads against each other and begun to grow smaller and smaller and smaller till their horns were no longer than honeysuckles, and then had disappeared altogether,excepttheir horns, which had turned pink and stayed there. Bunches of little pink ox-horns are what those flowers look like. Then there are flowers that look as if they had almost changed intovery beautiful butterflies, and others that seem to be very beautiful butterflies just changing into flowers. There are flowers that are all the colours that there are, and others that have tried all the colours that there are, and then found out new ones to be of. And there are some, too, that are only white, but so lovely that all the flowers of all the colours that there are, gaze at them and envy them. Some are so soft and delicate that, although you see them, you only seem to be dreaming of them. They make you think of heaven, and it is as if angels were kissing you. Others are like golden stars, with a stem that is like a long, long, very long piece of red string that goes tying itself round and round a great many trees, and climbing up and up them, and all the way up there are bright green leaves and the beautiful golden stars. Other strings are golden or green, and have pink or crimson stars upon them, and some of these hang down, like glowing lamps from a soft, cool, emerald ceiling. Some flowers are like little bunches of red counters that you play games with, and there is one that is like a wonderful, scarlet, shining leaf, with a thick little tail at the tip of it, twisted round in a coil. This tail is orange with cream-white spots upon it, but just at itsowntip it is scarlet again, like the rest of the leaf. Such a wonderful-looking flower! There are creeping crimson nasturtiums that make the air blush in spots, azaleas with scarlet that has swooned into pink, and pink that has blushed into scarlet, and calceolarias that look like yellow flower-bubbles that fairies have blown into the air and that have come down, softly, upon delicate little stalks, and stayed there without bursting. Not all of these wonderful flowers have a scent, for scented flowers are commoner here in England than in far-off tropical countries. But a few of them have, andtheirscent is so exquisite that you would think it was sent from heaven.Some of the flowers have leaves that are even more beautiful than themselves, and sometimes it is the leaves that you look at and not the flowers at all. Some of these leaves seem to be made of velvet, or something even softer and more velvetythanvelvet, whilst the colours in them are like the pattern of a very beautiful Turkey carpet. Others look like wonderful spear-heads or the tops of very ornamental park railings, green and red and orange, and all striped and spotted and speckled like the skin of newts or lizards. There are some leaves so large, too, that they would almost make a carpet for averysmall room, and so handsome that you might go into all the haberdashers' shops in the world without finding any carpet that would look nearly so well. Some are still larger, and those are theleaves of palm-trees that bend down from high in the air, at the end of long, bending stalks that spring from the top of the small slender stem. They are of such a soft, lovely green that it makes you cool even to look up at them, and so graceful and delicate that you think of the fairies, but so big and strong that a giant might lie upon them and go to sleep, without breaking them or crushing them down. And there are wonderful cactuses—so large that they are called trees—with trunks like great, prickly, green caterpillars, and branches like smaller, prickly, green caterpillars stuck on to them by the tail. But on these ugly branches there are flowers like beautiful purple stars, whilst in the pools or the rivers, water-lilies are floating that look like large, purple flakes of snow. It is amongst flowers and leaves and trees like these that the Humming-birds fly about. Those are the wonderful goblets out of which they sip their nectar.But now, about this sipping of nectar I have something to tell you, and when I have told it you, you will know more than a good many people do, who think they know something about Humming-birds and natural history. Well, it is this: the Humming-birds do not liveonlyon the nectar in the flowers, as most people think they do, but on the insects that have been drowned in it, and whichthey suck up at the same time. You see the insects—of course I mean little insects—flies or gnats, not large moths and butterflies—get into the tubes of the flowers, to sip the nectar themselves, and they often fall into it, and are not able to get out again, but drown there; for to them it is like a little lake or pond—a pond of nectar, and, of course, very nice, but still, for all that, it drowns them. There is hardly any flower-cup that has not these drowned insects in it, and when the Humming-birds drink the nectar, they swallow the little insects at the same time. They could not live upon nectar only—they want animal food (as it is called) as well, and that is the way in which they get it. That is why when people have caught Humming-birds, and given them only nectar—or sugar and water, which is something like it—to live on, they have always died. There are no insects in it, no animal food. They had gravy, you see, but no meat, and they wanted meat as well as gravy. So they died, the poor Humming-birds. But I think it is almost better for a living sunbeam to die than to be kept living in a cage.But now, why do the Indians call the Humming-birds living sunbeams? Oh, but you will say I have told you that, and, besides, anybody could guess.It is because they are so bright and gleaming, and hover in the air as a sunbeam dances in it, or shoot through it as quickly and as brightly as a sunbeam shoots down from the sun. Well, yes, that is one explanation; but why should there not be two (as there were about the Birds of Paradise), so that you can choose the one you like best?—for you know you are not a clever personyet. Well, therearetwo, for the Indians say that the Humming-birds are called living sunbeams because they reallyareliving sunbeams, just as you are called a little girl because you are a little girl; and how could there be a simpler explanation of a thing than that?And this is how it happened, only you must remember that it was a very, very long time ago. In those old days the sun had not long sent his beams to earth, and it was only after they came there that the things upon the earth began to live. There had been no life at all before, it had all been dark and cold; it was only when the sun's beams began to shine upon the cold, dark earth, that they warmed it into life and love. Now as first one beautiful thing and then another began to live upon the earth, the sunbeams admired them all very much, but they did not envy them, for there was nothing therequiteso beautiful as asunbeam. But one day, as they were dancing upon the waters of the sea, they heard the fishes saying to each other: “How beautiful are the sunbeams! Is there anything so beautiful as they? Our scales flash out brightly, but compared to them they are dull, even on the sunniest day. We should envy them, were they alive like us, but of course, as it is, it is different.” “Are we not alive?” said the sunbeams, and they felt sad and did not dance on the waves any more that day. Then, another day, they were dancing on the leaves, and falling through them on to the shady ground underneath, chequering it with gold. “How glorious are the sunbeams!” said the leaves to each other, “more glorious even than the birds or the butterflies that perch amongst us. Would that we were as beautiful!” “Do you envy them?” said a butterfly, who had overheard and felt annoyed; “they have neither sense nor breath, are neither born nor die. Envy us, if you will, who have all these advantages, and are so beautiful as well—much more so than yourselves—but do not, however plain you may be, envy what is not alive.” “Are we not alive?” said the sunbeams, and they were discontented and the clouds hid them, so that neither the trees nor the birds and butterflies within them seemed to be alive any more. And, again, thesunbeams were shining through a small window, where, in a wretched garret, on a still more wretched bed, lay a man who had care and sorrow—yes, and worse even than those—in his heart. “Would that I were dead!” he cried, as he clasped his hands on his forehead. “Ah, how I envy the sunbeams! But no, I will not envythem, fortheyare not alive, they are inanimate merely.” “Are we not alive?” said the sunbeams; “and does nobody envy us on that account?” And the wretched room that had seemed quite cheerful whilst they were there, became dark and dismal again, as they withdrew.And now it was the sunbeams who envied everything—bird or beast, or plant or leaf or flower (even the man in the garret)—because they were alive. “It is hard that we alone should be without life,” thought they, and they complained to the sun. “Give us life,” they cried; “we are more beautiful than anything here on earth, but nothing envies us because we are not alive. It is dreadful not to be envied.” “And do you really think,” said the sun,“that you, who have given life to others, have no life yourselves? Before I sent you to the earth, it was dark and cold and lifeless. It needed you, to give it that for which you now ask. Do not, then, be discontented any more, but be assured that you have life, as much as anything that lives and grows upon the earth, though, to be sure, it is of another kind. Be satisfied, therefore, and rejoice in your loveliness.” This answer of the sun's satisfied most of the sunbeams, but there were some who were foolish and whom it did not satisfy. “Give us such life as the children of the earth enjoy!” cried these; “the life that breathes and grows, that has a shape, that is born and dies. That is the life that we would have. Be good to us, and give us that.” Then the sun said to the foolish sunbeams: “I can give you such life as you ask for, and, if you persist in asking it, I must; for you are my children and I cannot bear to see you unhappy. But remember, if I once grant you this wish, and give you the life that earth's children enjoy, you can nevermore be as you now are, or enter into my palace—my golden palace—again. Now you fly from me to the earth and from the earth back to me, but when once you have earth's life, on earth you must remain and on earth you must die. You are immortal now: when you become children of the earth you will be mortal as they are.”PLOVER CREST HUMMING-BIRDBut the foolish sunbeams, who could not understand what death should be, persisted, and the sun, who loved them because they were his children, hadto do what they asked. So one night, when all the other sunbeams had flown back to him, he sent these foolish ones to sleep on the earth (which had never happened to them before), and there they lay all night—some in the flower-cups, some under the leaves of the trees—without giving any light at all, for when a sunbeamisasleep it can give no light. But in the morning, when their brother and sister sunbeams flew back to earth, they woke up, but the two did not know each other again, for the foolish sunbeams were not sunbeams any more—not real ones, that is to say. They flew about, still, in the forests, and glanced through the trees, and hovered over the flowers, in almost the same way as they had done before; but now they had a shape and wings, and they sipped the nectar out of the flower-cups, which was a thing that they had never even dreamed about. They were Humming-birds, and though their feathers were as bright astheyhad ever been, and though they had all of them long Latin names and a scientific description in books, still it was not quite the same, for it would take a lot of Latin and a lot of scientific description, to make up for not being a sunbeam. But when the Indians came to know of the occurrence, they called them “living sunbeams,” and it is easy to understand what they meant. And now you know (until you are a clever person) how Humming-birds came into the world. But you must not think that the other sunbeams—the real ones that have never changed into anything—are dead. Oh no, indeed! How could they dance and play about as they do, if they were?
Perhaps, when I was telling you about the Birds of Paradise and how very, very beautiful they are, you thought they were the most beautiful birds in the whole world. They are nearly, but not quite. There are the Humming-birds—theyare even more beautiful. At least they are more like jewels, and the Indians who live in the countries where they are found call them “living sunbeams.”
“By western Indians living sunbeams named.”
“By western Indians living sunbeams named.”
“By western Indians living sunbeams named.”
“By western Indians living sunbeams named.”
You can remember it by that line, which is from a poem by Mrs. Hemans, a clever lady whom your mother will tell you about. For the Indians, you know, live in America, that great country—so large that we call it “the new world”—which Columbus discovered. They do not live in India, as you might think. At least, when we talk of the Indians, it is the ones that live in America and not India that wemean. The ones that live in India we call Hindoos. It seems funny, but the reason of it is that when Columbus discovered America, he thought it was India; for it was India he had been trying to find, and he thought he had found it. But it was America, not India, and it is only in America that the beautiful Humming-birds live—birds that are so beautiful as they are want a world to themselves to live in.
Now the birds that we have been talking about—the Birds of Paradise—are not such very small birds. The largest of them is nearly as large as a crow, and even the very smallest is not so much smaller than a thrush or a starling. But the largest Humming-bird is not so large as a sparrow or chaffinch, and the smaller ones are the very smallest birds in the whole world, some of them being not soverymuch larger than a large humble-bee, which is quite wonderful to think of. Then they are wonderful fliers. The Birds of Paradise fly very well—quite well enough—but still there is nothing extraordinary in the way they fly. But the little Humming-birds dart about quite like lightning, and move their wings so fast that, when you look at them, they do not seem to be wings at all, but only two little hazy patches in the air, with a bright jewel between them, which is the gleaming breast of the Humming-bird. All the time theirwings are moving so quickly, they make a humming sound, just as a top does when it is spinning very fast, which is why we call them Humming-birds, just as we call tops that hum very much, humming-tops.
We have named the Humming-birds from the sound they make when they fly, and the Indians from their bright radiance and the speed at which they dart about. It is from flower to flower that they dart, and whilst you are looking at one sunbeam that is dancing about one flower, all at once there is a ray of light through the air, and another sunbeam is dancing about another flower. That is what it looks like, only, really, it is the same sunbeam that has flown from one flower to another.
Sometimes when you are walking in the garden in England and looking at the geraniums in your flowerbeds, you will see a little brown moth hovering over one of them, and putting a long, slender thread-like thing that we call a proboscis (though we call an elephant's trunk a proboscis too) right down into the centre of the flower.Hiswings move so fast that you can hardly see them, and in a second or twohewill dart away too, so quickly that you only know he is gone, and then, all of a sudden, you will see him again, hovering over another geranium and probing it with his wonderful, long, thin proboscis. It is a tube, that proboscis, and through it, the moth issucking up the nectar of the flower, which is what it lives on. That moth is the humming-bird hawk-moth, and, if you have seen it, you have seen what looks more like a Humming-bird than anything else in England. It hovers over or under or in front of a flower, as the Humming-birds do, it keeps moving its wings in the same rapid way as they move theirs, and making the same humming noise with them, and it puts a long, slender, little brown thing, that lookssomethinglike the beak of a Humming-bird, right down into the flower, and sucks up the nectar that is in it, which is just what a Humming-bird does. So if the humming-bird moth were bright and gleaming, as Humming-birds—sunbeams—are, it would seem to be a Humming-bird and not a moth at all. But you must not think that it really would be one. Oh no, it never could be, because it is an insect, and an insect is a very different thing to a bird.
The humming-bird moth and the Humming-bird look like each other because they live in the same way and do the same things. They both fly, so they both have wings; and they both sip nectar, so they both have a long thing to stick into the flowers and suck it up with: so they look like each other, but they are not a bit the same. A petticoat, you know, looks a little like an upper skirt, for they both have to be worn round the waist,which makes them the same kind of shape, and when the skirt is part of a white dress then they are of the same colour. But think how different they really are! Why, one is a petticoat and the other is an upper skirt. So you must always remember that, though two animals look the same, they may really be very different.
Now although the Humming-birds, or living sunbeams, are all of them small birds, yet they are not all of the same size, and some are quite big compared to others, just as a peacock butterfly is quite big, compared to a tiny blue one, whilst even the tiny little blue one may be big compared to some very small moths. Then, again, their beaks are of all kinds of different shapes and lengths. Some are quite straight, whilst others are bent like a sabre or even a sickle, and one Humming-bird has his so very much bent indeed, that it looks like half of a black ring or bracelet or something else that is quite round. As for length, some are shorter than a quite short pin, whilst others are longer than a very long darning-needle.
RACQUET-TAILED HUMMING-BIRD
RACQUET-TAILED HUMMING-BIRD
RACQUET-TAILED HUMMING-BIRD
Of course there is a reason for the beaks of Humming-birds being so different, and the reason is that they have to go into different flowers, and must fit into them as a finger fits into a fingerstall or a periwinkle into its shell. If the part of the flower that holds the nectar is straight, thenthe beak of the Humming-bird that feeds on the nectar of that flower must be straight too, but if it is curved, then, of course, the beak must be curved, or else how could it be pushed into it?
And if the nectary of any flower (for that is what the place that the nectar is in is called) were shaped like a corkscrew, then the beak of the Humming-bird that sucked out the nectar fromthatflower would have to be shaped like a corkscrew too. But there are no flowers shaped like that, and so there are no Humming-birds with corkscrew beaks, like the tail of a periwinkle. But thereisa flower that has its nectary, or honey-tube, bent round into almost a half circle, and it is just that one Humming-bird that has its beak bent in the same way, that sips the nectar from that flower. No other one is able to do it, and there is no other flower that that Humming-bird can sip the nectar from.
And there are more than 400 different kinds of Humming-birds, and the beak of every one of them must fit into some flower or another, and often into a great many more than one. Oh then, what a lot of different kinds of flowers there must be, for all these beaks to fit into! Ah, there are indeed, for it is in the great forests or plains of America—the largest in the whole world—or on the slopes of the great mountain ranges there—the highest in theworld except the Himalayas—that the Humming-birds live, and everywhere there are wonderful trees and wonderful flowers. As for the trees, I have told you what some of them are like in the forests of the Malay Archipelago, and in the great forests of Brazil; I think they are still larger and more wonderful. And as for the flowers that grow in those wonderful forests or on the great plains or the slopes and sides of those great, high mountains, how could I ever give you an idea of what they are like, or how should I know where to begin, when there are so many? For there are some that are like great scarlet trumpets on the outside of their petals, but when you look inside them they are like the open mouths of fierce dragons shooting out a lot of fiery-orange tongues, all forked and cloven ever so many times over, each tongue looking as if it were the tongues of twenty little hissing snakes, all tied together in a bundle and ready to dart at you. And there are some that are in bunches, and each bunch looks as if a lot of oxen had put their heads against each other and begun to grow smaller and smaller and smaller till their horns were no longer than honeysuckles, and then had disappeared altogether,excepttheir horns, which had turned pink and stayed there. Bunches of little pink ox-horns are what those flowers look like. Then there are flowers that look as if they had almost changed intovery beautiful butterflies, and others that seem to be very beautiful butterflies just changing into flowers. There are flowers that are all the colours that there are, and others that have tried all the colours that there are, and then found out new ones to be of. And there are some, too, that are only white, but so lovely that all the flowers of all the colours that there are, gaze at them and envy them. Some are so soft and delicate that, although you see them, you only seem to be dreaming of them. They make you think of heaven, and it is as if angels were kissing you. Others are like golden stars, with a stem that is like a long, long, very long piece of red string that goes tying itself round and round a great many trees, and climbing up and up them, and all the way up there are bright green leaves and the beautiful golden stars. Other strings are golden or green, and have pink or crimson stars upon them, and some of these hang down, like glowing lamps from a soft, cool, emerald ceiling. Some flowers are like little bunches of red counters that you play games with, and there is one that is like a wonderful, scarlet, shining leaf, with a thick little tail at the tip of it, twisted round in a coil. This tail is orange with cream-white spots upon it, but just at itsowntip it is scarlet again, like the rest of the leaf. Such a wonderful-looking flower! There are creeping crimson nasturtiums that make the air blush in spots, azaleas with scarlet that has swooned into pink, and pink that has blushed into scarlet, and calceolarias that look like yellow flower-bubbles that fairies have blown into the air and that have come down, softly, upon delicate little stalks, and stayed there without bursting. Not all of these wonderful flowers have a scent, for scented flowers are commoner here in England than in far-off tropical countries. But a few of them have, andtheirscent is so exquisite that you would think it was sent from heaven.
Some of the flowers have leaves that are even more beautiful than themselves, and sometimes it is the leaves that you look at and not the flowers at all. Some of these leaves seem to be made of velvet, or something even softer and more velvetythanvelvet, whilst the colours in them are like the pattern of a very beautiful Turkey carpet. Others look like wonderful spear-heads or the tops of very ornamental park railings, green and red and orange, and all striped and spotted and speckled like the skin of newts or lizards. There are some leaves so large, too, that they would almost make a carpet for averysmall room, and so handsome that you might go into all the haberdashers' shops in the world without finding any carpet that would look nearly so well. Some are still larger, and those are theleaves of palm-trees that bend down from high in the air, at the end of long, bending stalks that spring from the top of the small slender stem. They are of such a soft, lovely green that it makes you cool even to look up at them, and so graceful and delicate that you think of the fairies, but so big and strong that a giant might lie upon them and go to sleep, without breaking them or crushing them down. And there are wonderful cactuses—so large that they are called trees—with trunks like great, prickly, green caterpillars, and branches like smaller, prickly, green caterpillars stuck on to them by the tail. But on these ugly branches there are flowers like beautiful purple stars, whilst in the pools or the rivers, water-lilies are floating that look like large, purple flakes of snow. It is amongst flowers and leaves and trees like these that the Humming-birds fly about. Those are the wonderful goblets out of which they sip their nectar.
But now, about this sipping of nectar I have something to tell you, and when I have told it you, you will know more than a good many people do, who think they know something about Humming-birds and natural history. Well, it is this: the Humming-birds do not liveonlyon the nectar in the flowers, as most people think they do, but on the insects that have been drowned in it, and whichthey suck up at the same time. You see the insects—of course I mean little insects—flies or gnats, not large moths and butterflies—get into the tubes of the flowers, to sip the nectar themselves, and they often fall into it, and are not able to get out again, but drown there; for to them it is like a little lake or pond—a pond of nectar, and, of course, very nice, but still, for all that, it drowns them. There is hardly any flower-cup that has not these drowned insects in it, and when the Humming-birds drink the nectar, they swallow the little insects at the same time. They could not live upon nectar only—they want animal food (as it is called) as well, and that is the way in which they get it. That is why when people have caught Humming-birds, and given them only nectar—or sugar and water, which is something like it—to live on, they have always died. There are no insects in it, no animal food. They had gravy, you see, but no meat, and they wanted meat as well as gravy. So they died, the poor Humming-birds. But I think it is almost better for a living sunbeam to die than to be kept living in a cage.
But now, why do the Indians call the Humming-birds living sunbeams? Oh, but you will say I have told you that, and, besides, anybody could guess.It is because they are so bright and gleaming, and hover in the air as a sunbeam dances in it, or shoot through it as quickly and as brightly as a sunbeam shoots down from the sun. Well, yes, that is one explanation; but why should there not be two (as there were about the Birds of Paradise), so that you can choose the one you like best?—for you know you are not a clever personyet. Well, therearetwo, for the Indians say that the Humming-birds are called living sunbeams because they reallyareliving sunbeams, just as you are called a little girl because you are a little girl; and how could there be a simpler explanation of a thing than that?
And this is how it happened, only you must remember that it was a very, very long time ago. In those old days the sun had not long sent his beams to earth, and it was only after they came there that the things upon the earth began to live. There had been no life at all before, it had all been dark and cold; it was only when the sun's beams began to shine upon the cold, dark earth, that they warmed it into life and love. Now as first one beautiful thing and then another began to live upon the earth, the sunbeams admired them all very much, but they did not envy them, for there was nothing therequiteso beautiful as asunbeam. But one day, as they were dancing upon the waters of the sea, they heard the fishes saying to each other: “How beautiful are the sunbeams! Is there anything so beautiful as they? Our scales flash out brightly, but compared to them they are dull, even on the sunniest day. We should envy them, were they alive like us, but of course, as it is, it is different.” “Are we not alive?” said the sunbeams, and they felt sad and did not dance on the waves any more that day. Then, another day, they were dancing on the leaves, and falling through them on to the shady ground underneath, chequering it with gold. “How glorious are the sunbeams!” said the leaves to each other, “more glorious even than the birds or the butterflies that perch amongst us. Would that we were as beautiful!” “Do you envy them?” said a butterfly, who had overheard and felt annoyed; “they have neither sense nor breath, are neither born nor die. Envy us, if you will, who have all these advantages, and are so beautiful as well—much more so than yourselves—but do not, however plain you may be, envy what is not alive.” “Are we not alive?” said the sunbeams, and they were discontented and the clouds hid them, so that neither the trees nor the birds and butterflies within them seemed to be alive any more. And, again, thesunbeams were shining through a small window, where, in a wretched garret, on a still more wretched bed, lay a man who had care and sorrow—yes, and worse even than those—in his heart. “Would that I were dead!” he cried, as he clasped his hands on his forehead. “Ah, how I envy the sunbeams! But no, I will not envythem, fortheyare not alive, they are inanimate merely.” “Are we not alive?” said the sunbeams; “and does nobody envy us on that account?” And the wretched room that had seemed quite cheerful whilst they were there, became dark and dismal again, as they withdrew.
And now it was the sunbeams who envied everything—bird or beast, or plant or leaf or flower (even the man in the garret)—because they were alive. “It is hard that we alone should be without life,” thought they, and they complained to the sun. “Give us life,” they cried; “we are more beautiful than anything here on earth, but nothing envies us because we are not alive. It is dreadful not to be envied.” “And do you really think,” said the sun,“that you, who have given life to others, have no life yourselves? Before I sent you to the earth, it was dark and cold and lifeless. It needed you, to give it that for which you now ask. Do not, then, be discontented any more, but be assured that you have life, as much as anything that lives and grows upon the earth, though, to be sure, it is of another kind. Be satisfied, therefore, and rejoice in your loveliness.” This answer of the sun's satisfied most of the sunbeams, but there were some who were foolish and whom it did not satisfy. “Give us such life as the children of the earth enjoy!” cried these; “the life that breathes and grows, that has a shape, that is born and dies. That is the life that we would have. Be good to us, and give us that.” Then the sun said to the foolish sunbeams: “I can give you such life as you ask for, and, if you persist in asking it, I must; for you are my children and I cannot bear to see you unhappy. But remember, if I once grant you this wish, and give you the life that earth's children enjoy, you can nevermore be as you now are, or enter into my palace—my golden palace—again. Now you fly from me to the earth and from the earth back to me, but when once you have earth's life, on earth you must remain and on earth you must die. You are immortal now: when you become children of the earth you will be mortal as they are.”
PLOVER CREST HUMMING-BIRD
PLOVER CREST HUMMING-BIRD
PLOVER CREST HUMMING-BIRD
But the foolish sunbeams, who could not understand what death should be, persisted, and the sun, who loved them because they were his children, hadto do what they asked. So one night, when all the other sunbeams had flown back to him, he sent these foolish ones to sleep on the earth (which had never happened to them before), and there they lay all night—some in the flower-cups, some under the leaves of the trees—without giving any light at all, for when a sunbeamisasleep it can give no light. But in the morning, when their brother and sister sunbeams flew back to earth, they woke up, but the two did not know each other again, for the foolish sunbeams were not sunbeams any more—not real ones, that is to say. They flew about, still, in the forests, and glanced through the trees, and hovered over the flowers, in almost the same way as they had done before; but now they had a shape and wings, and they sipped the nectar out of the flower-cups, which was a thing that they had never even dreamed about. They were Humming-birds, and though their feathers were as bright astheyhad ever been, and though they had all of them long Latin names and a scientific description in books, still it was not quite the same, for it would take a lot of Latin and a lot of scientific description, to make up for not being a sunbeam. But when the Indians came to know of the occurrence, they called them “living sunbeams,” and it is easy to understand what they meant. And now you know (until you are a clever person) how Humming-birds came into the world. But you must not think that the other sunbeams—the real ones that have never changed into anything—are dead. Oh no, indeed! How could they dance and play about as they do, if they were?
CHAPTER VIIISome very Bright Humming-BirdsOne of the most beautiful of all the Humming-birds (but we can say that of so many) is the Rainbow Humming-bird. It is very large for a Humming-bird, so whatwillyou think when I say that its body is about the size of a little wren's, a bird which, perhaps, you had been thinking was the smallest bird there is. Why, a Humming-bird that is as big, or almost as big, as a wren is a very big Humming-bird indeed—in fact quite a gigantic one. But now, the tail of this Humming-bird is very different to a wren's, and makes it look still bigger because it is so long—three to three and a half inches, I should think—and such a wonderful shape. It is forked, so you must think of a swallow first if you want to imagine it; but then you must imagine that the two feathers which make the fork of a swallow's tail are curved outwards like two little scimitars, so that their tips are six inches apart from each other. Indeed they gleam as brightly as any scimitar does inthe sun, but it is not like steel that they gleam, for they are of the most lovely deep, rich, violet-blue that you can imagine, such a colour as was never seen anywhere else out of the rainbow; and now I come to think of it, what these lovely feathers are most like is two little violet rainbows set back to back. You can think how lovely they look as they go darting through the air, and I must tell you that the beautiful violet-blue sends out gleams of other kinds of blues—lighter ones—which are just as beautiful as the violet itself. On the opposite page you see the picture of a Humming-bird that is a good deal like this one. But it is not the same, so the tail is notquitethe same either.Now of course you will think—and you will be quite right to think so—that a bird that has a tail like two little violet rainbows will have the other parts of him beautiful as well. Well, the back of this bird is all green—a beautiful, shining, gleaming green, and his head is green too—at least it seems to be when you see it first; but, as you look at it, all at once the green changes into a heavenly violet blue, to match the heavenly violet blue of its lovely rainbow tail. Under the throat it is green like the rest, but just in the centre of it there is a tiny little drop—just one or two little feathers—of the very loveliest amethyst. Ah, fancy seeing a bird like that flying about andhovering over the flowers. Only you would notseehim, for you would not be able to see his wings—at least not properly—they would move so fast. What you would see, would be a little circle of hazy brown mist, and, right in the middle of it, a little sparkling sun, and on the other side, gleaming through the mist, two sweet little violet rainbows. Then all at once there would be a trail of light in the air, and it would all be somewhere else—another sun and rainbows over another flower. Of course, really, a Humming-bird would have flown from one flower to another, but what it would look like would be a gleam of light—a sunbeam—with a jewel-flash at each end of it.TRAIN-BEARER HUMMING-BIRDAnother Humming-bird—the Sappho Comet—is about the same size as the last one, and he is a lovely gleaming green, too—an emerald green, I think—on his head and neck and shoulders, but his throat is light blue—the colour of a most beautiful turquoise. Butsucha turquoise! There is no other one in the world that ever gleamed and flashed and sparkled in that way, because, you know, turquoises do not sparkle at all—at least nowhere else—it is not their habit. But I think that some of the very finest of them—at least the lovely colours that were in them—must have flown into that Humming-bird's throat and begun to gleam and flashand sparkle there. Perhaps they begged to be allowed to as a very special favour. Then the tail of this Humming-bird is forked too, like the other one's, but not in quite the same way. It is more like the fork of an arrow than two little rainbows turned back to back, and instead of being violet it is all ruby and copper and topaz, with a broad band of velvet black at each tip. I cannot tell you how brilliant those colours are—the ruby and the copper and the topaz. They are so brilliant that, if you were to take them into a dark room, I really almost think they would light it up like a lamp or a candle. Oh, it is a wonderful tail. You might think and think for quite a long time and yet you would never be able to think how bright—how wonderfully bright—it is.But listen to what the Indians say. They say that once that Humming-bird was out in a thunderstorm, and the lightning got angry with him because he flew so fast, and tried to strike him. It was jealous of him, that was the reason, for the lightning likes to think itself faster than anything else. But although the lightning chased that Humming-bird for a very long time, it could only just touch his tail, and there it has stayed—a little flash of it which was not enough to hurt—ever since. You know how bright the lightning is; that will help you to think what that Humming-bird's tail is like. And youknow, now, what his throat is like. Fancy seeing them both together, flashing, sparkling, gleaming, beaming, glancing, dancing in the glorious, glowing sunshine of South America.But now in the Splendid-breasted Humming-bird all the glory is upon his breast, his throat. Once, I think (at least the Indians say so), he must have flown very high—yes, right up to heaven, and the door was open and he tried to fly in. But he could not, they turned him away; but the glory of heaven had just fallen upon his breast and he flew back with it there, to earth. It is green—that glory—the most marvellous, light, gleaming green, but all at once, as you look at it, it has changed to blue, an exquisite light, turquoise blue, and then, just as you are going to cry out, “Oh, but it is blue, not green,” it is green again, and then blue again before you can say that it is green, and then, all at once, it is both at the same time, for each has changed into the other.It is the throat-gorget (you know I explained to you) on which this glorious colour falls, but this bird has such a large one that it covers the breast as well as the throat, and goes up quite high on each side, till it meets the deep, rich, velvety black of the head. Of course this deep, velvet black makes the wonderful green and blue look all the more wonderful, for it is a dark background for them to shineout against, and your mother will explain to you what a background is. Then, on the back this Humming-bird is green too—in fact you might call him the emerald Humming-bird—but it is darker than that other green (if anything so brightcanbe darker) and without the lovely turquoise-blue in it. It is a glory, but notsucha glory as the one on his breast; not the glory of heaven that fell upon him at its gates—perhaps it is his memory of it as he flew away.But now I feel sure you will ask why the same brightness which streamed out of heaven, and spoilt the plumage of the Birds of Paradise, should have made the plumage of this Humming-bird so beautiful. Well, it is a difficult question, but perhaps it is because the Humming-bird was thinking of heaven, and wishing to get into it, whilst the Birds of Paradise had got tired of being in heaven and were only thinking of earth. That might have made a very great difference. Andperhapsyou will say, “If the Humming-birds are sunbeams that have been changed into birds, why should some of them have been made more beautiful afterwards in other ways?” Well, as to that, there are a great many different kinds of Humming-birds (more than four hundred, as I told you), so perhaps they were not quite all of them sunbeams first, and besides, even when a bird has been asunbeam first, something else might happen to it when it had become a bird. At any rate, if one explanation does not seem satisfactory, there is always the other, and one of them must be the right one—until you are a clever person, which will not be yet awhile. So now we will go on, for there are some other Humming-birds with other explanations waiting.The Glow-glow Humming-bird (I do like that name) is smaller than any of the other three we have talked about, for it is less than half the size of a little wren. Its head and its back are shining green (you will be thinking all the Humming-birds are green, but wait a little!), its breast is white, but its throat—oh, its throat!—what is it? What can it be called? It is a rose that has burst into flame. No, it is a flame trying to look like a rose. No, it is neither of these. It is one of those stars that are of all colours, and change from one to the other as you look at them—from green to gold, from gold to topaz, from topaz to rosy red. Onlythisstar changed into every colour at once, which was wonderful, and as he did that (and this was still more wonderful) he flew all to pieces, and little bits of him were scattered through the whole air, and when the sun rose and shone upon them, they were all Humming-birds, flying about with wings and feathers, and with long Latin names, so that there should be no doubt aboutit. It was wonderful, wonderful; but yet it was not quite so wonderful as the colours upon this Humming-bird's throat.The Little Flame-bearer (there is a name for you!) is a still smaller Humming-bird than the last one—indeed his body, without the feathers, would not beverymuch larger than averylarge humble-bee. Here, again, all the wonder is on its throat, which is topaz and green and copper, all glowing and sparkling together, as if they were all married to one another and each of them was trying to get the upper hand. Ah, was there ever such a sweet little gem-bird? He is a jewel mounted on wings and set in the air. Only sometimes, when he hovers just underneath a flower, he seems hanging from its tip like a pendant.Costa's Coquette (that means that some one named Costa—some Portuguese gentleman—was the first to write about it) is larger than the Little Flame-bearer (though not half so big as a wren), and hetriesto be brighter. Whether heisbrighter I am sure I can't say. To tell properly, one ought to see them both hovering under the same flower, or, at least, very close together, and even then one would only feel bewildered. But this one's head and throat are all one splendour, one marvellous gleam of rosy, pinky, rosy-pink, pinky-rose magenta. Only if yousaythat that is what it is, it will changeinto violet and contradict you, and then, if you say it is violet, it will change into topaz and contradict you again. So you had better say nothing—for one does not want to be contradicted—but just hold your breath and watch it. It will change quite soon enough, even then, long before you are tired of its rosy, pinky, rosy-pink, pinky-rose magenta, which is a colour you have not seen, and which I have not told you about before. Only if youmustsay something about it whilst you are looking at it—something besides “Oh!” I mean—say it is a Humming-bird. That will be quite sufficient, and not one of its colours can be offended with you then for not mentioning them and mentioning the others. Now, I must tell you that the feathers of this little bird's throat—of that wonderful, gleaming throat-gorget—grow out on each side into two little peaks, two little pointed tongues of rose-pink magenta flame (but hush!), and he can spread them out and shoot them forward, as well as the whole of the gorget, in quite a wonderful way. When he does that, what heseemsto do is to strike a great number of matches at the same time, and from each one, as he strikes it, there bursts out hundreds and hundreds of bright, sparkling jewels of flame. Ah, you should see him strike his jewel-matches—all together, all the jewels that there are, all struck in one second, as he whizzes about inthe air. His back is all green, andsobright, if only you cover up his head and throat. If you don't cover them—or as soon as you uncover them again—you hardly seem to see it. It is no brighter then than a glow-worm is when a very bright star is shooting through the air.Now we come to the Splendid Coquette, a little bird not half the size of a golden-crested wren, which is the smallest bird that we, in this country, know anything about, smaller, even, than the common wren.Hehas a crest, too—this little Humming-bird—a very fine one of chestnut feathers, not sticking up on the top of the head, as so many crests do, but going backwards after the head has come to an end, so that it makes a little chestnut feather-awning for the neck to be under. But just where they spring from the head each of these chestnut feathers is black, and at their tips, too, they have all a little black spot, and this makes them look still prettier than if they were all chestnut. When the little bird spreads out this fine crest of his, like a fan—for he can do that—all the feathers in it stand out separately from each other, and then he looks like a little sun in the centre of his own rays.Yes, a sun, because he is so very bright. He has a gorget (or perhaps you would prefer to call it a lappet) of feathers on his throat and breast, of themost glorious, radiant green colour, and from it there shoot out—one on each side—a pair of the very loveliest and most delicate little fairy-wings that ever youneversaw—for I feel sure that you neverhaveseen anything at all like them. I do not mean, of course, that they are real wings, to fly with, no—it would be funny if a bird hadtwopairs ofthatkind—but ornamental ones, wings for the little hen Humming-bird, who has none, to look at and say, “How beautiful! Howextraordinarilybecoming!” Each of these dear little wings is made by a few delicate, long, slender feathers of a light chestnut colour, the same as the feathers of the crest, only, instead of being tipped with black, these ones are tipped with a spot of the same lovely green that there is on the throat and breast. The longest of them, which is in the middle, is nearly an inch long—which is very long indeed when you think how small the little birdie is—and it stands out a quarter of an inch beyond the two next longest ones on each side of it, and these are almost a quarter of an inch longer than the ones that come next. If you hold out your hand with the fingers spread out, and imagine the middle one a good deal longer and the little finger and thumb much shorter, then you will know the shape of these dear little fairy-wings; only, of course, feathers are much more elegant than fingers—eventhan pretty little fingers. Think how pretty something in muslin or puff-lace, like that, on a dress would be!—but it is ever, oh,everso much prettier on a little Humming-bird, in little chestnut feathers with little green spangles at their tips. And that is why I call them “fairy-wings,” for I think if any pair of wings that arenota fairy's could be pretty enoughfora fairy, those would be the ones.And I think if you saw this sweet little Humming-bird hanging in the air, with his breast all flashing and sparkling, and with his chestnut crest spread out above it, and his little chestnut and star-spangled wings flying out on each side of it, you would think him almost as pretty as a fairy could be. You would think his fairy-wings the real ones that he was flying with, because you would see them, whilst the other ones would be moving so quickly that they would be only like a mist or haze—a little night that he had made for himself for the star of his beauty to shine in.Now just try to imagine how lovely that little Humming-bird must be. Can you understand any onewantingto kill him? But now that I have told you about that wretched little demon with his charms to send people to sleep, and those two bad bottles of his, or, rather, the powders inside them—apathy and vanity—I daresay you can understand it. If I hadnot told you abouthimI don't think you would have been able to.Princess Helen's Coquette (how proud he ought to be of a name like that!) is a little Humming-bird something like the last one. He is a little smaller, I think, but whether he is a little prettier, too, or notquiteso pretty, or onlyaspretty, all that I shall leave to you; it is you who will have to decide. His back is all of a golden green, and his head, which has a forked crest at the back of it like a swallow's tail, is a beautiful, rich, dark, velvety green, so that would make a pretty little bird—would it not?—even without anything else. But hehassomething else—two or three other things in fact—which are so—oh, soverypretty. First, on each side of the back of the head—just under each fork of the little swallow-tailed crest—there is a little delicate tuft of feathers, which rise up and spread out upon each side in such a graceful little curve. But these feathers are not like other feathers. They aresomethinglike the “funny feathers” that the Birds of Paradise have, for they are quite thin, like threads, and an inch long, which (although it is not quite so long as those) is yet a good length when you think of what a little thing this little Humming-bird is. These pretty little feathers are of a deep velvety green colour—the same colour as his swallow-tailed crest—and there are three on each side, three little velvet green feather-threads, floating out on each side behind his head. On his throat there is a gorget of gleaming, jewelly green, much lighter than the other greens—more like emerald, but with a goldeny, bronzy wash in it, as well. Just think how beautiful that must be! And then, lower down on his throat, underneath the green gorget—as if all that were not enough for him—this Humming-bird has something else—we will call it a tippet—which flies out all round his neck, and, especially, on each side of it. A tippet or a ruffle—perhaps that is rather a better word—a ruffle of velvet black feathers in front, and of light chestnut feathers with velvet black stripes—like a tiger—on each side. As for his tail, it spreads out into a dear little fan, and the fan is chestnut and black too, broad stripes of chestnut and narrow stripes of black, with a broad patch of black where it begins, which looks like the handle of the fan. What a pretty, pretty bird! Fancy a little birdie that is only about two inches long, and has a crest like a swallow-tail on his head, a gorget—or lappet—on his throat, a tippet—or ruffle—just underneath the gorget, and a little spray of feather-threads on each side of his head, just underneath the crest! Fancy killing such a little fairy-bird as that! Fancywantingto kill him! But it is all the little demon. It is hewho has blown about his nasty powders and frozen the hearts of thepoorwomen, who arereallyso kind—at any rate theywouldbe if only he would let them.Did I say, “Such a little fairy-bird”? I think I did, and I was quite right, for it is just this very little Humming-bird that the fairies are so fond of riding on. They go two at a time, sometimes. One sits on his back, and another lies on the broad fan of his tail, and the one on the back uses the little feather-threads as reins. It is so grand! The Humming-bird dashes up at the fairy's own flower-door, and hovers there till she is ready to come out, and then dashes away with her to another flower, where another fairy lives. And that is how the fairies call upon each other in countries where there are Humming-birds. Perhaps you will think that a Humming-bird—even quite a little Humming-bird (and they are none of them big)—israthera large gee-gee for afairyto ride on. But you must remember that in tropical countries fairies grow to quite a remarkable size.Well, that is eight Humming-birds that I have tried to describe to you (though it is very like trying to describe a sunset to some one who has never seen one), and perhaps you think I have chosen all the most beautiful ones first, and that there are no moreleft which arequiteso pretty. But I think I can find just one more that is not such averyplain bird, not a bird you would call ugly if you were to see it hovering about over a bed of geraniums or under a cluster of honeysuckle, some bright spring or summer morning when you happened to go out into your garden. So we will take that one, and, if he is not pretty enough, you must just try to put up with him.He is called the Sun Beauty. Perhaps you would think him dark at first, for his head and back and shoulders are of such a rich, deep, velvety green that it almost goes into black velvet—all except one little spot on the forehead, just above the beak, and that never can lookquiteblack. Sometimes it doesalmost, just for one second, but the next second it flashes into green again, and oh, how it gleams and sparkles and throws out little jewels, little splashes of sun-fire all round it! What a wonderful green it is!—at first, and then—oh, what a wonderful—but really there is no proper name forthatcolour. I was going to say “blue,” and perhaps it is more like blue than anything else, but nothing else is quite like it. Then, just at the beginning of this Humming-bird's throat—just under the chin—there are a few feathers that are like a kind of dusky-smoked-magenta-bronze-jewelry, and a little farther down they gleam into ruddy bronze and coppery topaz, and then—oh, whatisthat? The very sun himself has flashed out from his throat, from his gorget—yes, a little flake of the sun, a sunflake instead of a snowflake. Oh, it issucha gorget, a gorget of golden topaz, of coppery gold, of green gold, of silver gold, of silver, of gleaming white, of all these together, and it spreads out on each side like a wonderful fan, and shoots out in front of all the other feathers. Such a gorget! The feathers in it are not feathers at all—I do not think theycanbe feathers—they are sunflakes, as I have told you.That is what this Humming-bird is like on the throat. Underneath the throat, on the breast, he becomes green again, not the dark velvet green of the back, but a still more glorious green, gleaming and brilliant, but soft and rich at the same time. It is a green that changes, too—changes almost into blue. I will tell you how that is. Once this green—this wonderful, lovely green—did not think itself lovely enough (which was funny), so it said to the blue of the violet and the turquoise and the amethyst and the sapphire: “Come and make part of me, but I must be the greater part.” “That is not fair,” cried the blues of all those lovely things;“we will come, since you have invited us, but we intend to have the upper hand.” “Come then,” said the green, “and let us fight for the mastery. Whichever wins, the other will be improved by it. We will struggle together, and we will see which is the strongest.” So they came, those blues of wonder, from the violet, the turquoise, the sapphire, and the amethyst—yes, and from the sky, the stars, and the sea as well—and they fell in a glory on that glorious green that had been there before them, and fought with it to possess the breast of that Humming-bird. And they are fighting to possess it now. They gleam and flash and sparkle and glow, and try to out-glory each other; but I think that that wonderful green is the strongest, although he has such a lot of blues to fight against. But stronger than any and than all of them is the sun on that Humming-bird's gorget, that gorget of gold and topaz, and copper and bronze, and silver and gleaming white.That is what that Humming-bird is like, and that is how he got some of his wonderful colours; so, at least, the Indians say, only some of them say that it was the blues who were there first, and asked the green to come. But always, in history, you will find that there are different opinions about the same thing. People are notallagreed, even about the battle of Waterloo.So, you see, we have been able to find one otherhandsome Humming-bird, at any rate. And then there is the Hermit Humming-bird. I must just describe him. His head and neck are—brown, the whole of his back is—brown, his wings, his throat, and his breast are—brown, and all the rest of him is—brown. Why, then, he is all brown, without any colours at all, unless there are some lying asleep, and ready to wake up and dart out all of a sudden, in the way I have explained to you. No, there are no colours, either asleep or awake, or, at any rate, hardly any. Compared to the Humming-birds I have been telling you about, this one is just a plain, dull bird, as plain and as dull, almost, as his wife, for that, you know, is what the wives of Humming-birds are like. Then is he a Humming-bird at all? Surely he is not one; he must be some other bird. Oh no, he is not. He is a Humming-bird, but he is a Hermit Humming-bird. I have not told you before—but now I will tell you—that there are some Humming-birds—in fact a good many—that have no bright colours at all, andtheyare called hermits. A hermit, you know, is a person who lives in a cell or cave, and wears a long, brown gown, with a hood at one end of it for his head, and never dresses gaily or goes out to see things, but has whatweshould consider a very dull life; only ashelikes it that makes it all right—forhim. So these dull-coloured Humming-birds arecalled hermits, not because they live in cells, because, of course, they do not, but because they have no bright things to wear, but only brown gowns, like hermits. But now as Humming-birds used once to be sunbeams, and are stilllivingsunbeams that have been changed into birds, how does it happen that any of them have become hermits, with nothing showy about them? That is a thing which requires an explanation, so it is lucky that there is one all ready for it in the next chapter. Not all the things that require an explanation are so lucky as that. Some of them go on requiring one all their lives, and yet never get what they require. I have known several of that sort.
One of the most beautiful of all the Humming-birds (but we can say that of so many) is the Rainbow Humming-bird. It is very large for a Humming-bird, so whatwillyou think when I say that its body is about the size of a little wren's, a bird which, perhaps, you had been thinking was the smallest bird there is. Why, a Humming-bird that is as big, or almost as big, as a wren is a very big Humming-bird indeed—in fact quite a gigantic one. But now, the tail of this Humming-bird is very different to a wren's, and makes it look still bigger because it is so long—three to three and a half inches, I should think—and such a wonderful shape. It is forked, so you must think of a swallow first if you want to imagine it; but then you must imagine that the two feathers which make the fork of a swallow's tail are curved outwards like two little scimitars, so that their tips are six inches apart from each other. Indeed they gleam as brightly as any scimitar does inthe sun, but it is not like steel that they gleam, for they are of the most lovely deep, rich, violet-blue that you can imagine, such a colour as was never seen anywhere else out of the rainbow; and now I come to think of it, what these lovely feathers are most like is two little violet rainbows set back to back. You can think how lovely they look as they go darting through the air, and I must tell you that the beautiful violet-blue sends out gleams of other kinds of blues—lighter ones—which are just as beautiful as the violet itself. On the opposite page you see the picture of a Humming-bird that is a good deal like this one. But it is not the same, so the tail is notquitethe same either.
Now of course you will think—and you will be quite right to think so—that a bird that has a tail like two little violet rainbows will have the other parts of him beautiful as well. Well, the back of this bird is all green—a beautiful, shining, gleaming green, and his head is green too—at least it seems to be when you see it first; but, as you look at it, all at once the green changes into a heavenly violet blue, to match the heavenly violet blue of its lovely rainbow tail. Under the throat it is green like the rest, but just in the centre of it there is a tiny little drop—just one or two little feathers—of the very loveliest amethyst. Ah, fancy seeing a bird like that flying about andhovering over the flowers. Only you would notseehim, for you would not be able to see his wings—at least not properly—they would move so fast. What you would see, would be a little circle of hazy brown mist, and, right in the middle of it, a little sparkling sun, and on the other side, gleaming through the mist, two sweet little violet rainbows. Then all at once there would be a trail of light in the air, and it would all be somewhere else—another sun and rainbows over another flower. Of course, really, a Humming-bird would have flown from one flower to another, but what it would look like would be a gleam of light—a sunbeam—with a jewel-flash at each end of it.
TRAIN-BEARER HUMMING-BIRD
TRAIN-BEARER HUMMING-BIRD
TRAIN-BEARER HUMMING-BIRD
Another Humming-bird—the Sappho Comet—is about the same size as the last one, and he is a lovely gleaming green, too—an emerald green, I think—on his head and neck and shoulders, but his throat is light blue—the colour of a most beautiful turquoise. Butsucha turquoise! There is no other one in the world that ever gleamed and flashed and sparkled in that way, because, you know, turquoises do not sparkle at all—at least nowhere else—it is not their habit. But I think that some of the very finest of them—at least the lovely colours that were in them—must have flown into that Humming-bird's throat and begun to gleam and flashand sparkle there. Perhaps they begged to be allowed to as a very special favour. Then the tail of this Humming-bird is forked too, like the other one's, but not in quite the same way. It is more like the fork of an arrow than two little rainbows turned back to back, and instead of being violet it is all ruby and copper and topaz, with a broad band of velvet black at each tip. I cannot tell you how brilliant those colours are—the ruby and the copper and the topaz. They are so brilliant that, if you were to take them into a dark room, I really almost think they would light it up like a lamp or a candle. Oh, it is a wonderful tail. You might think and think for quite a long time and yet you would never be able to think how bright—how wonderfully bright—it is.
But listen to what the Indians say. They say that once that Humming-bird was out in a thunderstorm, and the lightning got angry with him because he flew so fast, and tried to strike him. It was jealous of him, that was the reason, for the lightning likes to think itself faster than anything else. But although the lightning chased that Humming-bird for a very long time, it could only just touch his tail, and there it has stayed—a little flash of it which was not enough to hurt—ever since. You know how bright the lightning is; that will help you to think what that Humming-bird's tail is like. And youknow, now, what his throat is like. Fancy seeing them both together, flashing, sparkling, gleaming, beaming, glancing, dancing in the glorious, glowing sunshine of South America.
But now in the Splendid-breasted Humming-bird all the glory is upon his breast, his throat. Once, I think (at least the Indians say so), he must have flown very high—yes, right up to heaven, and the door was open and he tried to fly in. But he could not, they turned him away; but the glory of heaven had just fallen upon his breast and he flew back with it there, to earth. It is green—that glory—the most marvellous, light, gleaming green, but all at once, as you look at it, it has changed to blue, an exquisite light, turquoise blue, and then, just as you are going to cry out, “Oh, but it is blue, not green,” it is green again, and then blue again before you can say that it is green, and then, all at once, it is both at the same time, for each has changed into the other.
It is the throat-gorget (you know I explained to you) on which this glorious colour falls, but this bird has such a large one that it covers the breast as well as the throat, and goes up quite high on each side, till it meets the deep, rich, velvety black of the head. Of course this deep, velvet black makes the wonderful green and blue look all the more wonderful, for it is a dark background for them to shineout against, and your mother will explain to you what a background is. Then, on the back this Humming-bird is green too—in fact you might call him the emerald Humming-bird—but it is darker than that other green (if anything so brightcanbe darker) and without the lovely turquoise-blue in it. It is a glory, but notsucha glory as the one on his breast; not the glory of heaven that fell upon him at its gates—perhaps it is his memory of it as he flew away.
But now I feel sure you will ask why the same brightness which streamed out of heaven, and spoilt the plumage of the Birds of Paradise, should have made the plumage of this Humming-bird so beautiful. Well, it is a difficult question, but perhaps it is because the Humming-bird was thinking of heaven, and wishing to get into it, whilst the Birds of Paradise had got tired of being in heaven and were only thinking of earth. That might have made a very great difference. Andperhapsyou will say, “If the Humming-birds are sunbeams that have been changed into birds, why should some of them have been made more beautiful afterwards in other ways?” Well, as to that, there are a great many different kinds of Humming-birds (more than four hundred, as I told you), so perhaps they were not quite all of them sunbeams first, and besides, even when a bird has been asunbeam first, something else might happen to it when it had become a bird. At any rate, if one explanation does not seem satisfactory, there is always the other, and one of them must be the right one—until you are a clever person, which will not be yet awhile. So now we will go on, for there are some other Humming-birds with other explanations waiting.
The Glow-glow Humming-bird (I do like that name) is smaller than any of the other three we have talked about, for it is less than half the size of a little wren. Its head and its back are shining green (you will be thinking all the Humming-birds are green, but wait a little!), its breast is white, but its throat—oh, its throat!—what is it? What can it be called? It is a rose that has burst into flame. No, it is a flame trying to look like a rose. No, it is neither of these. It is one of those stars that are of all colours, and change from one to the other as you look at them—from green to gold, from gold to topaz, from topaz to rosy red. Onlythisstar changed into every colour at once, which was wonderful, and as he did that (and this was still more wonderful) he flew all to pieces, and little bits of him were scattered through the whole air, and when the sun rose and shone upon them, they were all Humming-birds, flying about with wings and feathers, and with long Latin names, so that there should be no doubt aboutit. It was wonderful, wonderful; but yet it was not quite so wonderful as the colours upon this Humming-bird's throat.
The Little Flame-bearer (there is a name for you!) is a still smaller Humming-bird than the last one—indeed his body, without the feathers, would not beverymuch larger than averylarge humble-bee. Here, again, all the wonder is on its throat, which is topaz and green and copper, all glowing and sparkling together, as if they were all married to one another and each of them was trying to get the upper hand. Ah, was there ever such a sweet little gem-bird? He is a jewel mounted on wings and set in the air. Only sometimes, when he hovers just underneath a flower, he seems hanging from its tip like a pendant.
Costa's Coquette (that means that some one named Costa—some Portuguese gentleman—was the first to write about it) is larger than the Little Flame-bearer (though not half so big as a wren), and hetriesto be brighter. Whether heisbrighter I am sure I can't say. To tell properly, one ought to see them both hovering under the same flower, or, at least, very close together, and even then one would only feel bewildered. But this one's head and throat are all one splendour, one marvellous gleam of rosy, pinky, rosy-pink, pinky-rose magenta. Only if yousaythat that is what it is, it will changeinto violet and contradict you, and then, if you say it is violet, it will change into topaz and contradict you again. So you had better say nothing—for one does not want to be contradicted—but just hold your breath and watch it. It will change quite soon enough, even then, long before you are tired of its rosy, pinky, rosy-pink, pinky-rose magenta, which is a colour you have not seen, and which I have not told you about before. Only if youmustsay something about it whilst you are looking at it—something besides “Oh!” I mean—say it is a Humming-bird. That will be quite sufficient, and not one of its colours can be offended with you then for not mentioning them and mentioning the others. Now, I must tell you that the feathers of this little bird's throat—of that wonderful, gleaming throat-gorget—grow out on each side into two little peaks, two little pointed tongues of rose-pink magenta flame (but hush!), and he can spread them out and shoot them forward, as well as the whole of the gorget, in quite a wonderful way. When he does that, what heseemsto do is to strike a great number of matches at the same time, and from each one, as he strikes it, there bursts out hundreds and hundreds of bright, sparkling jewels of flame. Ah, you should see him strike his jewel-matches—all together, all the jewels that there are, all struck in one second, as he whizzes about inthe air. His back is all green, andsobright, if only you cover up his head and throat. If you don't cover them—or as soon as you uncover them again—you hardly seem to see it. It is no brighter then than a glow-worm is when a very bright star is shooting through the air.
Now we come to the Splendid Coquette, a little bird not half the size of a golden-crested wren, which is the smallest bird that we, in this country, know anything about, smaller, even, than the common wren.Hehas a crest, too—this little Humming-bird—a very fine one of chestnut feathers, not sticking up on the top of the head, as so many crests do, but going backwards after the head has come to an end, so that it makes a little chestnut feather-awning for the neck to be under. But just where they spring from the head each of these chestnut feathers is black, and at their tips, too, they have all a little black spot, and this makes them look still prettier than if they were all chestnut. When the little bird spreads out this fine crest of his, like a fan—for he can do that—all the feathers in it stand out separately from each other, and then he looks like a little sun in the centre of his own rays.
Yes, a sun, because he is so very bright. He has a gorget (or perhaps you would prefer to call it a lappet) of feathers on his throat and breast, of themost glorious, radiant green colour, and from it there shoot out—one on each side—a pair of the very loveliest and most delicate little fairy-wings that ever youneversaw—for I feel sure that you neverhaveseen anything at all like them. I do not mean, of course, that they are real wings, to fly with, no—it would be funny if a bird hadtwopairs ofthatkind—but ornamental ones, wings for the little hen Humming-bird, who has none, to look at and say, “How beautiful! Howextraordinarilybecoming!” Each of these dear little wings is made by a few delicate, long, slender feathers of a light chestnut colour, the same as the feathers of the crest, only, instead of being tipped with black, these ones are tipped with a spot of the same lovely green that there is on the throat and breast. The longest of them, which is in the middle, is nearly an inch long—which is very long indeed when you think how small the little birdie is—and it stands out a quarter of an inch beyond the two next longest ones on each side of it, and these are almost a quarter of an inch longer than the ones that come next. If you hold out your hand with the fingers spread out, and imagine the middle one a good deal longer and the little finger and thumb much shorter, then you will know the shape of these dear little fairy-wings; only, of course, feathers are much more elegant than fingers—eventhan pretty little fingers. Think how pretty something in muslin or puff-lace, like that, on a dress would be!—but it is ever, oh,everso much prettier on a little Humming-bird, in little chestnut feathers with little green spangles at their tips. And that is why I call them “fairy-wings,” for I think if any pair of wings that arenota fairy's could be pretty enoughfora fairy, those would be the ones.
And I think if you saw this sweet little Humming-bird hanging in the air, with his breast all flashing and sparkling, and with his chestnut crest spread out above it, and his little chestnut and star-spangled wings flying out on each side of it, you would think him almost as pretty as a fairy could be. You would think his fairy-wings the real ones that he was flying with, because you would see them, whilst the other ones would be moving so quickly that they would be only like a mist or haze—a little night that he had made for himself for the star of his beauty to shine in.
Now just try to imagine how lovely that little Humming-bird must be. Can you understand any onewantingto kill him? But now that I have told you about that wretched little demon with his charms to send people to sleep, and those two bad bottles of his, or, rather, the powders inside them—apathy and vanity—I daresay you can understand it. If I hadnot told you abouthimI don't think you would have been able to.
Princess Helen's Coquette (how proud he ought to be of a name like that!) is a little Humming-bird something like the last one. He is a little smaller, I think, but whether he is a little prettier, too, or notquiteso pretty, or onlyaspretty, all that I shall leave to you; it is you who will have to decide. His back is all of a golden green, and his head, which has a forked crest at the back of it like a swallow's tail, is a beautiful, rich, dark, velvety green, so that would make a pretty little bird—would it not?—even without anything else. But hehassomething else—two or three other things in fact—which are so—oh, soverypretty. First, on each side of the back of the head—just under each fork of the little swallow-tailed crest—there is a little delicate tuft of feathers, which rise up and spread out upon each side in such a graceful little curve. But these feathers are not like other feathers. They aresomethinglike the “funny feathers” that the Birds of Paradise have, for they are quite thin, like threads, and an inch long, which (although it is not quite so long as those) is yet a good length when you think of what a little thing this little Humming-bird is. These pretty little feathers are of a deep velvety green colour—the same colour as his swallow-tailed crest—and there are three on each side, three little velvet green feather-threads, floating out on each side behind his head. On his throat there is a gorget of gleaming, jewelly green, much lighter than the other greens—more like emerald, but with a goldeny, bronzy wash in it, as well. Just think how beautiful that must be! And then, lower down on his throat, underneath the green gorget—as if all that were not enough for him—this Humming-bird has something else—we will call it a tippet—which flies out all round his neck, and, especially, on each side of it. A tippet or a ruffle—perhaps that is rather a better word—a ruffle of velvet black feathers in front, and of light chestnut feathers with velvet black stripes—like a tiger—on each side. As for his tail, it spreads out into a dear little fan, and the fan is chestnut and black too, broad stripes of chestnut and narrow stripes of black, with a broad patch of black where it begins, which looks like the handle of the fan. What a pretty, pretty bird! Fancy a little birdie that is only about two inches long, and has a crest like a swallow-tail on his head, a gorget—or lappet—on his throat, a tippet—or ruffle—just underneath the gorget, and a little spray of feather-threads on each side of his head, just underneath the crest! Fancy killing such a little fairy-bird as that! Fancywantingto kill him! But it is all the little demon. It is hewho has blown about his nasty powders and frozen the hearts of thepoorwomen, who arereallyso kind—at any rate theywouldbe if only he would let them.
Did I say, “Such a little fairy-bird”? I think I did, and I was quite right, for it is just this very little Humming-bird that the fairies are so fond of riding on. They go two at a time, sometimes. One sits on his back, and another lies on the broad fan of his tail, and the one on the back uses the little feather-threads as reins. It is so grand! The Humming-bird dashes up at the fairy's own flower-door, and hovers there till she is ready to come out, and then dashes away with her to another flower, where another fairy lives. And that is how the fairies call upon each other in countries where there are Humming-birds. Perhaps you will think that a Humming-bird—even quite a little Humming-bird (and they are none of them big)—israthera large gee-gee for afairyto ride on. But you must remember that in tropical countries fairies grow to quite a remarkable size.
Well, that is eight Humming-birds that I have tried to describe to you (though it is very like trying to describe a sunset to some one who has never seen one), and perhaps you think I have chosen all the most beautiful ones first, and that there are no moreleft which arequiteso pretty. But I think I can find just one more that is not such averyplain bird, not a bird you would call ugly if you were to see it hovering about over a bed of geraniums or under a cluster of honeysuckle, some bright spring or summer morning when you happened to go out into your garden. So we will take that one, and, if he is not pretty enough, you must just try to put up with him.
He is called the Sun Beauty. Perhaps you would think him dark at first, for his head and back and shoulders are of such a rich, deep, velvety green that it almost goes into black velvet—all except one little spot on the forehead, just above the beak, and that never can lookquiteblack. Sometimes it doesalmost, just for one second, but the next second it flashes into green again, and oh, how it gleams and sparkles and throws out little jewels, little splashes of sun-fire all round it! What a wonderful green it is!—at first, and then—oh, what a wonderful—but really there is no proper name forthatcolour. I was going to say “blue,” and perhaps it is more like blue than anything else, but nothing else is quite like it. Then, just at the beginning of this Humming-bird's throat—just under the chin—there are a few feathers that are like a kind of dusky-smoked-magenta-bronze-jewelry, and a little farther down they gleam into ruddy bronze and coppery topaz, and then—oh, whatisthat? The very sun himself has flashed out from his throat, from his gorget—yes, a little flake of the sun, a sunflake instead of a snowflake. Oh, it issucha gorget, a gorget of golden topaz, of coppery gold, of green gold, of silver gold, of silver, of gleaming white, of all these together, and it spreads out on each side like a wonderful fan, and shoots out in front of all the other feathers. Such a gorget! The feathers in it are not feathers at all—I do not think theycanbe feathers—they are sunflakes, as I have told you.
That is what this Humming-bird is like on the throat. Underneath the throat, on the breast, he becomes green again, not the dark velvet green of the back, but a still more glorious green, gleaming and brilliant, but soft and rich at the same time. It is a green that changes, too—changes almost into blue. I will tell you how that is. Once this green—this wonderful, lovely green—did not think itself lovely enough (which was funny), so it said to the blue of the violet and the turquoise and the amethyst and the sapphire: “Come and make part of me, but I must be the greater part.” “That is not fair,” cried the blues of all those lovely things;“we will come, since you have invited us, but we intend to have the upper hand.” “Come then,” said the green, “and let us fight for the mastery. Whichever wins, the other will be improved by it. We will struggle together, and we will see which is the strongest.” So they came, those blues of wonder, from the violet, the turquoise, the sapphire, and the amethyst—yes, and from the sky, the stars, and the sea as well—and they fell in a glory on that glorious green that had been there before them, and fought with it to possess the breast of that Humming-bird. And they are fighting to possess it now. They gleam and flash and sparkle and glow, and try to out-glory each other; but I think that that wonderful green is the strongest, although he has such a lot of blues to fight against. But stronger than any and than all of them is the sun on that Humming-bird's gorget, that gorget of gold and topaz, and copper and bronze, and silver and gleaming white.
That is what that Humming-bird is like, and that is how he got some of his wonderful colours; so, at least, the Indians say, only some of them say that it was the blues who were there first, and asked the green to come. But always, in history, you will find that there are different opinions about the same thing. People are notallagreed, even about the battle of Waterloo.
So, you see, we have been able to find one otherhandsome Humming-bird, at any rate. And then there is the Hermit Humming-bird. I must just describe him. His head and neck are—brown, the whole of his back is—brown, his wings, his throat, and his breast are—brown, and all the rest of him is—brown. Why, then, he is all brown, without any colours at all, unless there are some lying asleep, and ready to wake up and dart out all of a sudden, in the way I have explained to you. No, there are no colours, either asleep or awake, or, at any rate, hardly any. Compared to the Humming-birds I have been telling you about, this one is just a plain, dull bird, as plain and as dull, almost, as his wife, for that, you know, is what the wives of Humming-birds are like. Then is he a Humming-bird at all? Surely he is not one; he must be some other bird. Oh no, he is not. He is a Humming-bird, but he is a Hermit Humming-bird. I have not told you before—but now I will tell you—that there are some Humming-birds—in fact a good many—that have no bright colours at all, andtheyare called hermits. A hermit, you know, is a person who lives in a cell or cave, and wears a long, brown gown, with a hood at one end of it for his head, and never dresses gaily or goes out to see things, but has whatweshould consider a very dull life; only ashelikes it that makes it all right—forhim. So these dull-coloured Humming-birds arecalled hermits, not because they live in cells, because, of course, they do not, but because they have no bright things to wear, but only brown gowns, like hermits. But now as Humming-birds used once to be sunbeams, and are stilllivingsunbeams that have been changed into birds, how does it happen that any of them have become hermits, with nothing showy about them? That is a thing which requires an explanation, so it is lucky that there is one all ready for it in the next chapter. Not all the things that require an explanation are so lucky as that. Some of them go on requiring one all their lives, and yet never get what they require. I have known several of that sort.