Insects and birds, on account of the vast number of species they present, furnish the best available material for the study of evolution. It is owing to the fact that most Professors of Zoology are neither entomologists nor ornithologists that biological science is in its present deplorably backward condition. There exists scarcely a zoological theory, be it neo-Lamarckian or neo-Darwinian, that the competent ornithologist is not able to refute. For example, writing of sexual dimorphism in animals, Cunningham states that in the case of birds which exhibit such dimorphism the cocks differ essentially in habits from the hens, and in this way he, as a Lamarckian, would account for their external differences. “The cocks of common fowls and of thePhasianidægenerally,” he writes, “are polygamous, fight with each other for the possession of females, and take no part in incubation or care of the young, and they differ from the hens in their enlarged brilliant plumage, spurs on the legs, and combs, wattles, or other excrescences on the head. In theColumbidæ,per contra, the males are not polygamous,but pair for life, the males do not fight, and share equally with the females in parental duties. Corresponding with the contrast of sexual habits is the contrast of sexual dimorphism, which is virtually absent in theColumbidæ.”
Mr. Cunningham evidently is not acquainted with the red turtle dove (Œnopopelia tranqebarica) so common in India, or he would not have asserted that sexual dimorphism is virtually absent in theColumbidæ. The sexes in this species are very different in appearance, and I know of nothing peculiar in its habits to explain this dissimilarity. The sexual dimorphism displayed by the red turtle dove is a fact equally awkward for the Wallaceians, because the habits of this species appear to be in no way different from those of the other doves. I have seen red turtle doves feeding in company with the three other common species of Indian dove; they eat the same kind of food, build the same ramshackle nests, and lay the usual white eggs. But I will not spend time in whipping a dying horse. The poor overburdened beast which we call Natural Selection has done yeoman service; for years he has pulled the great car of Zoology along the rugged road of knowledge, and now that he is past work, now that he stands tugging impotently at the traces, it is time to pension him and replace him by a new steed. Unfortunately, the drivers of the coach happen to be old gentlemen, so old that they fail to perceive that the coach is at a standstill. They believe that they are still travelling along as merrily as they were in Darwin’s time. Ere long theirseats will be occupied by new drivers, who will give the good steed Natural Selection a well-earned rest, and replace him by a fresh animal called Mutation. Then once again the coach will resume its journey.
The red turtle dove is a little bird, and the hen looks like an exceptionally small specimen of the ring dove. So great is the resemblance that a hen red turtle dove was shown at the United Provinces Exhibition at Allahabad as a ring dove. The cock red turtle dove has a pretty grey head, a black half-collar running round the back of his neck, which, as Jerdon remarks, is “well set off by whitish above,” while the remainder of his upper plumage is dull brick red. The hen is clothed in greyish brown, in the hue known as dove colour, and her one ornament is a black half-collar similar to that of the cock.
The best friends of turtle doves can scarcely maintain that they have melodious voices. Phil Robinson, writing of the species which visits England, contrasts its note with the “mellow voluptuous cooing of the ring-dove.” “The call of the turtle dove,” he says, “is unamiable, usually grumbling, and often absolutely disagreeable. To the imagination it is a sulky and discontented bird, perpetually finding fault with its English surroundings of foliage, weather, and food. ‘Do, for goodness’ sake get those eggs hatched, my dear, and let us get back to Italy.’ That is the burden of his grumble, morning, noon, and night.”
Phil Robinson’s opinion of the call of the red turtle dove is not on record; this is unfortunate, for, assuredly,it would be a document worthy to be placed side by side with Mr. Lloyd George’s invective against the House of Lords!
To describe the note of the turtle dove as a coo would be to violate the truth. It is a sepulchral grunt, the kind of sound one might expect of a ring dove suffering from an acute sore throat. The only other bird which makes a noise in any way resembling the call of the turtle dove is an owl that makes itself heard in India shortly after the shades of night have fallen. To what species this owl belongs I know not, for it is no easy matter to fix on the owner of a voice heard only after dark, and the descriptions of the cries of the various owls given in ornithological works are anything but illuminating. The owl in question is, I think, the brown fish owl (Ketupa ceylonsis), but of this I am not certain.
The red turtle dove occurs throughout India, but, as in the case of the other species of dove, its distribution appears to be capricious. It is a permanent resident in the United Provinces, and, possibly, in South India, although I am inclined to think that it goes north to breed. Of this I am not sure. It never does to be sure of anything connected with doves; they are most unreliable birds. To give a concrete instance. Having lived for two years at Lahore, and having seen any number of red turtle doves there during the hot weather, but not even the shadow of one in the cold season, I was rash enough to assert in a scientific journal: “There is no doubt that this species is merely a summer visitor to Lahore.” Asif to stultify me, some red turtle doves took into their heads to remain on in Lahore during the following winter, and at the end of September, when they ought to have been far away, a pair of them were hatching out eggs. On the 27th of that month Mr. Currie found a nest containing three fresh eggs. The laying of three eggs was an additional piece of effrontery on the part of the lady turtle dove, and she was rewarded by having them captured by Mr. Currie. As every one knows, two is the correct number of eggs for a respectable pair of doves. I have found dozens of doves’ nests, but have never seen more than two eggs in any of them. Two is the normal number for the red turtle dove, but this species has a trick of occasionally laying three, and so would seem to be departing from the traditions of the family in the matter of egg-laying.
As regards architecture, it has not made any advances on the vulgar herd of doves. Its nursery is the typical slight structure over which so many ornithologists have waxed sarcastic—a few slender sticks, or pieces of grass, or both, so loosely and sparsely put together that the eggs can generally be spied from below through the bottom of the nest. Hume states that he has always found the nest at or near the extremities of the lower branches of very large trees, at heights of from eight to fifteen feet from the ground. My experience agrees with Hume’s in that the nests are placed in tall trees, but all those that I have observed have been situated high up in the treeat a level not less than twenty feet above the ground. Mr. Currie states that the nests he found at Lahore in May and June were also in high trees, forty or fifty feet from the ground, but that the nests which he found in August and September of the individuals who elected to winter at Lahore were placed in bushes or low trees, and were not more than twelve feet above the earth, one of them being at an elevation of but four feet.
The fields ofbajra, or giant millet, which in late autumn or early winter form so conspicuous a feature of the landscape of Northern India, are a never-failing source of amusement to the naturalist, because they are so attractive to the feathered folk. Were the bird visitors asked why they came to thebajra, they would doubtless reply, if they could speak, that the attraction was the insects harboured by the crops. And the majority would be telling the truth. But there are, alas, some who come for a less useful purpose, that of abstracting the grain. Let us deal first with the avian black sheep. Of these, the buntings are the most numerous, unless the particular field happens to be within a mile of a village; in that case, of course, the sparrows outnumber them. OnPasser domesticusI have not leisure to dwell. It must suffice that he eats and twitters and squabbles to his heart’s content all day long, and generally enjoys himself at the expense of the cultivator.
The buntings merit more attention. They are aristocratic connections of the sparrow. They needno introduction to the Englishman, for of their clan is the yellow-hammer, the little bird that sits on a fence and calls cheerily “A little bit of bread and no che-e-e-se.” Like other grain-eating birds, buntings possess a stout bill—not a coarse beak like that of the bullfinch or even of the sparrow, but a powerful, conical, sharply pointed instrument with which they are able to extract grain from the ear and then husk it preparatory to swallowing it. A peculiarity of the bill of the bunting is that the upper and lower mandibles do not come into contact along their whole length, but are separated in the middle by a gap which gives the beak the appearance of having been used to crack grain too hard for it.
Fifteen species of bunting visit India. I am not going to attempt to describe all these, for two excellent reasons. The first is that no one would read my descriptions, and the second is that I have never set eyes upon several of the Indian buntings. Three species, however, are very abundant, and one fairly so, in Northern India, during the cold weather. Buntings are not often seen south of Bombay. As they find plenty of grain in northern latitudes, there is no necessity for them to penetrate into the tropics. The grey-necked, the red-headed and the black-headed are the three commonest species. The grey-necked bunting (Emberiza buchanani) is an ashy-brown bird with a reddish tinge in its lower plumage, and a whitish ring round the eye. It is a bird that is apt to pass unnoticed unless looked for. This perhaps explains why Oates wrongly states that the speciesis not found east of Etawah. The cock red-headed bunting (E. luteola) is a handsome bird, nor has the hen any reason to be ashamed of her appearance, whatever the ladies of the other species may say. The wings and tail of the cock are greenish brown. His head is a beautiful old-gold colour, while his rump and lower parts are bright yellow. In the hen the colouring is everywhere more subdued. In the cock black-headed bunting (E. melanocephala) the feathers that adorn the head are black with a grey border, so that the head looks grey when the bird first reaches India in the autumn, but grows blacker as the grey edges of the feathers become worn away. The back and shoulders are rich chestnut, the wings and tail are brown, the cheeks and lower plumage rich yellow. The hen is brownish with dull yellow under parts, and a bright yellow patch under the tail. This species, which might at a casual glance be mistaken for a weaver bird (Ploceus baya), is very abundant on the Bombay side, where, to quote “Eha,” it “about takes the place of the yellow-hammer at home, swarming about fields and hedges, and singing with more cheer than music.”
The fourth species of bunting has been promoted to a different genus because it boasts of a conspicuous crest, not unlike that of the crested lark (Galerita cristata). Its scientific name isMelophus melanicterus, and its non-scientific, or popular, or vulgar name is the crested bunting. The cock is a greyish black bird with russet-brown wings. The hen is a dark brown bird. This is said to be a resident species inthe plains, whereas the other three are migratory. Otherwise its habits are very like those of the ordinary buntings. These birds spend the day in the fields. As they live in the midst of plenty they enjoy much leisure. This they employ perched on a head of millet making a joyful noise. Sometimes one will be sitting thus on a particular stalk when a friend will fly up, drive him from his position, and in turn hold forth, only to be playfully ousted by another of his comrades. Verily the life of a bunting is a jolly one.
Like rosy starlings, the buntings are not very much in evidence until they begin to collect in huge flocks preparatory to leaving India for the hot weather. Then it is impossible to miss seeing them. At that season golden corn takes the place of millet in the fields. Heavy is the toll which the buntings levy on the ripening grain. When disturbed, they take refuge in the nearest tree, and the moment the fear of danger is past they are back again in the field. Hence Jerdon calls them corn buntings.
The other black sheep of thebajrafield are the rosy starlings (Pastor roseus) and the green parrots (Palæornis torquatus). For noisiness and destructiveness these are a pair of species hard to beat.
Having considered the sinners, it now behoves us to turn to the saints. Fortunately for the long-suffering ryot, the latter outnumber the former; the majority of the avianhabituésof the millet field come for the sake of the insects which are so abundant in this particular crop. The most conspicuous ofthese is the Indian roller (Coracias indica), who uses the heads of the millet as convenient perches whence he can descend upon his quarry. It is not by any means every millet stalk that is sufficiently stout to support so weighty a bird, and it is amusing to watch a “blue jay” try in vain to find a perch on several successive heads, on each occasion almost losing his balance. For this reason the roller always selects for his watch-tower a castor-oil plant, when any of these are interspersed among the millet.
King-crows are always in force on the millet field, but is there any spot in India where they are not in force? They, like the roller, use the heads as resting places whence to secure their quarry, but they take it in the air in preference to picking it from off the ground.
On the highest stalk of the field sits a butcher bird, still and grim, waiting for a victim. Though he is small, you cannot fail to notice him on account of his conspicuous white shirt front. As a rule, there are no thorny bushes in the vicinity of the millet field, so that here he must devour his food without spitting it on a thorn.
Every millet field is visited by flocks of mynas—bank, pied, and common mynas—with now and then a starling. These, I believe, visit the field mainly for insects; but I would not like to assert that they do not sometimes pilfer the grain. In any case, they are a cheery crowd, and without them thebajrafields would not be the lively spots they are. Mention must also be made of the Indian bush chat (Pratincola maura)—mostunobtrusive of little birds. The hen is dressed in reddish brown, and, when apart from her lord and master, it is scarcely possible to distinguish her from several other lady chats, unless, of course, the observer be so ungallant as to shoot her. The upper parts of the cock are reddish brown in winter, black in summer. There is a large patch of white on each side of the neck. The breast is orange red, the lower parts russet brown. But what with the young cocks assuming gradually the full adult plumage, and the adults changing from the plumage of one season to that of the next, no two of these birds seem to be exactly alike. The bush chats feed upon the small insects that live on the millet plants.
Lastly, mention must be made of various species of pipits and warblers, who feed on insects down in the depths of the millet field.
Such, then, are the principal of thedramatis personæof the gay little scene that is enacted daily in the millet field. But, stay—I have forgotten a very important class of personages—the birds of prey. In India these are, of course, very numerous, and many of them, more especially the harriers, habitually hunt over open fields, gliding on outstretched wings a few yards above the crops, ready to swoop down upon any creature that has failed to mark their approach. Great is the commotion among the birds in the millet when a harrier appears on the scene. The voices of the smaller birds are suddenly hushed, and their owners drop on to the ground, where they are hidden from view by the crop. The mynas,uttering harsh cries of anger, take to their wings and fly off to right and to left of the path of the harrier, as though they were soldiers performing a manœuvre. Thus the bird of prey flies over a field which is apparently devoid of living creatures. But long before he is out of sight the little birds have again come to the surface, the mynas have returned, and all are feeding as merrily as before. So cautious are the smaller birds that even a dove flying overhead causes them to drop into the depths of the crop. They do not wait to see the nature of the living object—to do so might mean death.
It may perhaps be thought that, if birds are thus in constant fear of being devoured, their life must be fraught with anxiety. Far from it. Birds know not what death is. Instinct teaches them to avoid birds of prey, but they probably enjoy the sudden dash for cover. The smaller fry appear to look upon the raptorial bird in much the same light as children regard the “bogey man.” For some unknown reason, they are afraid of him, but at the same time he affords them a certain amount of amusement.
Uk-uk-uk—soft and clear;uk-uk-uk—gentle and monotonous pipes the nodding hoopoe with splendid pertinacity throughout the month of February. This is the prelude to nesting operations. From mid-February till mid-March hoopoes’ eggs to the number of several millions are laid annually in India. During the months of March and April considerably over a million hoopoes emerge from the egg. In Northern India during the month of April it is scarcely possible to find an adult hoopoe who is not employed from sunrise to sunset in digging insects out of the ground with feverish haste and flying with them to the holes in which the youngsters are calling lustily.
But let me begin at the beginning. Ordinarily the Indian hoopoe (Upupa indica) is as sedate and prim as a maiden lady of five-and-fifty summers. At the season of courtship the hoopoes cast aside their primness to some extent. But even at that festive time the cock does not, like the king-crow and the roller, disturb the whole neighbourhood by his noisy love songs. In his wildest moments his voice is never loud.
Sometimes he chases his mate on the wing, and then the pair of lovers perform the most wonderful gyrations, twisting, turning, and doubling with greater rapidity and ease than the most mobile butterfly. The chase over, the birds descend to the ground and remain motionless for a little. Then the cock—it is impossible to distinguish the sexes by outward appearance, but it is the custom to attribute all matrimonial advances to the cock, hence I say the cock—opens out his beautiful cinnamon-and-black corona and runs rapidly along the ground. The lady of his choice pays no attention whatever to his display.
Mark this statement, gentle and ungentle readers! Mark it with a black mark, because it is an example of that horrid heterodoxy of mine which causes the worthy reviewers of a number of influential and highly respectable newspapers to indulge at intervals in much gnashing of teeth and to roar with impotent rage. The orthodox view is, of course, that the lady only pretends that she does not see the display of the cock; in reality she is watching it carefully out of the corner of her eye, and is thoroughly appreciating it. Says she to herself (according to the orthodox view), “My eye! Hasn’t John James got a magnificent crest! But I must not let him know that I think it, otherwise he will suffer from swelled head and be positively unbearable to live with!”
The orthodox would have us believe that the lady hoopoe is a consummate actress. She may be. But, I submit that the burden of proof is on those who make such assertions. If the hen looks as though she istaking no notice, it is proper to assume that she is taking no notice until we can prove that this assumption is incorrect. Now, I submit that it is not possible to adduce one jot or tittle of proof of the hen’s alleged pretence. All the evidence goes to show that the hen bird really does not notice the display of the cock. I ask, why should the hen dissimulate? Why should she show without hesitation her feelings on all occasions that call for a display of feeling except this one?
I ask again, even if the hen does notice the display of the cock, has she any sense of beauty? Is it likely that a bird, which lays its eggs in a dirty dark hole and squats in that hole for a fortnight until it stinketh in such a manner as to be perceptible to the Indian coolie, appreciates the beauty of the corona of the cock or of the bold black-and-white markings on his wings? I decline to attribute to the hen hoopoe all the wiles of a human coquette. But, grant that she does possess them. What of the cock? Is he supposed to see through them? If not, why does he display his beauties to a lady who appears persistently to refuse to notice them? I submit that the orthodox view of the nuptial display is totally wrong. The cock does not try to show off, nor does his display win him a mate. At the breeding season the sight of the hen excites him, and his excitement shows itself in the form of dance, of the erection of certain feathers, or of song. Even as a man’s joy often finds expression in song or dance, so does the pleasure of a bird. A fighting dove often goes through the antics we associate with courtship. These antics are merely theexpression of excitement, and not made deliberately to attract a hen or alarm an enemy.
So much for conjecture. Let us now turn to facts. The hoopoe usually lays its eggs in a hole in a tree or a building; on rare occasions only, in a crevice of a rock or under a large stone. The most approved nesting site is a roomy cavity, as dark and dirty as possible, with a very small opening leading to the world without.
I have no wish to exaggerate, and I believe that I am understating facts when I say that I have seen more than fifty hoopoes’ nests.
These have all been in cavities in trees or buildings opening to the exterior by a very small aperture. I think I may safely assert that forty-nine out of every fifty hoopoes’ nests are in such situations. I emphasise this point in order to demonstrate the kind of nonsense that finds its way into English periodicals.
In the issue of theFortnightly Reviewfor February, 1912, an article by Mr. Philip Oyler appeared entitled “Colour Meanings of some British Birds and Quadrupeds.”
Mr. Oyler is a disciple of that eccentric artist, Mr. Abbot Thayer, who imagines that all birds and beasts are invisible in their natural surroundings.
Mr. Oyler’s article in theFortnightly Reviewis composed chiefly of erroneous statements, wild guesses, and absurd interpretations of facts. The climax of nonsense is reached by Mr. Oyler when he writes about the hoopoe:—
“As it nests in hollow stems, and hollow stemsmean decay, there is invariably fungus on those stems. And how wonderfully the hoopoe’s white copies them, and how wonderfully the black represents shadows; and then again, in addition to colouration, is a crest to help break the outline.”
For the benefit of those who have not visited India I may state that in the greater part of the plains the trunks of old trees are not covered with fungus. Practically every hoopoe nests in a place completely hidden from the outer world. If the hen hoopoe were coloured with all the colours of the spectrum she would while sitting on her eggs be invisible from the outer world. It is sad to think that people exist who can bring themselves to write such nonsense as Mr. Oyler has inflicted on the readers of theFortnightly Review.
It is said that a pair of hoopoes uses the same nest year after year. I have not been able to verify this statement owing to the demands on my peripatetic capacity made by the exigencies of the public service.
The eggs of the hoopoe are elongated ovals of a dirty white colour; euphemists describe them as dingy olive-brown or green, while euphuists portray them as having a delicate greyish blue tint. They are devoid of markings.
The clutch is said to contain from four to seven eggs. This is another assertion which I have never attempted to verify, because in order to reach the eggs of the hoopoe one has usually to pull down part of a wall or other edifice and at the same time wreck the nest. However, I can say that I have neverobserved more than two young hoopoes emerge from a nest, and on several occasions I have noticed that only one issued forth.
As concrete instances are more interesting than generalities I propose in what follows to give an account of the nesting operations of a pair of hoopoes that recently reared up a youngster in a chink in the wall of my verandah at Fyzabad between a wooden rafter and the brickwork. The cavity in question was so situated that I could see its orifice as I sat at my dressing table. I noticed for the first time a hoopoe bringing food to the nest on the 17th March. The food brought appeared to consist chiefly of caterpillars. Whenever the bird arrived at the nest it uttered a soft, pretty, tremulouscoo-coo-coo. This was to inform its mate that it had come.
The hen hoopoe is said not to leave the nest from the time she begins to incubate until the young emerge from the eggs. This statement is, I believe, correct. It is not one that can be very easily verified because the sexes are alike in outward appearance. Certain it is that the hen sits very closely and the cock continually brings food to her.
As soon as the young are hatched out the hen leaves the nest and assists the cock in finding food for the baby hoopoes. I cannot say on what day the particular hen whose doings are here recorded left the nest. April 9th was the first date on which I noticed both birds feeding the young. At that period the parents were bringing food faster than the occupant of the nest could dispose of it, and one or other of them had oftento wait outside with something in the beak until the nestling was ready to receive it. At that time I had no idea how many young birds were inside the nest. The chink that led to it was too narrow to admit of the insertion of one’s hand. It was not until the young bird emerged that I discovered that only one nestling had been reared.
While the parent was thus waiting outside with a succulent caterpillar hanging from its bill, it used to utter its calluk-uk-uk. Sometimes while one bird was thus waiting the other would appear. Then the first bird would transfer the quarry to its mate, and the latter would either devour it or wait outside the nest with the morsel.
Most birds when they feed their young collect several organisms in the beak between the visits to the nest. Not so the hoopoe; it brings but one thing at a time, which it carries at the extreme tip of the bill. The reasons for this departure from the usual practice are obvious. The long bill of the hoopoe, like that of the snipe, is a probe to penetrate the earth. During this operation any food already in the bill would be torn and damaged. Moreover, if the hoopoe were to carry the food to the nest in the angle of the beak as most birds do, it would be difficult to transfer this to the long bill of the young bird. Hence it comes to pass that hoopoes visit their nestlings a very great number of times in the course of the day.
When young hoopoes emerge from the egg they are silent creatures, but before they are many days old they begin to welcome with squeaks the arrival of theparents with food. The older the young birds grow the more vociferous they become.
Like the majority of birds that nestle in holes, hoopoes with young display but little fear of man. The nest of which I write was situated over the door of the pantry, where servants work during the greater part of the day. The hoopoes did not seem to object at all to the presence of the servants, but they took great exception to my arrival. Whenever I came upon the scene the parent hoopoes used to greet me with a harshchuruttered with crest folded back and tail expanded.
One day a corby (Corvus macrorhynchus), who doubtless had done to death many a promising nestling, alighted on a table placed in the verandah outside the pantry. The hoopoes were furious at the intrusion. They took up positions, to right and to left of the crow, at a safe distance, and scolded it with great vehemence. The crow took no notice whatever of this hostile demonstration. After a little one of the hoopoes flew to the ground, and from there continued its abuse of the crow. Then, while waiting to regain its breath, it expanded its crest and repeatedly bobbed its head so that the tip of the bill almost touched the ground. This bowing performance is evidently an expression of great excitement. I have seen doves behaving in a similar manner in the midst of a fight, and also when courting. Here, then, we have a case of what is usually considered to be showing off or display to the female, taking place at a time when a bird is very angry. The hoopoe in question was not showing offeither to the crow or to its mate; it was assuredly no time, “no matter for his swellings nor his turkey cocks.”
On the 25th April the young hoopoe began to call even when its parents were not at the nest. Each time they brought food it uttered a series of squeaks much like those that emanate from a cycle pump when air is being pumped through it into a nearly fully inflated tyre. By this time the young bird had developed to such an extent that when a parent arrived it would push its head through the aperture of the nest hole.
On the 26th April the young bird left the nest. Assuming that the 17th March was the day when the hen began to sit, we find the young bird emerging from the nest forty days later. It is, however, improbable that I noticed the cock feeding the hen on the very first day of incubation. It is my belief that young hoopoes do not leave the nest for fully a month after they are hatched. When they do leave the nest they differ very little in appearance from the adult. They have the crest and the colouring fully developed. The only difference is that the bill is not quite so long or so curved.
From the time the bird emerges from the nest until the moment when it is gathered unto its fathers, the hoopoe’s plumage does not undergo any change in appearance. This being so I am puzzled to know what a correspondent meant when he recently wrote to theFieldabout a hoopoe in full breeding plumage that appeared in Yorkshire.
But let us return to the young hoopoe that emerged from the nest in my verandah at Fyzabad on the 26th April, 1912. Not content with thrusting its head and shoulders through the aperture at the visit of its father or mother as it had been doing for some time, it suddenly came right out on to the beam to meet its food-laden parent. After it had eaten the proffered caterpillar and the parent had left, the young bird caught sight of me. Immediately it opened out its crest and began bowing in the manner described above as betokening excitement. Then it fluttered on to a ledge at the distance of six feet. A minute later it flew out of the verandah and alighted on a creeper growing on a wall fifteen yards away. Its flight was wonderfully strong, but I noticed that it was breathing heavily after it had alighted, showing that the short flight entailed considerable exertion. It appeared to dislike the interest I was taking in it, and so flew on to the roof of the bungalow, where I lost sight of it.
These little incidents are, I submit, utterly subversive of the anthropomorphic theory, so much in favour nowadays and expounded by Mr. Walter Long in that much-read bookThe School of the Woods, that birds and beasts are born with their minds a blank, and that they have to be taught how to walk and how to fly just as human babies are taught how to talk and walk. As a matter of fact, young birds require and receive very little education from their parents. A young bird flies as instinctively as a baby cries.
I saw nothing more of the young hoopoe until themorning of the 28th April, when I noticed a hoopoe on the roof of my bungalow callinguk-uk-ukrepeatedly, notwithstanding the fact that it had a caterpillar in its beak. Birds can sing with the mouth full! Presently a young hoopoe appeared on the roof. The adult bird ran to the latter and thrust the caterpillar into its mouth. This was acknowledged by a little squeak of thankfulness.
Most young birds flap their wings and make a great commotion when they think it is time they received a beakful of food. Baby hoopoes, however, do not behave in this way at all. They toddle sedately in the wake of the mother or father, but make no clamour for food. They receive this in a most dignified manner, merely uttering a little squeak of thanks.
To return to the young hoopoe of whose exploits I have been writing. I saw a parent come repeatedly and feed him on the roof of the bungalow on that day and on the 29th and the 30th. This, of course, I was prepared for. But I was not prepared for the next event, which was the revisitation of the nest in the verandah by the two parent birds on the 1st May. On the following days they continued to visit the nest hole, but I had no leisure for watching them. On the 5th May I saw one hoopoe, presumably the cock, literally drive the other into the nest hole. They both flew into the verandah and alighted on a ledge that runs round it a little way below the roof. There the cock emitted some harsh cries, expanded his crest and bowed as described above. Then he advanced towards her. She disappeared into the nest hole. Heflew up to the aperture and remained outside on guard for some time. After a little he put his head into the aperture and gave vent to his gentleuk-uk-uk. Then he withdrew his head, remained standing outside the nest aperture for a few minutes and flew off. The hen emerged from the hole a couple of minutes later.
The next day the cock was bringing food to the nest, and the hen was apparently incubating. On the 7th, 8th, 9th, 10th, and 11th I saw the cock still at work feeding the hen, uttering at each visit to the nest a softcoo-coo-coo. From this date I did not see the cock visit the nest again until the 24th, when I saw him fly to the verandah with some food in his mouth, but he emerged from the nest hole without having disposed of the food he was carrying. He then dropped down on to the lawn and gave this to another hoopoe feeding on the grass. From that day onwards I have not seen a hoopoe visit the nest hole in the verandah. It would seem that after sitting on the second batch of eggs a few days the hen hoopoe went on strike! Or, to speak more correctly, the fury of incubation left her, and she regained her normal taste for a life in the open.
It has always been a cause of wonder and sorrow to me that the sarus crane (Grus antigone) does not occur in the neighbourhood of Madras, or indeed in South India at all. The tropical portion of the Indian peninsula, with its millions of acres of green paddy, should be a paradise for cranes; yet not one of these fine birds is likely to be found south of the Godavery, or, at any rate, of the Kistna. There is presumably some good reason for this, but that reason has yet to be discovered.
The sarus might well be called the Indian crane, for it is one of the most characteristic and beautiful birds of Northern India; moreover, it appears to be found nowhere outside India. Saruses occur in Burma, but the Burmese birds have fallen into the hands of the ornithological systematist, and he has, of course, made a separate species of them. The sarus from Burma is now known in the scientific world asGrus sharpii—not because very sharp eyes are necessary in order to distinguish him from the Indian form!
The plumage of the sarus is a beautiful shade ofgrey. The tail feathers are paler than the rest of the plumage, being almost white in some individuals. There is a broad red band round the neck and the lower part of the head. This at the breeding season becomes very brilliant, and then looks like a broad collar of crimson velvet. The legs of the sarus are also bright red and are nearly a yard long. So that the sarus can, when he wishes to assert himself, look over the head of the average human being without unduly stretching his neck.
The sarus is the only crane that stays in India throughout the year. As has already been said, the species is very common in Northern India; indeed, a broad stretch of landscape in that part of the world would not seem true to life did it not contain a pair of saruses standing near together. Every pair of these birds is a regular Darby and Joan. There are instances on record of a sarus having pined away and died because it had lost its mate. This affection of the male and female who pair for life is so notorious that the Indians who eat the flesh of these birds make a point, after they have bagged one of a pair, of killing the mate.
The food of saruses is, as Hume remarks, very varied. No small reptile or amphibian comes amiss to them. They also eat insects and snails, and seeds and green vegetable matter. They are often to be observed feeding at some distance from water. Indeed, my experience is that they are seen more often on dry land than in water. Their long legs appear to be of little use to them except at the nesting season,when they are necessary in order to enable the birds to wade to the nest. Cranes, unlike storks and herons, cannot grip with the foot, so that they never perch in trees. The nest is built on the ground and, presumably for the sake of protection against jackals, wolves, and such-like creatures, is usually surrounded by water. As a rule, it is not constructed on an island, but is itself an islet rising from the bottom of thejhilor tank in which it is situated.
I have not had the good fortune to witness a nest of the sarus in course of construction, but from the behaviour of the owners when heavy rain falls after the nest is completed, I believe that both sexes take part in construction. As the nesting season is in June, July, August, and September, a good deal of rain usually falls while nesting operations are going on. The nest is a mound or cone, composed of rushes and reeds, of which the diameter is two feet at least. The top of this cone, on which the eggs are placed, is usually about a foot above the surface of the water. Thus the eggs lie only a little above the water level; nevertheless, they always feel quite dry, as does the layer of rushes on which they are placed. This is rather surprising—one would expect the water to get soaked up into the parts of the nest above the surface; but this does not happen. It is needless to say that if the top of the nest became submerged it would be impossible to keep the eggs dry; hence, when very heavy rain causes the water level round the nest to rise, the parent saruses raise the top of the nest by adding more material to it.
Two eggs are usually laid. These, as befits the size of the owners, are very large. It is as much as one can do to make both ends meet of a tape eleven inches long, passed round the long axis of the egg. The eggs vary considerably in size, but are usually of a creamy hue, They may be with or without markings. The shell is very thick and hard, so that if sarus’s eggs were used for electioneering purposes, fatalities would often occur.
Various observers give very different accounts of the behaviour of the parent saruses when their nest is attacked. The general experience is that they show no fight, but that they retire gracefully as soon as the human being gets within twenty yards of the nest. Hume, however, records one case of a sitting sarus making such vigorous pokes and drives at the man who approached her when sitting on the nest that he was forced to flap her in the face vigorously with his waist cloth before she left her eggs. That, says Hume, is the nearest approach to a fight for itspenateshe has ever seen a sarus make. Recently I visited a nest of these birds, which was situated in a small patch of water, perhaps forty feet square, with a millet field on one side and paddy on the other three. I was on horseback, not wishing to wade nearly to my waist. With me were three men. When we first noticed the nest, the hen was sitting on it and the cock standing near by. As we approached the female rose to her feet very slowly, and then I could see that the nest contained a young one. When we were at a distance of some ten yardsthe female began to move her feet as if scraping the nest, and the young bird betook itself quietly to the water, and swam slowly into the neighbouring flooded paddy field. The hen then slowly descended from the nest into the water and quietly walked off. On reaching the nest, I found in it one egg. I sent one of the men after the youngster, which he quickly secured and brought to me to look at. It was about the size of a small bazaar fowl, and had perhaps been hatched three days. It was covered with soft down. The down on the upper parts was of a rich reddish fawn colour, the back of the neck, a band along the backbone, and a strip on each wing being the places where the colour was most intense; these were almost chestnut in hue. The lower parts were of a cream colour, into which the reddish fawn merged gradually at the sides of the body. The eyes were large and black. The bill was of pink hue and broad at the base where the yellow lining of the mouth showed. The pink of the bill was most pronounced towards the base, fading almost to white at the tip. The legs and feet were pale pink, the toes being slightly webbed. Even at that stage of the youngster’s existence the legs were long, and enabled him to swim with ease, but they were not strong enough to support him when he tried to walk. Sarus cranes cannot walk properly until they are several months old.
While I was handling the young bird the cock sarus was evidently summoning up his courage, for presently he began to advance in battle array, that is to say, with neck bent, so that the head projectedforward, mouth slightly open, and wings about half expanded. Thus he slowly approached, looking very handsome. He did not advance direct, but took a circuitous course as if stalking us. When he had approached within about six feet I made a pretence of striking him with a short cane. Of this act of hostility he took not the least notice, but continued to approach. The men with me, who were on foot, began to fear being attacked, so one of them pulled up some paddy stalks and threw these at him. This made him jump and retreat a few paces. But he soon recommenced his advance in battle array. Then one of the men rushed at him. That caused him to retreat a few paces hastily, but with dignity. He then proceeded to attempt a rear attack, and as he circled round us with bent neck he put me in mind of the villain of the melodrama, who stalks about saying “My time will come!” When the sarus had advanced thus to within four feet of my men and looked as though he were about to spring at them, one of these lunged at him with a short stick, and he would have been struck had he not beaten a hasty retreat. Nothing daunted, he again returned to the attack. We were at the nest for fully ten minutes, and the whole time he was trying to get at us. Only once did he utter his trumpet-like call. The female meanwhile remained watching at a distance of perhaps forty yards.
Having seen what we wanted, we replaced the young bird and the egg in the nest and retreated fifteen or twenty yards. We waited to see what theparent birds would do. The female came up to the cock (she is distinguishable by her smaller size); then they both advanced very slowly towards the nest, the hen approaching the faster. When at a distance of perhaps eight yards from the nest, the cock indulged in some curious antics. He slowly drew himself up to his full height and stood thus motionless for a few seconds, then he stretched out his bill towards the sky. Next, the long neck began to bend slowly until it took roughly the shape of the letter S. Then, while the neck was still so bent, the sarus dipped his bill into the water. After this he again stood upright and repeated the whole performance. Finally he indulged in a little dance. Meanwhile the hen slowly advanced, and when within a yard of the nest stood still and contemplated it for a little, then, after caressing the youngster with her bill, she slowly climbed on to the nest. The nest cavity being a very shallow one, the young bird sitting in it could be seen from a considerable distance, and its reddish fawn plumage showed up in strong contrast to its surroundings. The sarus nestling cannot by any stretch of the imagination be called protectively coloured, but it fares very well, notwithstanding its conspicuousness, because its parents never depart far from the nest, and while they are present it is immune from attack. Even large birds of prey avoid the powerful beak of an infuriated crane.