GLIMPSES OF
INDIAN BIRDS

BY DOUGLAS DEWAR

LONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY
TORONTO: BELL & COCKBURN MCMXIII

WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH

I DEDICATE
THIS BOOK TO

THEODORE ROOSEVELT

A HUNTER OF BIG GAME AND A NATURALIST
WHO, HAVING BROUGHT COMMON-SENSE TO BEAR
ON THE PROBLEMS OF NATURAL HISTORY
DECLINES TO BE DICTATED TO BY THOSE WHO
HAVE CONSTITUTED THEMSELVES
ZOOLOGICAL AUTHORITIES

PREFACE

In the brief sketches that follow I find occasion repeatedly to attack the prevalent theories of protective colouration, because it is impossible for the naturalist who uses his eyes to accept these theories.

Most of these hypotheses were advanced by field naturalists, but they have since been elaborated by cabinet zoologists and have become a creed. Now, Huxley remarked with truth, “Science commits suicide when it adopts a creed.” With equal truth he asserted, “‘Authorities,’ ‘disciples,’ and ‘schools’ are the curse of science and do more to interfere with the work of the scientific spirit than all its enemies.”

In England zoology is at present in the hands of ‘schools’ and ‘authorities’ of the kind to which Huxley objected.

The result is that where, in some of my previous books, I have exposed the shallowness of the prevalent theories, I have been taken to task by certain reviewers who are disciples of those ‘authorities.’ These gentlemen term my criticisms superficial, but they have made no attempt to show in what way my criticisms are superficial. There is a good reason for this. It is that these journalists know well that any attempts to rebut my statements will lead to a controversy in which they cannot but be worsted because the facts are against them.

If what I say is incorrect my reviewers now have an excellent opportunity to demonstrate this.

Lest these have recourse to the unfailing resort of the defeated Darwinian or Wallaceian—the argument of ignorance, lest they say that it is only owing to their insufficient knowledge of Indian birds that they cannot answer me, let me assert that what I say of Indian birds is equally true of British birds.

I assert with confidence that the colouring of nine out of ten birds has some feature which the theories attacked by me cannot account for.

“Hypotheses,” wrote Huxley, “are not ends but means. . . . The most useful of servants to the man of science, they are the worst of masters, and when the establishment of the hypotheses comes the end, and fact is attended to only so far as it suits the ‘Idee,’ science has no longer anything to do with the business.”

The hypotheses which I decline to accept have become the masters of many zoologists who are busily occupied in distorting facts which do not coincide with theory.

It is not very long since an English scientific paper published an article entitled “What have ornithologists done for Darwinism?” So long as zoologists test the work of the naturalist by the amount of evidence he collects for Darwinism or any other “ism,” it is hopeless to expect zoological science to progress.

CONTENTS

PAGE I. Birds in a Grove 3 II. The Magpie-Robin 9 III. The Indian Snake-Bird 14 IV. Minivets 19 V. The Power of Animals to Express Thought 25 VI. Pied Woodpeckers 31 VII. A Jhil out of Season 37 VIII. Birds in White 42 IX. The Pied Crested Cuckoo 48 X. Vultures 55 XI. The Indian Robin 61 XII. The Shikra 69 XIII. A Finch of Roseate Hue 74 XIV. Birds on the Lawn 80 XV. The Grey Hornbill 86 XVI. The Flamingo 91 XVII. Summer Visitors to the Punjab Plains 98 XVIII. A Bird of Many Aliases 106 XIX. Paddy Birds at Bedtime 111 XX. Merlins 116 XXI. The Common Wryneck 121 XXII. Green Pigeons 126 XXIII. Bulbuls’ Nests 131 XXIII. Bulbuls’ Nests—II 139 XXIV. Nightingales in India 145 XXV. The Wire-tailed Swallow 150 XXVI. Winter Visitors to the Punjab Plains 157 XXVII. A Kingfisher and a Tern 167 XXVIII. The Red Turtle Dove 172 XXIX. Birds in the Millet Fields 178 XXX. Hoopoes at the Nesting Season 185 XXXI. The Largest Bird in India 197 XXXII. The Swallow-Plover 204 XXXIII. The Birds of a Madras Garden 211 XXXIV. Sunbirds 218 XXXV. The Bank Myna 225 XXXVI. The Jackdaw 231 XXXVII. Fighting in Nature 234 XXXVIII. Birds and Butterflies 238 XXXIX. Voices of the Night 246 Index 257

These “Glimpses” originally appeared in one or other of the following periodicals: The Madras Mail, Pioneer, Civil and Military Gazette, Times of India, Bird Notes.

The author takes this opportunity of thanking the editors of the above papers for permission to reproduce the sketches.

GLIMPSES OF INDIAN BIRDS

I
BIRDS IN A GROVE

The small groves that usually surround hamlets in Oudh are favourite resorts of birds.

I know of few more pleasant ways of passing an hour than under the trees in such a grove at the beginning of December, when the weather is perfect. The number of birds that show themselves is truly astonishing.

Recently I tarried for a little time in such a grove consisting of half a dozen mango trees, a tamarind and a pipal, and witnessed there a veritable avian pageant—a pageant accompanied by music.

The sunbirds (Arachnechthra asiatica) were the leading minstrels. There may have been a dozen of them in the little tope. To count them was impossible, because sunbirds are never still for two seconds together. When not flitting about amid the foliage looking for insects they are playing hide-and-seek, or pouring out their canary-like song. At this season of the year the cocks are in undress plumage. In his full splendour the male is glistening purple; but in August he loses nearly all his purple gloss and becomes brownish above and ashy grey below, save for a purple stripe running downwards from his chin. The hen is at all times brown above and yellow below.

The red-whiskered bulbuls (Otocompsa emeria) were as numerous and as full of life and motion as the sunbirds. Their tinkling notes mingled pleasantly with the sharper tones of the other choristers.

It is superfluous to state that two or three pairs of doves were in that little bagh, and that one or other of them never ceased to coo.

Further, it goes without saying that there were redstarts in that tope. The Indian redstart (Ruticilla rufiventris) is one of the commonest birds in Oudh during the winter months. During flight it looks like a little ball of fire, because of its red tail: hence its old English name, fire-tail.

At intervals, a curious tew emanated from the foliage. A short search sufficed to reveal the author—the black-headed oriole (Oriolus melanocephalus), a glorious golden bird having the head and neck black and some black in the wing. This creature seems never to descend to the ground; it dwells always in the greenwood tree and its life is one long search for fruit, caterpillars and other creeping things.

The flycatchers were a pageant in themselves; there were more species in that tiny bagh than are to be found in the whole of Great Britain and Ireland.

First and foremost the fan-tailed flycatcher (Rhipidura albifrontata)—the prima donna of the tope—presented herself. Like a fairy in a pastoral play, she comes into view from some leafy bower, announcing her appearance by five or six joyous notes that mount and descend the musical scale. Dainty as a wagtail she is arrayed in black and white like some motacillas. She is dancer as well as singer, and she pirouettes up and down a horizontal branch, bowing now to right and now to left, spreading her tail into a fan and suddenly breaking off her dance to make a flight after an insect.

Even more beautiful was the next flycatcher to introduce itself—Tickell’s blue flycatcher (Cyornis tickelli). The upper parts of this exquisite little creature are glistening royal blue; the throat and breast are flaming orange, and the lower parts are white. After flitting from bough to bough in search of quarry, it stood still and uttered its lay, which consists of a chik, chik, followed by a little trill, not unlike that of the fan-tailed flycatcher. Having delivered itself of its melody, it vanished into the green canopy. Its place was taken almost immediately by a red-breasted flycatcher (Siphia parva), a bird very like the English robin in appearance. Ere long it moved away.

Shortly after another flycatcher took its little part in the pageant. This was the grey-headed flycatcher (Culicicapa ceylonensis), “a tiny brownie bird,” with the head grey and the lower parts bright yellow. With the exception of the Rhipidura, all these flycatchers had come down from the Himalayas.

While watching their graceful movements, my attention was attracted by a curious grating sound that emanated from the branches immediately over my head. On looking up, I saw a crow-pheasant (Centropus rufipennis) running up a branch in the inimitable manner of his kind. His bright red eye was fixed on me, and he had evidently made up his cuculine mind that “distance lends enchantment to the view” of a human being, and accordingly lost no time in making his exit.

Scarcely had I lost sight of him when there was a considerable commotion in the pipal tree near by. When running to discover the cause of this I startled half a dozen pipits (Anthus rufulus) that, hidden by the grass, were feeding on the ground. They, as is their wont when frightened, flew into the foliage. Pipits are dull brown birds, streaked like larks, that display tail-wagging propensities. I discovered that the bird making the commotion near the summit of the pipal tree was a vulture. Very large and out of place did it seem struggling among the slender branches with wings spread-eagled. It was tugging away vigorously at a small branch and soon succeeded in breaking it off. Having accomplished this, it scrambled on to what looked like a large ball of dried leaves and twigs caught in one of the upper branches. This was a nest in course of construction, which the vulture was lining with pipal branches. Presently the huge bird flew off, and I was then able to identify it as the white-backed vulture (Pseudogyps bengalensis). I returned to the mango tree beneath which I had been standing, and in so doing disturbed a bee-eater (Merops viridis) that was perching on one of the lower branches. Of the presence in the vicinity of these charming little birds I was already aware from their soft twitterings. I had not actually seen them, because their habit is to perch on the outer branches of trees, whence they make aerial sallies after insects.

The calls of the blossom-headed parakeets (Palæornis cyanocephalus), far softer and mellower than those of the rose-ringed species, had at frequent intervals mingled with the notes of the other birds; and at this moment one of these green parrots settled on a branch quite close to me. Her slate-coloured head showed her to be a hen; in this species the head of the cock is coloured like a ripe plum.

Sharp sounds, like those made by insects, issuing from every tree revealed the presence of warblers. These birds were so small and so active that I am not certain to what species they belonged. The majority of them were, I believe, willow warblers (Phylloscopus tristis).

At intervals the to-wee to-wee of the tailor-bird (Orthotomus sutorius) had rung out clear and distinct from the medley of sounds that filled the grove. Suddenly two tailor-birds came on the scene, one chasing the other. They alighted on a horizontal bough, where they tarried sufficiently long to enable me to see the chestnut crown so characteristic of the species.

I have omitted to make mention of the sprightly magpie-robin (Copsychus saularis). Of this species there was at least one pair in that little grove, and several times did the cock descend to the ground, and hop about, with tail erect. He is arrayed in black and white, and a smarter-looking bird does not exist. His mate also put in an appearance; she has all his sprightliness and is equally tastefully attired in grey and white.

Having spent an hour in the grove, I had to return to my tent to work, without having witnessed all the dramatis personæ of the daily pageant. As I was leaving the tope a hen brown-backed robin (Thamnobia cambaiensis) hopped out of an arhar field and stood beneath a mango tree, carrying her tail erect so as to display the red undertail coverts.

After I had reached my tent, fifty yards away, I heard the kutur—kutur—kuturuk of the green barbet (Thereiceryx zeylonicus), the loud tap, tap, tap of the golden-backed woodpecker (Brachypternus aurantius), and the cheerful notes of the king crow (Dicrurus ater).

II
THE MAGPIE-ROBIN

The magpie-robin (Copsychus saularis), or dhayal, as the Indians call him, is a truly delightful bird. He is of handsome appearance, bold disposition, and confiding habits. He is, further, a singer who can hold his own in any company when at his best. The dhayal is a typically Indian bird, being found in all parts of the country from the Himalayas to Cape Comorin. He is common in Ceylon and ascends the hills of India to altitudes of over 6000 feet. He is, I believe, more abundant in the United Provinces than anywhere else. It is no exaggeration to assert that at least one pair of magpie-robins lives in every garden in Oudh and Agra. I do not count as gardens those treeless compounds in which some bungalows are situate, for the magpie-robin is a bird that loves shade. The species, although by no means rare in South India, is not nearly so abundant there as in the northern part of the peninsula.

The dhayal is very easily identified. The cock is a black and white bird rather larger than the familiar English robin. His head, neck, breast, and upper parts are black with a white bar in the wing. The lower parts are white, as are the outer tail feathers.

The above description will show that the black and white markings of the plumage are similar to those of the common magpie; hence the popular name of the bird—magpie-robin. If the distribution of the magpie-robin happened to coincide with that of the magpie, I have no doubt whatever that zoologists of the school of Wallace would cite the dhayal as an example of protective mimicry. They would tell us that this robin had aped the dress of the powerful magpie in order to dupe the crows and other bullying birds that vex the lives of their smaller neighbours.

As the magpie-robin dwells mostly where the magpie is not found, no Wallaceian has attempted to explain why its colouring is so like that of the magpie. As a matter of fact, the magpie scheme of colouring seems to be a popular one in nature (if I may be permitted to use such an expression). It appears in seven species which are in no way closely related one to another, to wit, a goose, a crow, a tanager, a honey-eater, a swallow-shrike, a robin, and, of course, the common magpie.

The hen magpie-robin is brownish grey where her lord and master is black, the pattern of her plumage being the same as his.

The magpie-robin does not carry his tail as most birds do, but goes about with it pointed to the sky. This gives the bird a very sprightly appearance. Its actions fulfil the promise of its looks. It is never still for an instant. Now it descends to the ground, where it hops about with tail erect, picking up here and there tiny insects; now it flies into a tree or bush, where it pursues its search for insects or pours forth its joyous song. Nor does it confine its operations to trees, bushes, and dry land. I have seen a magpie-robin hunting for insects on a tangled mass of weeds and stems floating on water. On these it hopped about just as it does on terra firma. Each little jump caused considerable commotion in the water. The bird did not seem to mind its toes getting wet.

The dhayal is essentially a bird of gardens. Like the English robin, it prefers to dwell as near human habitations as possible. In my opinion it is one of the finest song birds in the world. Like the majority of melodious birds, the magpie-robin is not in song all the year round. During the early winter it is a silent creature. Towards the end of the cold weather the cock begins to find his voice, and at that time his efforts are not very pleasing to the human ear. But each successive day’s effort produces better results, until, by March, the bird is able to pour forth a torrent of far-reaching melody which is inferior to that of no Indian bird save his cousin, the shama.

Needless to say, the period when the cock dhayal is in song corresponds to the mating time. At this season the cocks are very pugnacious. This pugnacity is simply the expression of the fact that the dhayal is at that time more than usually overflowing with energy. This energy has to find outlets. One of these is through the medium of vigorous song. Another way of dissipating energy is by performing gymnastic feats in the air. As a rule magpie-robins rarely perform sustained flights. They are content with flitting from bush to bush, or making little excursions to the ground and back again. But at the breeding season the cocks often fly up high in the air and describe a series of wide circles. They will spend hours in this performance with only a few seconds’ rest at long intervals.

The eggs are nearly always placed in some natural hole, that is to say, one not excavated by the dhayal itself. The hole is sometimes in a tree, but nine times out of ten in Northern India the site selected is a hole in some building. The servants’ quarters in the corner of some shady garden are almost invariably chosen. A very favourite spot is between the wooden lintel and the mud wall of a kachcha building; such buildings are well called kachcha, for they begin to crack and fall down as soon as they are built. The cracks and crevices that appear in them offer just what magpie-robins want for nesting purposes. The eggs are not laid on the bare brick, mud, or other material in which the cavity exists. The hole is invariably lined with roots, fibres, grass, feathers, or any other soft material available. My experience of the nests of this species has been confined chiefly to Northern India, and I do not recollect ever having found a nest that was not in the wall of some building; but observers from South India say that, as often as not, the dhayal nests in trees.[1] Oates states that in Burma the magpie-robin almost invariably selects a large hollow bamboo, and places its nest about two feet inside, near the first joint; but he adds that the bamboos selected are generally to be found lying about the verandahs and cucumber framings of the native houses. The truth of the matter would seem to be that magpie-robins select the very first cavity of the right size they come across, and, as they affect human habitations, the cavity used is almost invariably near some man’s dwelling. In Northern India the construction of the dwellings of Indians is such that the walls afford convenient sites, so that these are generally utilised; in other parts of the country, where the walls do not present so many holes, other cavities in trees, etc., are selected.

The eggs have a greenish-white background which is usually largely obliterated by blotches of brownish red. March, April, May, and June are the months in which eggs are most likely to be found; April and May for preference.

[1]Such is the contrariness of birds in general and of magpie-robins in particular, that since this book went to press I have found in the Pilibhit and Bareilly districts no fewer than seven dhayals’ nests in holes in trees!

III
THE INDIAN SNAKE-BIRD

The Indian darter, or snake-bird (Plotus melanogaster) is best described by what I may perhaps call the synthetic method. Take a large cormorant and remove the head and neck; to the headless cormorant, sew on the head and neck of a heron, and you will have produced a very fair imitation of the Indian snake-bird. If during the operation you happen to have dislocated one of the lower neck vertebrae of the heron, so much the better, for the slender neck of the darter is characterised by a bend at the junction of the eighth and ninth vertebrae, which, as Mr. Garrod has shown, enables the bird, by suddenly straightening the neck, to transfix the fish on which it has designs. As a catcher of fish the snake-bird is probably without peer. This is not surprising, since it possesses the swimming and diving apparatus of the cormorant, the long neck and dagger-like beak of the heron, and, in addition, a patent thrusting apparatus in the shape of the aforesaid kink in the neck.

The Indian darter is a bird with which all who go down to jhils to shoot duck must be familiar, since it is a full yard in length and occurs in most parts of India, Burma, and Ceylon. Notwithstanding its large size, it is apt to be overlooked when in the water, because it almost invariably swims with the body submerged, showing only the upper neck above the surface. Every now and again it completely disappears from view. After remaining submerged for several seconds the head reappears with a small fish projecting from the bill. The fish is forthwith thrown a little way into the air, and then caught and swallowed. This habit of tossing food into the air preparatory to swallowing it occurs in many long-billed species, and appears to be the most expeditious method of getting food from the tip of an elongated beak to the other extremity, where it is seized by the muscular walls of the gullet and passed onwards.

The snake-bird is said sometimes to secure its quarry by diving from a perch like a kingfisher. I have not observed the bird behave thus, and the method does not appear to be generally practised.

Plotus melanogaster is called the snake-bird because of its long, slender, snake-like neck, which looks very like the anterior portion of a water-snake when the bird swims, as it often does, with the body submerged. If danger threatens the bird usually sinks in the water until every part of it except the beak disappears. This certainly is a method of hiding superior to that said to be adopted by the ostrich.

The snake-bird is a rapid swimmer, and as it frequently remains under water for thirteen or fourteen seconds at a time, it is able to move considerable distances while completely submerged.

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.

While other birds are hunting for insects that fly in the air, or creep on the ground, or lurk under the leaves of trees, the woodpecker has designs on those that burrow into tree-trunks or hide in the crevices of the bark. These the woodpecker evicts by means of its bill and tongue. The former is stout and square at the end, which presents a chisel-like edge. The bird is thereby enabled to cut holes in the hardest wood. Occasionally it literally excavates its quarry, but, as a rule, it is not obliged to resort to such drastic measures. A series of vigorous taps on the bark under which insects are lurking usually frightens them to such an extent that they bolt from their hiding-places as hastily as men leave their habitations during an earthquake. When the insects expose themselves the woodpecker’s tongue comes into operation. This organ is a fly-paper of the most approved “catch-’em-alive-o” type. It is covered with a secretion as sticky as bird-lime. The insects it touches adhere to it, one and all are drawn into the woodpecker’s mouth, and forthwith gathered unto their fathers!

The nest is of the usual woodpecker type, that is to say, a cavity in the trunk or a thick branch of a tree, partially, at any rate, excavated by the bird. Although the chisel-like bill of the woodpecker can cut the hardest wood, the bird usually selects for the site of its nest a part of the tree where the internal wood is rotten. This, of course, means less work for the bird. The only hard labour it has then to perform is to cut through the sound external wood a neat, round passage leading to the decayed core. When once this is reached, little further effort is required.

Last year I spent a few days at Easter in the Himalayas, and there had leisure to watch a pair of pied woodpeckers at work on their nest. These birds were brown-fronted pied woodpeckers—Dendrocopus auriceps. Their nest was being excavated in the trunk of a large rhododendron tree, at a spot some thirty feet from the ground. When I first began to watch the birds the cock was at work. He confined his operations to a spot about four inches from the surface, so that, as he hammered away, his head, neck, and a part of his shoulders disappeared in the hole. His fore toes grasped the inside of the aperture, and his hind toes the bark of the tree. The wood at which he was working was sufficiently hard to cause the taps of his bill to ring out clearly. After I had been watching him for about ten minutes he flew off to a tree hard by and uttered a number of curious low notes. Then his spouse appeared and he caressed her. After this both birds flew off. A few seconds later the hen came to the nest hole and set to work. Her efforts were not directed to the part of the cavity at which the cock had been working. Her taps were at a spot deeper down, so that while at work her tail, although at right angles to her body, derived no support from the trunk. She was operating on soft wood, hence the tapping of her bill was scarcely audible. After working for about eight minutes she began to remove the chips of wood she had detached. This operation is performed so rapidly that it is apt to be overlooked. The bird plunges its head into the hollow, seizes some chips, draws out its head and jerks this violently to one side, usually to the right, and thus casts the chips over its shoulder.

After the hen had been at work for nearly ten minutes she flew away. Within one minute and a half of her departure the cock arrived on the scene, and at once set to work in a most business-like fashion. He now operated on the right side of the cavity, and not at the spot to which his wife had directed her attention. After working for exactly twenty-five minutes the cock flew off. Then for a fraction over ten minutes the hole was deserted. At the end of this time it was the cock who again appeared. He put in a spell of thirty-five minutes’ work, in the course of which he indulged in a “breather” lasting three minutes. I then went away, and returned nearly three hours later, by which time the work had advanced to such an extent that when a bird was excavating at the deepest part of the cavity only the tail and the tip of the wing were visible. I found that the habit of the birds was to cease working about 4 p.m. I do not know at what hour they commenced work.

Five days later the nest hole had attained such a size that the birds were able to turn round in it, and so now emerged head foremost. When throwing away the chips, the head of the bird would appear at the aperture with the beak full of chips and dispose of them with a jerk of the head. The head of a woodpecker at the entrance to its hole is a pretty sight, so bright and keen is its eye. The excavation of the nest from start to finish probably occupies from ten to fourteen days.

The yellow-fronted pied woodpecker sometimes selects as a nesting site a spot in a tree-trunk only a few inches above the level of the ground.

Some years ago my ignorance of this fact afforded me a rather amusing experience. I noticed a pied woodpecker with some insects in its bill. Obviously it was about to carry these to its young. As there was only one clump of about six trees in the vicinity the nest was necessarily in one of these. Having half an hour to spare, I determined to wait and discover the whereabouts of the nest. The sun was powerful, so I elected to squat in the shade close by the trunk of the smallest of the trees. I anticipated that the woodpecker would fly direct to its nest with the food. Birds that nest in holes are usually quite indifferent to the presence of man; instinct teaches them that their nest is in an inaccessible place. But, in this instance, the bird kept hopping about looking very distressed. Consequently, I came to the conclusion that its nest must be in the trunk of the tree near which I was crouching. I stood up and examined the trunk carefully, but found no signs of a nest. I again sat down and waited until the patience of the woodpecker should be exhausted, but it continued to hop about on a log of wood with the food in its beak and disgust plainly depicted in its face. At the end of half an hour I went off mystified. The following day I returned to the spot, and the first thing that caught my eye was the entrance to the woodpecker’s nest eight inches off the ground in the trunk by which I had sat on the previous day. I had then unwittingly been blocking the approach of the bird!

VII
A JHIL OUT OF SEASON

Even as every English seaside resort has its “season,” so is there for every Indian jhil a period of the year when it is thronged with avian visitors. At other times of the year the jhil, like the seaside town, is, comparatively speaking, deserted. The season of the jhil extends from October to April—a term long enough to turn the average lodging-house keeper green with envy! During the winter months the jhils of Northern India are full to overflowing with ducks, geese, coots, pelicans, cormorants, and waders of every length of leg. As the weather grows hot, the majority of these take to their wings and hie themselves to cooler climes, where they enter upon the joyous toil of rearing up their families. Thus, from May to September, the permanent residents hold undisputed possession of the jhil. The number of these permanent residents is considerable, so that a jhil, even in the rains, when it contains most water, has not the forlorn appearance of, let us say, Margate in winter.

It is very pleasant during a short break in the rains to visit a jhil late in the afternoon, especially if a breeze be blowing. The sky presents a panorama of clouds of the most varied and fantastic shapes, to which the setting sun imparts hues wonderful and beautiful. The slanting rays are reflected and refracted from cloud to cloud, so that not infrequently there appear to be two suns behind the clouds, a major one setting in the west and a minor one sinking to the eastern horizon. The earth below is very beautiful. It is clothed in a mantle of green of every hue, from the vivid emerald of the young rice crop to the dark bluish green of the pipal tree. As likely as not the jhil is so thickly studded with grasses and other aquatic plants as to present the appearance, from a little distance, of a number of flooded fields, in most of which are well-grown crops—the water being visible only in patches here and there.

The most conspicuous of the occupants of the jhil are the snow-white egrets (Herodias alba). These birds, which attain a length of a yard, strut about solemnly in the shallower parts of the lake, seeking their quarry. Their long necks project high above the vegetation; so slender are these that they might almost belong to swans. Here and there stands motionless a “long-necked heron, dread of nimble eels” (Ardea cinerea), waiting patiently until a luckless frog shall approach. The grey plumage of this species, dull and sober though it be, stands out in bold contrast to the surrounding greenery. In another part of the jhil a couple of sarus cranes (Grus antigone) are visible. This is the only species of crane resident in India; the others are to be numbered among those which visit the jhil in the “season.” One of the saruses, like the heroine of the “penny dreadful,” has drawn himself up to his full height, and his grey form, relieved by patches of red and white on the head and neck, shows well against the background of dark foliage. His mate is apparently sitting down. This probably indicates the presence of a nest. To discover this we must wade and chance an occasional immersion to the waist. Risking this, we advance, to the disgust of the saruses, who set up a loud trumpeting. Sometimes the parent birds attack the intruders. Such conduct is, however, rare. Usually the sarus indulges in Lloyd-Georgian methods of meeting an enemy.

The nest in question is a pile of rushes and water-weeds, rising a couple of feet from the water and large enough for a man to stand upon. It contains two whitish eggs faintly blotched with yellowish brown.

Viewed from the margin, the jhil appears to be utterly devoid of waterfowl; but in this case things are not what they seem. Before we have waded far in the direction of the nest of the sarus, numbers of duck and teal which were hidden by the sedges and grasses get up and fly to another part of the jhil. The first birds to be disturbed are some cotton-teal (Nettopus coromandelianus). As these consist of a flock of eight or ten they are obviously not nesting. The cotton-teal drake is a bird easy to identify. Its small size, white head, and black necklace are unmistakable, and the white margins to the wings are very conspicuous during flight.

On another part of the jhil a pair of spot-billed ducks (Anas poecilorhyncha) settle down. These are recognisable even at a considerable distance when in the water by the white patch on each flank. As there are two of these birds together it is probable that they have a nest hidden in one of the sedge-covered islets studded about the tank. The other ducks disturbed by our approach are whistling teal (Dendrocycna javanica), which occur in considerable flocks, and a few comb-duck (Sarcidiornis melanotus). All these species of duck and teal are permanent residents in India.

Not a single coot is to be seen upon the jhil. The explanation of this is that this particular tank dries up in the hot weather, and coots usually keep to those lakes that contain water all the year round.

Half a dozen terns form a conspicuous and beautiful feature of the jhil. As they sail overhead, with every now and then a descent to the water to secure a frog or small fish, their silvery wings stand out boldly from a dark cloud on the southern horizon. The terns at the jhil are all of the black-bellied species (Sterna melanogaster). The other species haunt rivers in preference to shallow lakes.