Part 2
The snake-bird is a powerful flier. While on the wing it does not retract its neck after the manner of the heron, but progresses with neck extended. The neck being so slender gives the bird a comic appearance and renders it easy to identify during flight. When resting from its piscatorial labours it betakes itself to the edge of the _jhil_ or to an islet and squats there to dry its plumage in the approved cormorant fashion, with wings partially, and tail fully, expanded. In this grotesque attitude it frequently preens itself, and, thanks to the length of its neck and bill, it has not to undergo the contortions that characterise most birds when trying to reach with the tip of the beak their least accessible feathers.
The Indian darter does not appear to patronise the open sea. Probably it objects to the swell and finds its quarry easier to catch in comparatively shallow water. It does not mind salt water, for it may be found in tidal estuaries and creeks. I have seen it on the Cooum at Madras. It is, however, essentially a bird of the _jhil_. Needless to state that it is no songster—none of the _Phalacocoracidae_ are melodious—nor is it given to undue loquacity, but it is capable, when the occasion demands, of emitting a harsh croak.
So far as my experience goes, snake-birds usually occur singly or in pairs, but according to Jerdon hundreds of the birds are to be seen on some _jhils_ in Bengal.
At the nesting season it is more likely to be seen in flocks than at other times, for numbers breed together, often in company with herons and cormorants. Like these latter, the snake-bird times its nesting operations so that the young will be hatched out after the monsoon has brought into existence numbers of amphibia and crustacea on which to feed them. Accordingly, it nidificates in July, August, and September in Northern India and Travancore, which are served by the south-west monsoon, and in January and February in those parts of South India visited by the north-east monsoon.
The nest is a mere platform of twigs, usually placed in low trees, babools for preference, and growing in situations flooded in the rains.
I do not know of any place near the city of Madras where snake-birds breed. Mr. T. F. Bourdillon, writing of Travancore, says, “I once found a colony of these birds nesting above the Athirapuzha in the Kodasheri River in September. They had taken possession of an island in midstream, where they had built their untidy nests on small trees about twenty feet high, and there were fresh and hard-set eggs in them in all stages of incubation, while half-fledged birds scrambled about the branches or flopped into the water at our approach. The nests were about one foot in diameter and roughly built of twigs. The eggs are white and covered with a chalky coat and measure 2 inches by 1¼. Some of the eggs are rather larger at one end than the other, while others are truly fusiform with pointed ends.”
The snake-bird is sometimes kept as a pet by Indians. According to Mr. J. R. Cripps the Buddeas, a race of gipsies who travel about the Eastern Bengal districts in boats, are very fond of keeping these birds, almost every boat tenanted by these gipsies having a snake-bird on board.
The shoulder feathers of the Indian darter are long and narrow like the hackles of a cock. Each is black with a conspicuous silvery shaft, which renders it a thing of unusual beauty. According to Jerdon these feathers constitute the badge of royalty among the Khasias, and used to be the badge of one of the Bengal Regiments of Irregular Cavalry.
IV MINIVETS
Were a beauty show held open to all the birds of India, the minivets would, I think, win the first prize. To say this is to bestow high praise, for India teems with beautiful birds.
All the colours of the rainbow appear in our avian population. Indeed, the Indian pitta (_Pitta brachyura_)—the bird of nine colours—is a rainbow in himself, displaying as he does red, yellow, grey, and various shades of blue and green, to say nothing of black and white.
Most of our beautiful birds, however, pin their affections more especially to one colour. The parakeets, the chloropses, the green pigeons, the bee-eaters, and the barbets wear sufficient green to satisfy the most patriotic Irishman.
Golden yellow is affected by the orioles and the ioras.
The kingfisher, the roller and the purple porphyrio are as blue as Putney on boat-race day.
Sunbirds, pheasants, and peafowl favour us with a gorgeous display of metallic hues.
The rose-coloured starling and the flamingo wear their pink as proudly as a Westminster boy.
The minivets are the leaders of fashion as regards the reds and yellows. The cocks vie with the hens as to who shall be the more resplendent, and, in so doing, make short work of the attempts of Wallace and Darwin to explain sexual difference in plumage. In most species of minivets the cocks are arrayed in bright scarlet, whence the name Cardinal-bird, rich crimson, deep rose colour, flaming red, or soft orange, while their respective wives are studies in the various shades of yellow. But the beauty of the minivet is not merely that of colouring. The elegance of its slender, well-proportioned form rivals that of the wagtail.
Minivets are little birds with longish tails which flit about among the leaves of trees in flocks of half a dozen, conversing in low but exceedingly melodious tones.
They are veritable nomads. They never remain long in one place, except, of course, when nesting. Without apparently ever taking a prolonged flight, the flocks of minivets must traverse very considerable tracts of country. They never leave the neighbourhood of trees. Their habit is to pass methodically from tree to tree, tarrying awhile at each, seeking for insects now on the topmost branches, where the dainty forms of the birds stand out sharp and clear against the azure sky, now lost to view amid the denser foliage.
Few are the lurking insects that escape the bright little eye of the minivet. Even those resting on parts of the tree where a bird cannot obtain a foothold do not escape, for the minivet is able to seize them while hovering in the air on vibrating wings. Occasionally, in order to reach a tiny victim hidden away on the under surface of a leaf, the minivet will hang by its feet, like a titmouse, from the slender branch that bears the leaf. At times the minivet will indulge in a little zigzag flight among the green branches, and it is on such occasions that the cock utters his feeble but pleasing little warble.
Fifteen species of minivet adorn India. Unfortunately, most of them are of comparatively restricted range, being confined to the Himalayas. Two species only, I believe, are common in South India, namely, the small minivet (_Pericrocotus peregrinus_) and the orange minivet (_P. flammeus_). The former is the only one likely to be seen in Madras city. If we would see the orange species we must go to the Nilgiris or the Western Ghauts.
Both sexes of _Pericrocotus peregrinus_ are handsome without being showy. They are about the size of sparrows, but have a much longer tail. The head, nape, and upper part of the back of the cock are of a rich slaty-grey tint, which deepens into black on the sides of the head, and on the throat, wings, and tail. There is an orange bar in the wing, and the tail feathers are tipped with that colour. The breast and lower portion of the back are of the richest scarlet. The female is less showily attired than the cock; she lacks his scarlet trimmings and wears yellow in place of his patches of orange.
The orange minivet is a still more beautiful bird. The head and the back of the cock are black. His wings are black and flame-coloured red, the red being so arranged as to form a band running along, not across, the wing during flight. This longitudinal red or yellow wing-band characterises most species of minivet. His tail feathers are all red, save the two median ones, which are black. During flight the brilliant red seems almost to obliterate the black, so that a number of cocks, as they fly from one tree to another, look like sparks driven before the wind. The hen is marked in the same way as the cock, but in her the flaming red colour is replaced by bright yellow. In my opinion, “orange” is not a very suitable adjective to apply to this species. A literal translation of the Latin name—the flame-coloured minivet—would be more appropriate.
A minivet’s nest is a work of art. As all the species construct precisely the same kind of nursery, what is true of any one species applies equally to all the others. The nest is a neat little cup, about three inches in diameter, composed of twigs and grasses, and covered outside with moss and cobwebs, so that in colour and general appearance the exterior is exactly like the bark of a tree. It is usually placed on a bough; if this happens to be a thick one, the nest is totally invisible to any person looking up into the tree. If the branch happens to be a thin one, the nursery, seen from below, looks exactly like a knot or swelling in the branch. Thus, unless one actually sees the minivet sitting on the nest, or climbs the tree, it is scarcely possible to locate the little nursery. It is easy enough to discover that a pair have a nest, for the parent birds make a great noise when a human being comes anywhere near. If they happen to be carrying food in the beak for the young birds, they at once drop it, set up their cry of distress and try to entice the stranger away by flying a little distance off. If this ruse[2] be not successful, the hen minivet will act as if her wing were broken and flap along away from the nest.
It is an interesting fact that although minivets build open nests and the sexes differ so considerably in appearance, both the cock and the hen take part in incubation.
Some years ago, when writing of the small minivet, I quoted Mr. William Jesse as describing a very curious phenomenon in connection with the nesting of this species, namely that in his experience almost invariably two hens and one cock take part in nest building and incubation. “What is the exact duty of this second wife,” writes Jesse, “I cannot make out. Possibly she may be a drudge. That she exists I have satisfied myself time after time, and so convinced are the Martiniere boys of the fact that they—no mean observers by the way—rarely trouble to look for a nest if only one female is present. Unfortunately, I have never yet found out what happens when there are young. Whether both females take
## part in incubation and in rearing the young I do not know. I do not
think that both lay eggs, as I have never found more than three.” From the time when I first read the above passage I have paid particular attention to minivets, with the object of trying to account for the alleged phenomenon, and the result of my efforts is that I have never seen more than one cock and one hen at a nest, whether it be under construction or whether it contain eggs or young. Moreover, I have not come across any naturalist other than Mr. Jesse who has seen more than two birds at the nest. I am therefore driven to the conclusion that minivets are monogamous birds and that the observation recorded by Mr. Jesse is faulty, that the presence of the second female was due to the chance visit of an outsider. Possibly, since there seem to be more hen minivets than cocks, there is considerable competition among the hens for cocks, and it may happen that the hen who has set her cap at a cock in vain may stay on in the vicinity for some time after her rejection.
[2]I use the word “ruse” for want of a better term. I do not believe that the bird _intends_ to deceive the intruder. I am disposed to think that this feigning of injury is a purely instinctive act. The phenomenon is discussed on p. 207 _infra_.
V THE POWER OF ANIMALS TO EXPRESS THOUGHT
The thoughts of birds and beasts are probably few and simple. Yet it is unlikely that they are able to communicate all their thoughts to one another, because the language they possess consists of a few monosyllables, by which they can express only elementary feelings such as pain, anger, fear, hunger, and the presence of food.
Some animals possess a much larger vocabulary than others. Dr. Garner, who went to Africa to study the language of his Simian brothers, found that the average monkey was able to emit only about seven cries, but the vocabulary of the highly intelligent chimpanzee comprised twenty-two separate calls.
According to Mr. Edmund Selous, the rook is really in process of evolving a language. He records no fewer than thirty-three distinct sounds he heard rooks utter, and states that this is but a small page out of their vocabulary. Nevertheless, he is compelled to admit that only in few cases was he able to connect a note with any particular state of mind.
The articulate language of animals is a language of monosyllables, a language composed almost entirely of interjections. Such a language, while very expressive as far as it goes, does not go very far. And the question naturally arises, does it go sufficiently far to meet the needs of the various species, or have they some means of communicating with one another other than by sounds? It is very tempting to believe that they have, that they are able to transmit thought to one another in some way. It is only on the assumption of brain waves that one can explain the soldier-like evolutions which flocks of birds sometimes perform in the air.
I have often wondered how those species of birds, of which both the cock and hen take part in the nest-building operations, select the site. The matter is, of course, simple when only the one sex constructs the nest. But how is the site selected when both sexes build? It is tempting to believe that they discuss the matter, that the hen says to the cock, “Now, James, my dear, it is necessary for us to build a nest without delay: come, let us select a secluded spot wherein to build”; and to picture the little birds hunting about together and criticising the sites each selects. Nevertheless, I think it most unlikely that any such discussion takes place. Nest building is largely instinctive. In the case of the first nest it is improbable that the little builders quite know what they are doing, and I do not see how, before the nest is begun, they can have any idea of what it will look like when it is finished.
It is possible that birds agree as to the site without any discussion or without any communication. Let us suppose that a pair of bulbuls have mated. Suddenly one of them is overmastered by the nest-building instinct which has hitherto lain dormant. This particular bird is impelled by some irresistible force to seek out a site and then forthwith to begin to build the nest. The nest-building instinct of its mate, which is dormant, is at once awakened by the sight of its spouse collecting material. When this happens the second bird begins collecting, and is content to work at the structure already commenced by its mate. Assuming the correctness of the suggestion that the nest-building instinct does not, as a rule, become awakened simultaneously in a pair of birds, what will happen in the exceptional cases when the instinct does awaken simultaneously? When this happens, it is my belief that each sex commences to build a separate nest. When one of the pair discovers what its mate is doing, it, of course, gets angry and scolds it. The other returns the compliment. Probably the next step is that each examines the handiwork of the other and thinks very little of it. Possibly at first each refuses to yield to the other, or the one whose nest is the least advanced leaves this in favour of the other, or—a third alternative—the stronger bird may attack the weaker and compel it to desert its nest.
This, of course, is pure conjecture. But it is in accordance with the fact that numbers of nests are commenced which are never completed, and which, indeed, never progress very far. There are at present in my verandah two nests belonging to bulbuls which have been left after about three hours’ work was put into them. Several explanations of this phenomenon are possible. Each bird may have commenced a separate nest, and so one was deserted; or the site in question may have been found to have some fatal defect, consequently the nest has been given up; or the birds have been scared away or killed. The last alternative is the least likely, and I am inclined to believe that the first explanation is the true one.
I recently read in _Country Life_ an exceedingly interesting account of the nest-building operations of a pair of wagtails. The account is brief and has so important a bearing on the subject we are discussing that I take the liberty to quote at length:—
“From the cover of a riverside cottage,” writes Mr. Alfred Taylor of the grey wagtail in England, “I saw two birds repeatedly fly to a rocky ledge both with nest-building material in their beaks. It was soon evident that the male wagtail had selected one nest and the female another place a couple of yards away. The former for some time took no notice of the doings of his mate, and they both continued to gather materials into their selected places. Suddenly he flew to her position and commenced removing her material to the place where he thought the nest ought to be. Trouble seemed to be brewing in the family, especially when she still persisted in carrying dead grass to her site. In the end the cock bird lost his temper, flew to her ledge, and viciously attacked her, knocking off the ledge all evidence of her efforts at building. She flew away, and for a couple of hours remained perched in a tree and sulked, evidently much upset at her chastisement, not taking the slightest notice of overtures of peace from her mate. As the deadlock seemed likely to continue I departed.
“Two days later I was round again, eager to see how the difference had been settled, if at all. To my great surprise, I must confess, the male bird had given way to the female, and the nearly completed nest was on her chosen site. A close examination of the two places showed that the judgment of the male had been at fault. Where he had erred was in not detecting the presence of mice; it was quite impossible for these destructive little animals to reach the spot selected by the hen.”
Here, then, is a case of the cock having selected one site and the hen another. Had they gone about choosing a site in company and disagreed upon the place, it is hardly likely that the cock would for some time have taken no notice of what the hen was doing; he would surely have set his foot down at once. The fact that at first he took no notice seems to show that at the outburst of what I may perhaps call the fury of nest-building the cock had eyes for nothing but his work. Again, when the cock did assert his authority, he apparently did not argue with the hen. He simply knocked her and her handiwork off the ledge—a rude but forcible, if inarticulate, method of expressing his feelings.
It may be asked, how was it that the birds agreed to the change of site if they were not able to communicate with one another? Here, again, we must wander into the field of conjecture. It must suffice that it is possible to explain the change of tactics of the cock without assuming any communication between him and his mate. Let us suppose that while she was sulking, and he was working, a mouse appeared on the scene. This would alarm him, and possibly the instinct of flying from enemies, that the appearance of the mouse called into play, would cause him to desert his nest, and perhaps he too began to sulk. Then the hen, once again overcome by the nest-building instinct, recommenced her work, and when the cock followed suit he left his useless site and worked at hers.
Investigation into the extent to which birds and beasts can communicate with one another is as difficult as it is fascinating. It is one of those subjects of which probably but little can be learned by systematic experiment. The casual observer is as likely to throw light upon it as the man who makes a special study of it. A chance incident, such as that observed by Mr. Taylor, throws a flood of light upon the subject. It is not until we have a large number of such observations on record that we shall be able to acquire some definite knowledge of the extent to which birds and beasts can, and do, communicate with one another.
VI PIED WOODPECKERS
No fewer than fifty-six species of woodpecker occur in India, and of these thirteen wear a pied livery. The black-and-white woodpeckers are all small birds. Most of them are of very limited distribution, several being confined to the Himalayas and the connected hills. One species is peculiar to the Andamans. One pied woodpecker, however, ranges from Cochin China, through India, to Ceylon, but its distribution, although wide, is capricious. It is abundant in all parts of North-West India, but is said not to occur in Eastern Bengal and Assam. I do not remember having seen it in Madras, yet it is the common woodpecker of Bombay. The bird is easily identified. A pied woodpecker seen in South India can belong to no species other than that which is known as _Liopicus mahrattensis_ to men of science. The English name of this species is the yellow-fronted pied woodpecker. It is clothed in black-and-white raiment set off by a yellow forehead, and, in the case of the cock, a short red crest. There is also a patch of red on the abdomen, but this is not likely to be seen in the living bird, which presents only its back to the observer as it seeks its insect quarry on the trunks and boughs of trees. In the lower plumage the white predominates; the lower back is white, as are the sides of the head and neck. The shoulders, upper back, wings, and tail are black speckled with white.
Its habits are those of the woodpecker family. It moves about in a jerky manner, like a mechanical toy. Its method is to start low down on the trunk of a tree and work upwards, searching for insects. Unlike the nut-hatch, the woodpecker seems to object to working head downwards, so that, when it reaches the top of the tree, it flies off to another. Its movements in the air are as jerky as those on the tree-trunk.