Questions of a similar nature may be asked in regard to the tiger, lion, and other large feline animals, which, fearing no enemy, and hunting their prey by scent, after dark, are yet supposed to be protected by their coloration. These things are easily settled in the study, where the habits of the species pronounced upon, not being known, are not taken into account; but I may mention that my brother, with his many years’ experience of wild beasts and their ways, and, moreover, a thorough evolutionist, is a great doubter here. How, he asks, as I do now, with him, can the lion be protected, in this way, against the antelope, and the antelope against the lion, when the one hunts, and the other is caught, by scent, after darkness has set in? Of what use, for such a purpose, can colour or colour-markings be to either of them? On the other hand, these go, in varying degrees, to make up a creature’s beauty. Take, for instance, the leopard, jaguar, ortiger.7Surely their coloration suggests adornment much more obviously than assimilation; and though they hunt mostly, as I say, by night, they are yet sufficiently diurnal to be able to admire one another in the daytime. Darwin, who is often assumed to have been favourable to the protective theory of coloration in the larger animals, in instances where he was opposed to it, says this: “Although we must admit that many quadrupeds have received their present tints, either as a protection or as an aid in procuring prey, yet, with a host of species, the colours are far too conspicuous, and too singularly arranged, to allow us to suppose that they serve for these purposes.” He then cites various antelopes, giving illustrations of two, and continues: “The same conclusion may, perhaps, be extended to the tiger, one of the most beautiful animals in the world, the sexes of which cannot be distinguished by colour, even by the dealers in wild beasts. Mr. Wallace believes that the striped coat of the tiger ‘so assimilates with the vertical stemsof the bamboo8as to assist greatly in concealing him from his approaching prey.’ But this view does not appear to me satisfactory.” (It seems opposed to the more usual habits of the creature.) “We have some slight evidence that his beauty may be due to sexual selection, for in two species offelisthe analogous marks and colours are rather brighter in the male than in the female. The zebra is conspicuously striped, and stripes cannot afford any protection on the open plains of South Africa.”9Yet, when naturalists to-day refer every colour and pattern under the sun to the principle of protection, the reviewers all agree that Darwin agrees with them. Truly, nowadays, “‘Darwin’ laudetur et alget.”
The fact is that for some reason—I believe because it lessens the supposed mental gap between man and other animals—Darwin’s theory of sexual selection was, from the beginning, looked askance at; and even those who may accept it, now, in the general, do so tentatively, and with many cautious expressions intended to guard their own reputations. This is not a frame of mind favourable to applying that theory, and, consequently, all the applications and extensions go to the credit of the more accepted, because lessbizarre, one; for even if authorities are mistaken here, they will, at least, have erred in the orthodox groove, which is something. I believe, myself, that it is sexual selection which has producedmuch of what is supposed to be due not only to the principle of protective, but to that, also, of conspicuous, or distinctive, coloration. Take, for instance, the rabbit’s tail. I have never been able to make out that the accepted theory in regard to it is borne out by the creature’s habits. Rabbits race and run not only in alarm, but as an outcome of high spirits. How can the white tail distinguish between these two causes; and if it cannot, why should it be a sign to follow? One rabbit may indeed judge as to the state of mind of another, but not by looking at the tail; and if too far off to see anything else, it can form no opinion. Again, each rabbit has its own burrow, and it does not follow that because one runs to it here, another should there. Accordingly, I have noticed that white tails in rapid motion produce no effect upon other tails, or their owners, when these are some way off, but that rabbits, alarmed, make their near companions look about them. Of course, in the case of a general stampede, in the dusk, to the warren—from which numbers of the rabbits may have strayed away—it is easy to imagine that the rearmost are following the white tails of those in front of them; or rather that these have given them the alarm, since all know the way to the warren. But how can one tell that this is really so, seeing that the alarm in such a case is generally due to a man stalking up? Would it not look exactly the same in the case of prairie marmots, whose tails are not conspicuously coloured? Young rabbits, it is true, would follow their dams when they ran, in fear, to their burrows; not, however, unless they recognisedthem, and this they could not do by the tail alone. If they were near enough to recognise them, they would be able, probably, to follow them by sight alone, tail or no tail, nor would another white powder-puff be liable to lead them astray, as otherwise it might do. With antelopes, indeed, which have to follow one another, so as not to stray from the herd, a light-coloured patch, or wash upon the hinder quarters, might be an advantage; but as some of the kinds that have10it are handsomely ornamented on the face and body, and as the wash of colour behind is often, in itself, not inelegant, why should not one and all be for the sake of adornment, or, rather, is it not more likely that they are so? No one, I suppose, who believes in sexual selection at all, will be inclined to explain the origin of the coloured posterior surface in the mandril, and some other monkeys, in any other way. To me, having regard to certain primary facts in the sexual relations of all animals, it does not appear strange that this region should, in many species, have fallen under the influence of the latter power. Can we, indeed, say, taking the Hottentots and some civilised monstrosities of feminine costume that do most sincerely flatter them into consideration, that it has not done so in the case of man?
The protective theory, as applied to animals that hunt, or are hunted, by night, seems plausible only if we suppose that the enemies against whom they are protected, are human ones. But even if man has been long enough upon the scene to produce such modification, who can imagine that he has hadanything to do with the colouring of such an animal as, say, the tiger, till recently much more the oppressor than the oppressed, and, even now, as much the one as the other—in India, for instance, or Corea, in which latter country things are certainly equal, if we go by the Chinese proverb, which says, “Half the year the Coreans hunt the tigers, and the other half the tigers hunt the Coreans.”
Tigers, indeed—especially those that are cattle-feeders—would seem, often, to kill their prey towards evening, but when it is still broad daylight. With regard, however, to the way in which they accomplish this, I read some years ago, in an Indian sporting work, a most interesting account of a tiger stalking a cow—an account full of suggestiveness, and which ought to have, at once, attracted the attention of naturalists, but which, as far as I know, has never since been referred to. The author—whose name, with that of his work, I cannot recall—says that he saw a cow staring intently at something which was approaching it, and that this something presented so odd an appearance that it was some time before he could make out what it was. At last, however, he saw it to be a tiger, or, rather, the head of one, for the creature’s whole body, being pressed to the ground, with the fur flattened down, so as to make it as small as possible, was hidden, or almost hidden, behind the head, which was raised, and projected forward very conspicuously; so that, being held at about the angle at which the human face is, it looked like a large, painted mask, advancing along the ground in a very mysterious manner. At this mask the cow gazedintently, as if spell-bound, seeming to have no idea of what it was, and it was not till the tiger had got sufficiently near to secure her with ease, that she took to her heels, only to be overtaken and pulled down. Now here we have something worth all the accounts of tiger-shootings that have ever been written, and all the tigers that have ever been shot. So far from the tiger endeavouring to conceal himselfin toto, it would appear, from this, that he makes his great brindled head, with its glaring eyes, a very conspicuous object, which, as it is the only part of him seen or remarked, looks curious merely, and excites wonder, rather than fear. I know, myself, how much nearer to birds I am able to get, by approaching on my hands and knees, in which attitude “the human form divine” is not at once recognised. Therefore I can see no reason why the same principle of altering the characteristic appearance should not be employed by some beasts of prey, and long before I read this account I had been struck with the great size of the head of some of the tigers in the Zoological Gardens.
The moral of it all, as it appears to me, is that, before coming to any settled conclusion as to the meaning of colour and colour markings in any animal, we should get accurate and minute information in regard to such animal’s habits. As this is, really, a most important matter, why should there not be scholarships and professorships in connection with it? It is absurd that the only sort of knowledge in natural history which leads to a recognised position, with letters after the name, is knowledge of bones, muscles, tissues, &c. The habits ofanimals are really as scientific as their anatomies, and professors of them, when once made, would be as good as their brothers.
Space, after this disquisition, will not permit me to say much more about the nightjars—only this, that they return each year to the same spot, and have not only their favourite tree, but even their favourite branch in it, to perch upon. I have seen one settle, after successive flights, upon a particular point of dead wood, near the top of a small and inconspicuous oak, surrounded by taller trees which had a much more inviting appearance, and on coming another night, there were just the same flights and settlings. It is not, however, my experience that the eggs are laid, each year, just where they were the year before. It may be so, as a rule, but there are certainly exceptions, and amongst them were the particular pair that I watched.
Rooks at Nest
Rooks at Nest
The hooded crow is common in this part of the country, during the winter; to the extent, indeed, of being quite a feature of it. With the country people he is the carrion crow merely, and they do not appear to make any distinction between him and the ordinary bird of that name, which is not seen nearly so often. He is the one they have grown up with, and know best, but his pied colouring does not seem to have gained him any specially distinctive title. For the most part, these crows haunt the open warren-lands, and, owing to their wariness and the absence of cover, are very difficult to get near to. Like the rooks, they spend most of the day in looking for food, and eating it when found, their habit being to beat about in the air, making wider or narrower circles, whilst examining the groundbeneath for any offal that may be lying there. This is not so much the habit of rooks, for they, being more general feeders, march over the country, eating whatever they can find. They would be neglecting too much, were they to look for any class of thing in particular, though equally appreciative of offal when it happens to come in their way. “The Lord be praised!” is then their attitude of mind.
The crows, however, feed a good deal in this latter way, too, and, as a consequence, mingle much with the rooks, from whom, perhaps, they have learnt a thing or two. Each bird, in fact, knows and practises something of the other’s business, so that, without specially seeking one another’s society, they are a good deal thrown together. Were there never any occasion for them to mingle, they would probably not feel the wish to do so, but the slightest inducement will bring crows amongst rooks, and rooks amongst crows, and then, in their actions towards each other, they seem to be but one species. They fight, of course; at least there are frequent disagreements and bickerings between them, but these have always appeared to me to be individual, merely—not to have any specific value, so to speak. Both of them fall out, amongst themselves, as do most other birds. Rooks, especially, are apt to resent one another’s success in the finding of food, but such quarrels soon settle themselves, usually by the bird in possession swallowing the morsel; they are seldom prolonged or envenomed. So it is with the rooks and hooded crows, and, on the whole, I think they meet as equals, though there may, perhaps, be a slightly more “coming-on disposition” onthe part of the latter, and a slightly more giving-way one on that of the former bird. One apparent instance of this I have certainly seen. In this case, two rooks who were enjoying a dead rat between them, walked very tamely away from it, when a crow came up; and, later, when they again had the rat, a pair of crows hopping down upon them, side by side, in a very bold and piratical manner, again made them retreat, with hardly a make-believe of resistance. But one of these two crows may have been the bird that had come up before, and the rat may have belonged to it and its mate, by right of first discovery, which, in important finds, there is, I think, a tendency to respect, even if it needs some amount of enforcing. I have observed this when rooks and hooded crows have been gathered together about some offal which they were devouring. One or, at most, two birds seemed always to be in possession, whilst the rest stood around. For any other to insinuate itself into a place at the table was an affair demanding caution, nor could he do so without making himself liable to an attack, serious in proportion to the hunger of the privileged bird. As it began to appear, however, either from the latter’s languidness, or by his moving a little away, that this was becoming appeased, another—either rook or crow—would, at first warily, and then more boldly, fall to; and thus, without, probably, any actual idea of the thing, the working out of the situation was, more or less, to take it in turns. At least it was always the few that ate, and the many that waited, and a general sense that this should and must be so seemed to obtain. Always, at suchscenes, there will be many small outbreaks, and when these have been between the two species, I have been unable to make out that one was inferior to the other. But such ebullitions have more of threatening in them than real fighting, so, taking into consideration the incident just recorded, it may be that the crow, when really in earnest, is recognised by the rook as the better bird, though, if anything, I think he is a little the smaller of the two. Jackdaws, on the other hand, seem conscious of their inferiority when with rooks, and slip about demurely amongst them, as though wishing not to be noticed.
On the part of either rook or crow, a combative inclination is indicated by the sudden bending down of the head, and raising and fanning out of the tail. The fan is then closed and lowered, as the head goes up again, and this takes place several times in succession. If a bird come within slighting distance of one that has thus expressed himself, there is, at once, anaffaire, the two jumping suddenly at one another. After the first pass or two, they pause by mutual consent—just as duellists do in a novel—and then stand front to front, the beaks—or rapiers—being advanced, and pointed a little upwards, their points almost touching. Then, instantaneously, they spring again, each bird trying to get above the other, so as to strike him down. These fireworks, indeed, belong more to the rooks than the crows, for the former, being more social birds, are also more demonstrative. Not that the crows are without the gregarious instinct. Here, at least, in East Anglia, one may see in themsomething like the rude beginnings of the state at which rooks have arrived. They do not flock in any numbers, but bands of six or seven, and upwards, will sometimes fly about together, or sit in the same tree or group of trees. On the ground, too, though they feed in a much more scattered manner than do rooks, not seeming to think of one another, they yet get drawn together by any piece of garbage or carrion that one or other of them may find. In this we, perhaps, see the origin of the gregarious instinct in most birds, if not in all. Self-interest first makes a habit, which becomes, by degrees, a want, and so a necessity; for if “custom is the king of all men,” as Pindar has pronounced it to be, so is it the king of all birds, and, equally, of all other animals.
THE RULES OF PRECEDENCEHooded Crows and Rooks Feeding
THE RULES OF PRECEDENCEHooded Crows and Rooks Feeding
I think, myself, that their association with the rooks tends to make these crows more social. They get to feed more as they do, and this brings them more together. In the evening I have, sometimes, seen a few fly down into a plantation where rooks roosted, and which they already filled, and one I once saw flying, with a small band of them, on their bedward journey. Whether this bird, or the others, actually roosted with the rooks, for the night, I cannot say, but it certainly looked like it. On the other hand, if one watches rooks, one will, sometimes, see what looks like a reversion, on the part of an individual or two, to a less advanced social state than that in which the majority now are. Whether there are solitary rooks, as there are rogue elephants, I do not know, but the gregarious instinct may certainly be for a time in abeyancewith some, if not with all of them. I have watched one feeding, sometimes, for a length of time, quite by itself. Not only, on such occasions, have there been no others with it, but often none were in sight, nor did any join it, when it flew up. Nothing, in fact, can look more solitary than these black specks upon the wide, empty warrens, or the still more desolate marshes—fens, as they are called, though, as I say, Icklingham is separated from the real fenlands by some seven miles. These fens are undrained, and unless the weather has been dry for some time, it is difficult to get about in them. At first sight, indeed, it looks as though one could do so easily enough, for the long, coarse grass grows in tufts, or cushions—one might almost call them—each one of which is raised, to some height, upon a sort of footstalk. But if one steps on these they often turn over, causing one to plunge into the water between them, which their heads make almost invisible. These curious, matted tufts were used here in old days for church hassocks—calledpesses—and several of them, veritable curiosities, are now in the old thatched church at Icklingham, which has been abandoned—why I know not—and is fast going to ruin.
Rooks sometimes visit these marshes for the sake of thistles which grow there, or just on their borders, the roots of which they eat, as do also, I believe, some of the hooded crows, since I have seen them excavating in the same places. I know of no more comfortless sight than one or two of these crows standing about on the sodden ground, whilst another sits motionless, like an overseer, in somesolitary hawthorn bush, in the grey dawn of a cold winter’s morning. In the dank dreariness they look as dank and dreary themselves, and seem to be regretting having got up. There is, indeed, something particularly shabby and dismal-looking in the aspect of the hooded crow, when seen under unfavourable circumstances. They impress one, I believe, as squalid savages would—as the Tierra del Fuegians did Darwin. The rook, at all times, looks much more civilised, even when quite alone. I am not sure whether the latter bird, to return to his occasional adoption of less social habits, ever roosts alone, but I have some reason to suspect that he does. I have seen one flying from an otherwise untenanted clump of trees, before the general flight out from the rook-roost, two or three miles distant, had begun; to judge by appearances, that is to say, for the usual stream in one direction did not begin till some little time afterwards. A populous roosting-place drains the whole rook population of the country, for a considerable distance all around it—far beyond that at which this rook was from his—and in January, which was the date of the observation, such establishments would not have begun to break up. This process, which leads to scattered parties of the birds passing the night in various new places, does not begin before March.
I had heard this particular rook cawing, for some time, before I saw it, and, on other occasions, I have been struck by hearing solitary caws, in unfrequented places, at a similarly early hour. Some rooks, therefore, may be less social in their ways than the majority, and if these could be separately studied,we might know what all rooks had once been. The present natural history book contents itself with a summary of the general habits of each species, as far as these are known or surmised, or rather as far as one compiler may learn them from anothersæcula sæculorum. It is to be hoped that, some day in the future, a work may be attempted which will record those variations from the general mode of life, which have been observed and noted down by successive generations of field-naturalists. A collection of these would help as much, perhaps, to solve some of the problems of affinity, as the dissection of the body, and there would be this advantage in the method, viz., that any species under discussion would be less likely to leave a still further gap in the various classificatory systems, by disappearing during the process of investigation.
I have said that rooks and crows meet and mingle together, as though they were of the same species, but is there, to the boot of this, some special relation—what, it would puzzle me to say—existing between them? I remember once, whilst standing under a willow tree by the little stream here, my attention being attracted by a hooded crow, which, whilst flying, kept uttering a series of very hoarse, harsh cries, “Are-rr, are-rr, are-rr” (or “crar”)—the intonation is much rougher and less pleasant than that of rooks. He did not fly right on, and so away, but kept hovering about, in approximately the same place, and still continuing his clamour. I fancied I heard an answer to it from another hooded crow in the distance, and then, all at once, up flew about a score of rooks and joined him.For some minutes they hovered about, over a space corresponding with a fair-sized meadow, the crow making one of them, and still, at intervals, continuing to cry, the rooks talking much less. Then, all at once, they dispersed again over the country. What, if anything, could have been the meaning of thisrendezvous? All I can imagine is that, when the rooks heard the repeated cries of the crow, they concluded he had found something eatable, and, therefore, flew up to share in it, but that, seeing nothing, they hovered about for a time on the look-out and then gave it up and flew off. I can form no idea, however, of what it was that had excited the crow, for excited he certainly seemed—it was a sudden burst of “are”-ing. He did not go down anywhere, so that it can have had nothing to do with a find, and I feel sure from the way he came up, and the place and distance at which he began to cry, that he had not seen me. This, then, was my theory, at the time, to account for the action of the rooks; but on the very next day something of the same sort occurred, which was yet not all the same, and which could not be explained in this way. This time, when a crow rose with his “crar, crar” and flew to some trees, a number of rooks rose also from all about, and after circling a little, each where it had gone up, flew to a plantation, where shortly the crow flew also. Here, again, there was no question of the crow having found anything, for he rose from where he had for some time been, and flew straight away. Nor could the rooks have imagined that he had, for they all rose as at a signal, and, without going to where he had been, flew to somewherenear where he had gone, and here they were shortly joined by him. Certainly the rooks were influenced by the crow—the crow afterwards by the rooks, I think—but in what way, or whether there was any definite idea on the part of either of them, I am unable to say. Birds of different species often affect one another, psychically, in some way that one cannot quite explain. I have seen some small tits flying, seemingly full of excitement, with the first band of rooks from the roosting-place in the morning, and, evening after evening, a wood-pigeon would beat about amongst the hosts of starlings, which filled the whole sky around their dark little dormitory. He would join first one band and then another, seeming to wish to make one of them, and this he continued to do almost as long as the starlings remained. Peewits, again, seem to have an attraction for starlings, and other such instances, either of mutual or one-sided interest—generally, I think, the latter—may be observed. We need not, I think, assume that every case of commensalism amongst animals has had a utilitarian origin, even when we can now see the link of mutual benefit.
Rooks, when once introduced, are not birds that can be lightly dismissed. The most interesting thing about them, in my opinion, is their habit of repairing daily to their nesting-trees during the winter. Two visits are paid—at least two clearly marked ones—one in the morning, the other in the later afternoon, taking the shortness of the days into consideration. The latter is the longer and more important one, and, to give a general idea of what happens upon it, I will describe the behaviour ofsome birds on which I got the glasses fixed, whilst watching, one Christmas, a small rookery, in some elms near the house. It is always stated that rooks visit their nests, during the winter, in order to repair them. The following slight but accurate account of what the birds really do during these visits, is to be read in connection with that statement, which, as it appears to me, is either inaccurate, or, at least, not sufficiently full. Towards 3, then, as I have it, like Mr. Justice Stareleigh, in my notes, the rooks flew in, and of these a certain number settled in the largest elm of the group. This contained, besides other nests, two, if not more, that were built close against each other, making one great mass of sticks. One rook perched upon the topmost of these nests, whilst another sat in the lower one. The standing rook kept uttering deep caws, and, at each caw, he made a sudden dip forward, with his head and whole body. At the same time he shot up and spread open the feathers of his tail, which he also arched, becoming, thus, a much finer figure of a bird. The action seemed to express sexual emotion, with concomitant bellicosity, and the latter element was soon manifested in a spirited attack upon the poor sitting rook, who was, then and there, turned out of the nest. Shortly afterwards, a pair of rooks peaceably occupied this same lower nest, and continued there for some time. One of them sat in it, and, looking long and steadily through the glasses, I could see the tail of this bird thrown, at short intervals, spasmodically upwards. Then, as the raised and spread feathers were folded and lowered, the anal portion of the body wasmoved—wriggled—in a very special and suggestive manner, about which I shall have more to say when I come to the peewit. Whilst the sitting bird was behaving in this way, the other one of the pair—which I put down as the female—stood beside him, and as she occasionally bent forward towards him, the black of her feathers becoming lost in his, I felt assured that she was cossetting and caressing him, much as the hen pigeon caresses the male, whilst he sits brooding on the place where the nest will be. There were also several other combats, and more turnings of one bird out of the nest, by another. At 3.15 four rooks sit perched on the boughs, all round the great mass of sticks, but not one upon it. One of the four bends the head, with a look and motion as though about to hop down. Instantly there is an excited cawing—half, as it seems, remonstrative, half in the tone of “Well, if you do, then I will, too,”—from the other three, which is responded to, of course, by the first, the originator of the uproar, and then all four drop on to the sticks, a pair upon each nest. By 3.20 every rook is gone, but in ten minutes they are all back, again, with much cawing. Four birds—the same four as I suppose—are instantly on the great heap, but as quickly off it, again, amongst the growing twigs, and this takes place three or four times in succession. Two others, though they never come down upon the heap, remain close beside it, and seem to feel a friendly interest in it. Sometimes they fly away for a little, but they return, again, and sit there as before, their right to do so seeming to be admitted. Thus there are six birds in all, who seem primarilyinterested in the great heap of sticks, which may, perhaps, indicate that it is composed of three rather than of two nests. Once, however, for a little while, another rook is associated with the six, making seven. At 3.45 the rooks again fly off, but return in another ten minutes, and this time the tree with the great communal nest in it is left empty. There is a great deal of cawing, mingled with a higher, sharper note, all very different to the cries made by the rooks, at this same time of the year, in their roosting-places, or when leaving or returning to them in the morning or evening. It was for this latter purpose, doubtless, that the final exodus took place at a little past 4. During the last visit no nest was entered by any bird.
Do the rooks, then, come to their nests in winter, in order to repair them? Not once, so far as I could catch their actions, did I see one of these lift a stick, and their behaviour on other occasions, when I have watched them, has been more or less the same. On the other hand we have the combats, the clamorous vociferation, the caressing of one bird by another, the raising and fanning of the tail, with the curious wriggling of it—bearing, in my mind, a peculiar significance—everything, in fact, to suggest sexual emotion. To me it appears that the nests are visited rather for the sake of sport and play, than with any set business-like idea of putting them in order. The birds come to them to be happy and excited, to have genial feelings aroused by the sight of them—
“Venus then wakes and wakens love”
“Venus then wakes and wakens love”
“Venus then wakes and wakens love”
They come, in fact, as it seems to me, in an emotional state a good deal resembling that of the bower-birds of Australia, when they play at their “runs” or “bowers”; nor do the nests now—though in the spring they were true ones—differ essentially, as far as the purpose to which they are put is concerned, from these curious structures, of which Gould says: “They are used by the birds as a playing-house, and are used by the males to attract the females.” This latter statement is certainly true, in the case, at least, of the satin bower-bird (Ptilorhynchus violaceus), which I have watched at the Zoological Gardens. That the mainspring, so to speak, of this bird’s actions is sexual, no naturalist, seeing them, could doubt. But was the “bower” originally made for the purpose which it now serves? Did the idea of putting it to such a use precede its existence in some shape or form, or did it not rather grow out of something else, because about it, as it then was, certain emotions were more and more indulged in, till at last it became the indispensable theatre for their display? Then, as the theatre grew, no doubt the play did also, andvice versâ, the two keeping pace with each other. I believe that this original something was the nest, and that when we see a bird toy, court, or pair upon the latter—thus putting it to a use totally different from that of incubation, but similar to that which is served by the bower—we get a hint as to the process by which the one structure has given rise to the other.
Wonderful as is the architecture and ornamentation of some of the bowers, as we now know them,especially the so-called garden ofamblyornis, their gradual elaboration from a much simpler structure presents no more difficulty than does that of a complicated nest from a quite ordinary one. All that we want is the initial directing impulse, and this we have when once a bird uses its nest, not only as a cradle for its young, but, also, as a nuptial bed or sporting-place. In a passage of this nature, the nest, indeed, must remain, but why should it not? Let us suppose that, like the rooks, the bower-birds—or, rather, their ancestors—used, at one time, to use their old nests of the spring, as play-houses during the winter. If, then, they had built fresh nests as spring again came round, might they not gradually have begun to build fresh play-houses too? The keeping up of the old nest—but for a secondary purpose—would naturally have passed into this, and the playing about it would, as naturally, have led to the keeping of it up. That duality of use should gradually have led to duality of structure—that from one thing used in two different ways there should have come to be two things, each used in one of these ways—does not seem to me extraordinary, but, rather, what we might have expected, in accordance with the principle of differentiation and specialisation, which has played so great a part in organic evolution. It is by virtue of this principle that limbs have been developed out of the vertebral column, and the kind of advantage which all vertebrate animals have gained by this multiplication and differentiation of parts, in their own bodily structure, is precisely that which a bird of certain habits would have gained, by a similar increase in the number andkind of the artificial structures made by it. It is, indeed, obvious that the “bower,” in many cases, could not be quite what it is, if it had also to answer the purpose of a nest, and still more so, perhaps, that the nest could never have made a good bower. The extra structure, therefore, represents a greater capacity for doing a certain thing—just as do the extra limbs—which makes it likely that it has been evolved from the earlier one, in accordance with the same general law which has produced the latter.
Thus, in our own rook we see, perhaps, a bower-birdin posse, nor is there any wide gap, but quite the contrary, between the crow family and that to which the bower-birds belong. “The bower-birds,” says Professor Newton, “are placed by most systematists among theParadiseidæ,” and Wallace, in his “Malay Archipelago,” tells us that “theParadiseidæare a group of moderate-sized birds allied, in their structure and habits, to crows, starlings, and to the Australian honey-suckers.” It is, surely, suggestive that the one British bird that uses its nest—or nests, collectively—as a sort of recreation ground, where the sexes meet and show affection, during the winter, should be allied to the one group of birds that make separate structures, which they use in this same manner. Of course there are differences, but what I suggest is that there is an essential similarity, which, alone, is important. Probably the common ancestor of the bower-birds was not social in its habits like the rook, and this difference may have checked the development of the bower in the latter bird. As far, however, as the actions of the two are concerned, they do not appearto me to differ otherwise than one might expect the final stages of any process to differ from its rough and rude beginnings. The sexual impulse is, so it seems to me, the governing factor in both, so that, in both, it may have led up to whatever else there is. In regard to the rooks, they did not, when I watched them, appear to be repairing their nests. I think it quite likely, however, that they do repair them after a fashion, though I would put another meaning upon their doing so. That, being at the nest, there should often be some toying with and throwing about of the sticks, one can understand, and also that this should have passed into some amount of regular labour: for all these things—with the emotional states from which they spring—are interconnected through association of ideas, so that one would glide easily into another, and it is in this, as I believe, that we have the rationale of that amount of repairing which the rook does do. Personally, as said before, I have seen little or nothing of it.
When we consider that many birds are in the habit of building one or more supernumerary nests—not with any definite purpose, as it seems to me, but purely in obedience to the, as yet, unsatisfied instinct which urges them to build—we can, perhaps, see a line along which the principle of divergence and specialisation, as applied to the nest structure, may, on the above hypothesis, have been led. Given two uses of a nest, and more nests made than are used, might not we even prophesy that one of the redundant ones would, in time, serve one of the uses, supposing these to be very distinct, and to have a tendency to clash with one another? Now courtingleads up to pairing, and I can say positively from my own observation that rooks often pair upon the nest. This is the regular habit with the crested grebes, and I have seen it in operation between them after some, or at least one, of the eggs had been laid—possibly they had all been. But this must surely be to the danger of the eggs, so that, as these birds build several nests, natural selection would favour such of them as used separate ones for pairing and laying. It does not, of course, follow that a tendency to make a secondary nest and use it for a secondary purpose would develop itself in any bird that was accustomed to pair or court upon the true one; but it might in some, and, whenever it did, the evolution of the “run” or “bower” would be but a matter of time, if, indeed, it should not be rather held to exist, as soon as such separation had come about. There would be but a slight line of demarcation, as it appears to me, between an extra nest, which was used for nuptial purposes only, and the so-called bowers of the bower-birds. As for the ornamentation which is such a feature of these latter structures, the degree of it differs amongst them, and we see the same thing—also in varying degrees—in the nest proper. The jackdaw, for instance—and the proclivity has been embalmed in our literature—is fond of putting a ring “midst the sticks and the straw” of his, and shags, as I have noticed, will decorate theirs with flowers, green leaves, and bleached spars or sticks. It seems natural, too, that an æsthetic bird, owning two domiciles, one for domestic duties and the other for love’s delights, should decorate the latter, more andmore to the neglect of the former. We see the same principle at work amongst ourselves, for even in the most artistic households, the nursery is usually a plain affair compared with the boudoir or drawing-room.
As bower-building prevails only amongst one group of birds—not being shared by allied groups—and as birds, universally almost, make some sort of nest, we may assume that the latter habit preceded the former. If so, the ancestral bower-bird, from which the various present species may be supposed to be descended, would have built a nest before he built a bower. Is it not more probable, therefore, that the new structure should have grown out of the old one, than that the two are not in any way connected? The orthodox view, indeed, would seem to be the reverse of this, for we read in standard works of ornithology that the bowers have nothing to do with the nests of the species making them; whilst, at the same time, complete ignorance as to their origin and meaning is confessed. But if we know nothing about a thing, how do we know that it has nothing to do with some other thing? One argument, brought forward to show that the nests of the bower-bird are not in any way connected with their bowers, is that the former present no extraordinary feature. But if the bower has grown out of the nest, in the way and by the steps which I suppose, there is no reason why the latter—and the bird’s general habits of nidification—should not have remained as they were. As long as a single structure was used for a double purpose, the paramount importance of the original one—that of incubation—would have kept it from changing in any great degree, and whenthere had come to be two structures for two purposes, that only would have been subjected to modification which stood in need of it. For the rest, as incubation and courtship are very different things, one might expect the architecture in relation to them to be of a very different kind. For these reasons, and having watched rooks at their nests in the winter, and the breeding habits of some other birds, I think it possible (1) that the bower has grown out of the nest, and (2) that the sexual activities of which it is, as it were, the focus, were once displayed about the nest itself. On the whole, however—though I suggest this as a possible explanation—it is perhaps more likely that the cleared arena where so many birds meet for the purposes of courtship—as,e.g.the blackcock, capercailzie, ruff, argus pheasant, cock-of-the-rock, &c. &c.—is the starting-point from which the bower-birds have proceeded, especially as one species of the family has not got so very much farther than this, even now.
Rooks, then, to leave speculation and return to fact, are swayed, even in winter, by love as well as by hunger—those two great forces which, as Schiller tells us, rule the world between them. They wake, presumably, hungry; yet, before they can have fed much, make shift to spend a little while on the scene of their domestic blisses. Hunger then looks after them till an hour or so before evening, when they return to their rookeries, and love takes up the ball for as long as daylight lasts. And so, with birds as men—
“Erfüllt sich der GetriebeDurch Hunger und durch Liebe.”
“Erfüllt sich der GetriebeDurch Hunger und durch Liebe.”
“Erfüllt sich der GetriebeDurch Hunger und durch Liebe.”
But there is a third great ruling power in the life of both, which Schiller seems to have forgotten—sleep—and as its reign, each day, is as long, or longer, than that of the other two conjoined, and as it long outlasts one of them, it may be called, perhaps, the greatest of the three.
Heron Fishing
Heron Fishing
There is a heronry on an estate here, into which, in the early spring, I have sometimes crept, coming before dawn, in silence and darkness, to be there when it awoke. What an awakening! A sudden scream, as though the night were stabbed, and cried out—a scream to chill one's very blood—followed by a deep “oogh,” and then a most extraordinary noise in the throat, a kind of croak sometimes, but more often a kind of pipe, like a subdued siren—a fog-signal—yet pleasing, even musical. Sometimes, again, it suggests the tones of the human voice—weirdly, eerily—vividly caught for a moment, then an Ovid’s metamorphosis. This curious sound, in the production of which the neck is as the long tube of some metal instrument, is very characteristic, and constantly heard. And now scream afterscream, each one more harsh and wild than the last, rings out from tree to tree. Other sounds—strange, wild, grotesque—cannot even suffer an attempt to describe them. All this through the darkness, the black of which is now beginning to be “dipped in grey.” There is the snapping of the bill, too—a soft click, a musical “pip, pip”—amidst all these uncouth noises. On the whole, it is the grotesque in sound—a carnival of hoarse, wild, grotesque inarticulations. Amidst them, every now and then, one hears the great sweep of pinions, and a shadowy form, just thickening on the gloom, is lost in the profounder gloom of some tree that receives it.
Most of the nests are in sad, drooping-boughed firs—spruces, a name that suits them not—trees whose very branches are a midnight, as Longfellow has called them,11in a great, though seldom-mentioned poem. Others are in grand old beeches, which, with the slender white birch and the maple, stand in open clearings amidst the shaggy firs, and make this plantation a paradise. Sometimes, as the herons fly out of one tree into another, they make a loud, sonorous beating with their great wings, whilst at others, they glide with long, silent-sounding swishes, that seem a part of the darkness. Two will, often, pursue each other, with harshest screams, and, all at once, from one of them comes a shout of wild, maniacal laughter, that sets the blood a-tingling, and makes one a better man to hear. Whilst sweeping, thus, in nuptial flight, about their nesting-trees, they stretch out their long necks in front ofthem, sometimes quite straight, more often bent near the breast like a crooked piece of copper wire. A strange appearance!—everything stiff and abrupt, odd-looking, uncouth, no graceful curves or sweeps. The long legs, carried horizontally, balance the neck behind—but grotesquely, as one gargoyle glares at another. Thus herons fly within the heronry, but as they sail out,en voyage, the head is drawn back between the shoulders, in the more familiar way. As morning dawns, the shadowy “air-drawn” forms begin to appear more substantially. Several of the birds may then be seen perched about in the trees, some gaunt and upright, others hunched up in a heap, with, perhaps, one statuesque figure placed, like a sentinel, on the top of a tall, slender larch, the thin pinnacle of the trunk of which is bent over to form a perch.
Other, and much sweeter, sounds begin now to mingle with the harsh, though not unpleasing screams, and, increasing every moment in volume, make them, at last, but part of a universal and most divine harmony. The whole plantation has become a song. Song-thrush and mistle-thrush make it up, mostly, between them, but all help, and all is a music; chatters and twitters seem glorified, nothing sounds harshly, joy makes it melody. There is a time—the daylight of dawn, but not daylight—when the birds sing everywhere, as though to salute it. As the real daylight comes, this sinks and almost ceases, and never in the whole twenty-four hours, is there such an hour again. The laugh, and answering laugh, of the green woodpecker is frequent, now, and mingles sweetly with the loud cooing of the wood-pigeons—not the characteristicnote, but another, very much like that of dovecot pigeons, when they make a few quick little turns from one side to another, moving the feet dancingly, but keeping almost in the same place: a brisk, satisfied sound, not the pompous rolling coo of a serious proposal, nor yet that more tender-meaning note, with which the male broods on the nest, caressed by the female. But the representative of this last, in the wood-pigeon—the familiar spring and summer sound—is now frequently heard, and seems getting towards perfection. So, at last, it is day, and the loud, bold clarion of the pheasant is like the rising sun.
The above is a general picture of herons in a heronry. It is almost more interesting to watch two lonely-sitting birds, upon each of whom, in turn, one can concentrate the attention. They sit so long and so silently, such hours go by, during which nothing happens, and one can only just see the yellow, spear-like beak of the sitting bird pointing upwards amidst the sticks. Only under such circumstances can one really hug oneself in that ecstacy of patience which, almost as much as what one actually sees, is the true joy of watching. But at length comes that for which one has been waiting, and may wait and wait, day after day, and yet, perhaps, not see—the change upon the nest. It comes—“Go not, happy day.” There is a loud croak or two in the air, then a welcoming scream, and in answer to it, as her mate flies in, the sitting bird raises herself on the nest, and stretching her long neck straight up—perpendicularly almost, and with the head and beak all in one line with it—pours out a wonderful jubilee of exultant sounds.Then, standing on the nest together,vis-à-vis, and with their necks raised, both the birds intone hoarsely, and seem to glare at one another with their great golden eyes. Then the male bends down his head, raises his crest, snaps his bill several times, and, sinking down, disappears into the nest; whilst the female, after giving all her feathers and every portion of her person a very violent shake, as though to scatter night and sleep to the four winds, immediately flies off. The whole magnificent scene has lasted but a few seconds. As by magic, then, it is gone, and this quickness in departing has a strange effect upon one. The thing was so real, so painted there, as it were—the two great birds, with their orange bills and pale-bright colouring, clear in the morning air. It did not seem as if they could vanish like that. They looked like permanent things, not vanishing dreams. Yet before the eye is satisfied with seeing, or the ear with hearing, the one has flown off silently like a shadow and the other sunk as silently into invisibility. Now there is a great stillness, a great void, and the contrast of it with the flashed vividness of what has just been, impresses itself strangely. It is as though one had walked to some striking canvas of Landseer or Snider, and, as one looked, found it gone. That, however, would be magic. This is not, but it seems so. One feels as though “cheated by dissembling nature.”
I have described the welcoming cry raised by the female heron on the arrival of her mate as “a jubilee of exultant sounds,” which indeed it is, or sounds like; but what these sounds are—or were—their vocalic value—it is difficult torecall, even but a few minutes after they have been uttered. Only one knows that they were harshly, screamingly musical, for surely sounds full of poetry must be musical. The actions, however—the alighting of the one bird with outstretched neck, the leaping up at him, as one may almost say, with the marvellous pose, of the other, the vigorous shake, in which inaction was done with, and active life begun, and then that searching, careful contemplation of the nest by the male, before sinking down upon it—all that is stamped upon the memory, and will pass before me, many a night, again, as I lie and look into the dark.
It is the female heron, one may, perhaps, assume, who sits all night upon the nest, being relieved by the male in the morning. The first change, in my experience, takes place between 6 and 9. The next is in the afternoon—from 4 to 5, or thereabouts—and there is no other till the following day. Well, therefore, may the mother bird shake herself before flying swiftly off, after her long silent vigil. Perhaps, however, as darkness reigns during most of this time it is the male heron who really shows most patience, since his hours of duty include the greater part of the day.
It must not be supposed that the above is a description of what uniformly takes place when a pair of sitting herons make their change upon the nest. On the contrary, the actions of both birds vary greatly, and this is my experience in regard to almost everything that birds do. Sometimes the scene is far less striking, at other times it is just as striking, but all the details are different—other cries,other posturings, all so marked and salient that one might suppose each to be as invariable as it is proper to the occasion. The same general character is, of course, impressed upon them all, but with this the similarity is exhausted. This—and it is largely the case, I think, in other matters—makes any general description of little value. My own view is that, in describing anything an animal does, it is best to pick a case, and give a verbal photograph. Two advantages belong to this process. First, it will be an actual record of fact, as far as it goes, and, in the second place, it will also be a better general description than one given on any other principle. There will be more truth in it, looked at as either the one thing or the other.
The particular pair of herons that supplied me with this particular photograph had a plantation to themselves for their nest—at least, though other herons sometimes visited it, they were the only ones that bred there. I watched them from a little wigwam of boughs that I had put against the trunk of a neighbouring tree, from which there was a good view. They had built in the summit of a tall and shapely larch, and beautiful it was to look up and see nest and bird and the high tree-top set in a ring of lovely blue, so soft and warm-looking that it made one long to be there. The air looked pure and delicate, and the sun shone warmly down upon the nest and its patient occupant. But the weather was not always like this. Once there was a hurricane. The tree, with the nest in it, swayed backwards and forwards in the violent gusts of wind, and now and again there was the crash andtearing sound of a trunk snapped, or a large branch torn off. But the heron sat firm and secure. There were several such crashes, nor was it much to be wondered at, the plantation being full of quite rotten birches that I might almost have pushed over, myself. In a famous gale here, one Sunday, the firs in many of the plantations were blown down in rows and phalanxes, falling all together as they had stood, and all one way, so that, to see them, it looked as though a herd of elephants—or rather mammoths—had rushed through the place. A tin church was carried away, too—but I was in Belgium during all this stirring time.
A close, firm sitter was this heron, yet not to be compared with White’s raven, since the entry of any one into the plantation was sufficient to make her leave the nest. Unfortunately, the nest almost hid her, as she sat, yet sometimes, as a reward for patience, she would move the head, by which I saw it—or at least the beak—a little more plainly. Sometimes, too, she would crane her neck into the air or even stand up in the nest, which was as if a saint had entered the shrine. When she did this it was always to look at the eggs, and, having done so, she would turn a little round, before sitting down on them again. Very rarely I caught a very low and very hoarse note—monosyllabic, a sort of croak—but silence almost always reigned. At first, when I came to watch the nest, I disturbed the bird each time, and again on leaving: afterwards I used to crawl up to the wigwam, and then retire from it on my hands and knees, and, in this way, did not alarm her. Oncein the wigwam, her suspicions soon ceased, and she returned to the nest, usually from sailing high over the plantation, evidently on the watch, but, sheltered as I was, I was invisible even to her keen sight. On one occasion she flew out over the marshlands, and went down upon them. I left the plantation almost at the same time as she did, and, on my way home, I saw her rise and fly towards it again. Halfway there she was joined by her mate, and the two descended upon it, together, most grandly—a really striking sight. Slowly they sailed up, on broad light wings that beat the air with regular and leisurely strokes. Mounting higher and higher, as they neared the plantation, they, at length, wheeled over it at a giddy height, from which, after a few great circling sweeps, they all at once let themselves drop, holding their wings still spread, but raised above their backs, so as not to offer so much resistance to the air. At the proper moment the wide wings drooped again, the rushing fall was checked, and with harsh, wild screams, the two great birds came wheeling down, in narrower and narrower circles, upon the chosen spot. Perhaps the swoop of an eagle may be grander than this, but I doubt it. The drop, especially, gives one, in imagination, the same sort of half-painful sensation that the descent part of a switchback railway does, when one is in it—for one substitutes oneself for the bird, but retains one’s own constitution.