“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
Now we all know what you are.”
Some Indian birds are adepts at self-advertisement. To use an expressive vulgarism, they continually “hit you in the eye”; they obtrude themselves upon you in season and out of season. Others are so retiring that you may live among them for years without observing them. To this class, to the class that hide their light under a bushel, the beautiful Indian pitta (Pitta brachyura) belongs. There is at least one favoured compound in Madras where a pitta, or possibly a pair of them, spends the cool-weather season. Pittas proclaim their presence by uttering at dawn their cheery notes, which have been described as an attempt to whistle, in a moderately high key, the words “quite clear.” If, on hearing this call, you are sufficiently energetic to go out of doors, you will probably see on the ground a bluish bird, about the size of a quail, but before you have had time to examine it properly it will have taken to its wings and disappeared into the hedge. Those who are not so fortunate as to have pittas on the premises may be tolerably certain of seeing a specimen by visiting the well-wooded plot of land bordered on the west by the canal and on the south by the Adyar River.
This bird is about seven inches in length. Thus it does not measure much more than a sparrow, but it is nevertheless considerably larger, for the tail is very short, being barely one inch and a half in length. The crown is yellow, tinged with orange, and divided in the middle by a broad black band running from the beak to the nape of the neck, where it meets a broader black band that passes below the eye. The eyebrow is white. The back and shoulders are dull bluish green. The upper tail-coverts are pale blue. There is also a patch of this colour on the wing. The wings and tail are black, tipped with blue. During flight the pinions display a white bar. The chin and throat are white. The breast is of the same yellow hue as the head. There is a large crimson patch under the tail. Captain Fayrer’s photograph in Bombay Ducks conveys very well the shape of the bird, but, of course, does not reproduce the most marked feature of the pitta—its colouring. Indians in some localities call it the naurang—the nine-colours. The bird may truly be said to be arrayed in a coat of many colours. Unfortunately, such a garment is apt to lead to trouble. Even as the coat of many colours brought tribulation upon Joseph of old, so does the much-coveted, multi-hued plumage of the pitta frequently bring death to its possessor.
Apart from the colouring, it is impossible to confound the pitta with any other bird. Its long legs and its apology for a tail recall the sandpiper, but there is nothing else snippet-like about it. The classification of the bird has puzzled many a wise head. It has been variously called the Madras jay, the Bengal quail, the short-tailed pye, the ant-thrush, the painted thrush, and the ground thrush. But it is not a jay, neither is it a quail, nor a thrush, nor a tailless pye. It is a bird made on a special model. It belongs to a peculiar family, to a branch of the great order of perching birds, which differs from all the other clans in some important anatomical details. Into these we will not go, for they belong to morphology, the science which concerns itself chiefly with the dry bones of zoology, with the lifeless aspect of the science of life.
The Indian pitta is a bird which likes warmth, but not heat, so that it refuses to live in the Punjab, where the climate is one of extremes—a spell of cold, then a headlong rush into a period of intense heat, followed by an equally sudden return to a low temperature. The pitta seems to occur in all parts of Eastern, Central, and Southern India, undergoing local migration to the south in the autumn and back again in the spring. In places where the climate is never very hot or very cold, as, for example, Madras and the hills in Ceylon, some individuals seem to remain throughout the year. I have seen pittas in Madras at all seasons, and I know of no better testimonial to the excellence of the climate of that city. Jerdon writes of the pitta: “In the Carnatic it chiefly occurs in the beginning of the hot weather, when the land-winds first begin to blow with violence from the west; and the birds in many instances appear to have been blown, by the strong wind, from the Eastern Ghauts, for, being birds of feeble flight, they are unable to contend against the strength of the wind. At this time they take refuge in huts, outhouses, or any building that will afford them shelter. The first bird of this kind that I saw had taken refuge in the General Hospital at Madras; and subsequently, at Nellore, I obtained many alive under the same circumstances.” Other observers have had similar experiences. Bligh, for instance, states that in Ceylon pittas are frequently caught in bungalows on coffee estates on cold and stormy days.
It is strange that so retiring a bird as the pitta should find its way with such frequency into inhabited houses. Jerdon’s explanation is its “feeble flight,” but I doubt whether he is correct in calling the pitta a bird of weak flight; it can travel very fast, for short distances at any rate. It seems to me that the pitta dislikes cold and wind, and therefore naturally seeks any shelter that presents itself. Not being a garden bird, it is unaware that the bungalow, which offers such tempting cover, is the abode of human beings. Possibly another reason why the pitta so frequently enters bungalows is to avoid the crows. Dr. Henderson tells me that he was playing tennis some years ago at a friend’s house in Madras when he saw a bird being chased by a mob of crows. The fugitive took refuge in the drawing-room of the house, where Dr. Henderson caught it, and found that it was an uninjured but very much frightened pitta. Mr. D. G. Hatchell informs me that he once picked up in his verandah a dead pitta that had probably been killed by crows. The corvi are out-and-out Tories. They strongly resent all innovation qua innovation. Any addition to the local fauna is exceedingly distasteful to them. They object to the foreigner quite as strongly as do (perhaps I should say “did”) the Chinese. It is for this reason that they mob every strange bird that shows its face. Now, they seldom come across either the creatures of the night or the denizens of the thick undergrowth; consequently, when such venture forth into the light of day the crows forthwith attack them.
The pitta feeds chiefly on beetles, termites, ants, and other creeping things, which it seeks out among fallen leaves, after the manner of the “seven sisters.” The pitta is quick on its feet, and is able to hop and run with equal ease. It thrives in captivity. It is an excellent pet, provided it be not kept with smaller birds. It regards these as so much fresh meat especially provided for it.
The nest of the pitta is described as a globular structure fully nine inches in horizontal diameter and six inches high, with a circular aperture on one side. Twigs, roots, and dried leaves are the building materials utilised. The eggs are exceedingly beautiful. “The ground colour,” writes Hume, “is China white, sometimes faintly tinged with pink, sometimes creamy; and the eggs are speckled and spotted with deep maroon, dark purple, and brownish purple as primary markings, and pale inky purple as secondary ones. Occasionally, instead of spots, the markings take the form of fine hair-like lines.”
The Indian white-eye (Zosterops palpebrosa) is a bird which should be familiar to everyone who has visited the Nilgiris. To wander far in a hillside wood without meeting a flock of these diminutive creatures is impossible. Sooner or later a number of monosyllabic notes will be heard, each a faint, plaintive cheep. On going to the tree from which these notes appear to emanate a rustle will be observed here and there in the foliage. Closer inspection will reveal a number of tiny birds flitting about among the leaves. These are white-eyes—the most sociable of birds. Except when nesting, they invariably go about in companies of not less than twenty or thirty. Each individual is as restless as a wren, so that some patience must be exercised by the observer if he wish to obtain a good view of any member of the flock. But by standing perfectly motionless for a time under the tree in which the birds are feeding he who is watching will, ere long, be able to make out that the white-eye is a tiny creature, not much more than half the size of a sparrow. The upper parts are yellowish green, the chin, throat, and feathers under the tail are bright yellow, and the remainder of the lower surface of whitish hue. The most marked feature of the Zosterops is a conspicuous ring of white feathers round the eye, which causes the bird to look as though it were wearing white spectacles. From this circle the species derives its popular names, the white-eye or spectacle bird. Thanks to the conspicuous eye-ring, it is impossible to mistake the bird.
All feathered creatures that go about in flocks and haunt thick foliage emit unceasingly a call note, by means of which the members of the flock keep in touch with one another. This ceaseless cheeping note is probably uttered unconsciously. Each individual listens, without knowing that it is doing so, for the calls of its fellows; so long as it hears these it is happy. When the main volume of the sound grows faint the individual white-eye knows that his companions are moving away from him; he accordingly flies in the direction from which their calls are coming, giving vent, as he goes, to a louder cheep than usual. Whenever a white-eye flies from one tree to another it utters this more powerful call and thereby informs its fellows that it is moving forward. This louder cry stimulates the others to follow the bird that has taken the lead. All the time they are thus flitting about the white-eyes are busy picking tiny insects off the leaves. I have never observed them eating anything but insects. Legge, however, asserts that their diet is for the most part frugivorous, in consequence of which the birds are, according to him, very destructive to gardens, picking off the buds of fruit trees, as well as attacking the fruit itself. He further declares that he has known caged individuals in England feed with avidity on dried figs. Hutton also states that white-eyes feed greedily upon the small black berries of a species of Rhamnus, common in the Himalayas. Notwithstanding the authorities cited, it is my belief that these little birds are almost exclusively insectivorous. They perform a useful work in devouring numbers of obnoxious insects, which they extract from flowers. In so doing their heads sometimes become powdered with pollen, so that the white-eyes probably, like bees and moths, render service to plants by carrying pollen from one flower to another.
The search for food does not occupy the whole day. Except at the nesting season, the work of birds is light. In the early morning the white-eyes feed industriously; so that by noon they have satisfied their hunger. They then flit and hop and fly about purely for pleasure. White-eyes, like all small birds, literally bubble over with energy. They are as restless as children. Once when walking through the Lawrence Gardens at Lahore in the days when they had not yet fallen into the clutches of that enemy of beautiful scenery, the landscape gardener, I came across a company of these charming little birds disporting themselves amid some low bushes near a plantation of loquat trees. First one little bird, then another, then a third, a fourth, a fifth, etc., dropped to the ground, only to return at once to the bush whence they came. A whole flock appeared to be taking part in this pastime. There were two continuous streams, one of descending and the other of ascending white-eyes. These might have been little fluffy, golden balls with which some unseen person was playing.
When the heat of the day is at its zenith, white-eyes, like most birds in India, enjoy a siesta. At this hour little gatherings of them may be seen, each bird huddled against its neighbours on some bough of a leafy tree.
At the nesting season the white-eye sings most sweetly. The ordinary cheeping note then becomes glorified into something resembling the lay of the canary; less powerful, but equally pleasing to the ear.
The nest of the white-eye is a neat little cup, or, as Mr. A. Anderson describes it, a hollow hemisphere. It is a miniature of the oriole’s nursery. It is large for the size of the bird, being usually over two inches in diameter. Some nests are fully two inches deep, while others are quite shallow. It is composed of fine fibres (i.e. grass stems, slender roots, moss, and seed down) and cotton, bound together by cobweb, which is the cement most commonly used by bird masons. The nursery is invariably provided with a lining. In one nest that I found, this lining consisted of human hair. Other lining materials are silky down, hair-like moss and fern-roots, and grass fibres so fine that the horsehairs which are sometimes utilised look quite coarse beside them. The most wonderful thing about the nest of this pretty little bird is the manner in which it is attached to its supports. I have called it a miniature of the oriole’s nursery, because it is usually suspended from two or more branches by cotton fibres. I once came upon a nest which was attached to but one slender branch, and to the tip of this. The end was worked into the structure of the nest so that the whole looked like a ladle with a very thin handle. It seemed incredible that so slight a branch could support the nest and its contents.
I have not been fortunate enough to watch the white-eye building its nest. Mr. A. Anderson states that the pair—for both the cock and the hen take part in nest construction—“set to work with cobwebs, and having first tied together two or three leafy twigs to which they intend to attach their nest, they then use the fine fibre of the sunn (Crotalaria juncea), with which material they complete the outer fabric of their very beautiful and compact nest. As the work progresses, more cobwebs and fibre of a silky kind are applied externally, and at times the nest, when tossed about by the wind (sometimes at a considerable elevation), would be mistaken by a casual observer for an accidental collection of cobwebs. The inside of the nest is well felted with the down of the madar plant, and then it is finally lined with fine hair and grass stems of the softest kind.” The nest is usually situated within three or four feet of the ground, but is sometimes placed at much higher elevations.
In South India, the time to look for white-eyes’ nests is from January to March. In the north, the majority of nests are found between April and June.
The eggs are a beautiful pale blue. Most commonly only two seem to be laid. There are, however, many cases on record of three and a few of four eggs. This is an unusually small clutch. Nevertheless it is unlikely that a pair of white-eyes bring up more than two broods in the year. These facts, when taken in conjunction with the wide distribution of the species, indicate that the white-eye meets with exceptional success in rearing its young. The nest is usually well concealed in the depths of a leafy bush. Squirrels and lizards must find the suspended nursery difficult of access. In addition to this we must bear in mind that white-eyes are plucky little creatures. Mr. Ball describes how he saw one of them attacking a rose-finch, a vastly more powerful bird, and drive it away from the flowers of the mohwa, which form a favourite hunting-ground of the white-eye.
As I have repeatedly stated, pugnacity is a more valuable asset than protective colouration in the struggle for existence.
Lastly, the white-eye appears able to thrive under greatly varying conditions of climate.
These advantages possessed by white-eyes, I think, explain why the clutch of eggs is so small.
White-eyes make excellent pets. They will live amicably along with amadavats in a cage. Finn is my authority for saying that soft fruit, bread and milk, and small insects are all the food required by white-eyes, and they are so easy to keep that many specimens are sent to Europe.
The goose, like certain ladies who let lodgings, has seen better times. It is a bird that has come down in the world. For some reason which I have never been able to discover, it is nowadays the object of popular ridicule. It is commonly set forth as the emblem of foolishness. Invidious comparisons are proverbially drawn between it and its more handsome cousin, the swan. The modern bards vie with one another in blackening its character. As Phil Robinson says, “It does not matter who the poet is—he may be anyone between a Herbert and a Butler—the goose is a garrulous fool, et præterea nihil.” Well may the bird cry O tempora! O mores! It has indeed fallen upon evil days. Things were not ever thus. Time was when men held the goose in high esteem. Livy was loud in his praises of the bird. Pliny was an ardent admirer thereof. The Romans used to hold a festival in honour of the feathered saviour of the Capitol. The degradation of the goose is, I fear, a matter of looks. Its best friend can scarcely call it handsome. It is built for natation rather than perambulation; nevertheless it spends much time out of water and feeds chiefly on terra firma. It is probably a bird that is undergoing evolution, a bird that is changing its habits. It has taken to a more or less terrestrial existence, but has not yet lost what I may perhaps call the aquatic waddle. While walking it looks as though it might lose its balance at any moment. As a matter of fact, the goose is no mean pedestrian, and is capable of performing considerable journeys on foot. When pressed, it can show a fine turn of speed. This I have had some opportunity of observing in the Zoological Gardens at Lahore. A crane (Grus antigone) is confined in the water-birds’ enclosure along with the ducks, geese, pelicans, etc. Now, cranes are the most frolicsome and playful of birds. In no other fowl is the sense of humour more highly developed. The crane in question continually indulges in “cake walks,” and cuts other mad capers. Sometimes it is seized with the impulse to “clear the decks,” that is to say, the banks of the ornamental pond. The operation is conducted as follows: The crane opens out its wings, takes two wild jumps into the air, then rushes at the nearest duck or goose, with wings expanded, looking as though it were going through one of the figures of the serpentine dance. The frightened duck flees before the crane; the latter keeps up the chase until the duck takes refuge in the water. Having succeeded in its object, the crane trumpets loudly and performs a dance which a Red Indian on the war-path could scarcely hope to emulate. It next turns its attention to some other inoffensive duck or goose. It is while being thus chased that pinioned geese show a fine turn of speed. Fly they cannot, so they sprint with expanded wings.
The goose is a great favourite of mine. The more one sees of the bird the more one likes it and appreciates its good qualities. It is a creature of character. It rapidly forms attachments, and will sometimes follow about, like a dog, the person to whom it has taken a fancy. A curious instance of this was recorded many years ago by The Yorkshire Gazette. A gander belonging to a farmer developed a liking for an old gentleman. The bird used to go every morning from the farmyard to the house of the said elderly gentleman and awake him by its cries. It would then accompany him the whole day in his walks and strut behind him in the most frequented streets, unmindful of the screams of the urchins by whom the strange pair were often followed. When the old gentleman sat down to rest the gander used to squat at his feet. When they were approaching a seat on which the old man was accustomed to sit the gander used to run on ahead and signify by cackling and flapping of wings that the resting-place was reached. When anyone annoyed the old gentleman the gander would express its displeasure by its cries and sometimes by biting. When its friend went into an inn to take a glass of ale, the bird used to follow him inside if permitted; if not allowed to do so, it would wait outside for him.
One should not of course accept as gospel truth everything one reads in a newspaper. It is necessary to discriminate. Thus, when a well-known weekly journal produces a picture of the ladies of a Sultan’s harem dancing unveiled before a distinguished company of gentlemen, one begins to wonder whether truth really is stranger than fiction. However, I see no reason to doubt the substantial accuracy of the story of the Yorkshire gander. The goose is an exceptionally intelligent bird and is very easily tamed. I once made friends with a goose in the Zoological Gardens at Lahore. It was a white, bazaar-bred bird. Whenever it saw me it used to walk up to the fence and emit a low note of welcome. I was able to distinguish that particular bird from the other geese by the fact that a piece had been broken off its upper mandible.
I am glad to notice that Mr. W. H. Hudson, one of the leading British ornithologists, has a high opinion of the goose. In his Birds and Man he gives a delightful account of the home-coming of a flock of tame geese led by a gander. He writes: “Arrived at the wooden gate of the garden in front of the cottage, the leading bird drew up square before it, and with repeated loud screams demanded admittance. Pretty soon in response to the summons, a man came out of the cottage, walked briskly down the garden-path and opened the gate, but only wide enough to put his right leg through; then placing his foot and knee against the leading bird he thrust him roughly back; as he did so three young geese pressed forward and were allowed to pass in; then the gate was slammed in the face of the gander and the rest of his followers, and the man went back to the cottage. The gander’s indignation was fine to see, though he had probably experienced the same rude treatment on many previous occasions. Drawing up before the gate again, he called more loudly than before; then deliberately lifted a leg, and placing his broad webbed foot like an open hand against the gate, actually tried to push it open. His strength was not sufficient, but he continued to push and call until the man returned to open the gate and let the birds go in.”
If only for his sturdy independence and his insistence on his rights the gander is a bird whose character is worthy of study. He is courageous too; so is his wife. She will stand up fearlessly to a boy, a kite, or even a fox, when her brood is threatened. Last year in the Lahore Zoological Gardens a goose hatched a number of goslings. The kites regarded these as fair game, and, in spite of the efforts of the mother, carried off several of the young birds. Thereupon four ganders took counsel and constituted themselves a bodyguard for the goose and chicks, one or more of them being always on duty. In spite of this a kite managed to secure another gosling. The mother and her remaining five chicks were then placed in a cage; notwithstanding this, the ganders still maintained their guard and cried loudly whenever a human being approached the cage containing the brood.
The goose, like the swan, uses its wing as a weapon. When it attacks it stretches its neck and head low along the ground and hisses; it then dashes at its adversary, seizes him with beak and claws, and lays on to him right well with its powerful wings.
Here endeth the account of “Goosey, Goosey Gander.” I must apologise to the geese in their natural state for having completely ignored them. We will make amends by indulging in a wild-goose chase at an early date!
Seven or eight species of goose have been recorded as winter visitors to India. With two exceptions they honour us with their presence only on rare occasions, and do not really form part and parcel of our Indian avifauna. The exceptions are the grey lag goose and the barred-headed goose, which visit India every winter in their millions. It is these that form the subject of this essay. It is difficult for the dweller in the south to realise how abundant geese are in Northern India throughout the cold weather. Flocks of them fly overhead so frequently that they scarcely attract notice. Each flight looks like a great trembling, quivering V, floating in the air, a V of which the angle is wide and one limb frequently longer than the other. During flight geese are distinguishable from cranes and storks by this V-shaped formation, and by the fact that they never sail on expanded wings; they progress by means of a steady, regular motion of the pinions, and are able to cover long distances in short time. Geese on the wing are distinguishable from the smaller species of duck by their larger size, and from Brahminy ducks (Casarca rutila) by their lighter colour. Moreover, the curious note of this last species is very different from the cackle of geese. Brahminy ducks go about in couples; geese fly in flocks.
Like most birds which breed in the far north, geese are largely nocturnal; their cries as they fly overhead are among the commonest of the sounds which break the stillness of the winter night in Upper India. They feed mainly in the hours of darkness, and do a certain amount of damage to the young wheat; nor do they leave their feeding ground until the sun is high in the heavens, when they repair to a river bank or shallow lake, where they love to bask in the sun, all with the head tucked under the wing, save one or two who do duty as sentinels.
The grey lag goose of India is, I believe, identical with the wild goose of England. This is a belief not shared by everyone. For over a century this species has been the plaything of the systematist. Linnæus classed ducks and geese as one genus—Anas. This goose he called Anas anser, the goose-duck. But it was soon recognised that ducks and geese are not sufficiently nearly related to form a common genus; hence, the geese were formed into the genus Anser, and the grey lag goose was then called Anser cinereus, the ashy-coloured goose, a not inappropriate name, although the bird is brown rather than grey. But the name was not allowed to stand. For some reason or other it was changed to Anser ferus. Then it was altered to Anser anser—the goosey goose, presumably meaning the goose par excellence. Then Salvadori discovered, or thought that he discovered, that the grey lag geese of the East are not quite like those of the West; he therefore made two species of the bird, calling the Indian variety Anser rubirostris, the red-billed goose. Alphéraky denies the alleged difference. The result is that the bird has some half-dozen names, each of which has its votaries. It is this kind of thing which deprives classical nomenclature of all its utility. Until ornithologists learn to grasp the simple fact that the external appearance of every living creature is the result of two sets of forces, internal or hereditary, and external or the influence of environment, they will always be in difficulty over species. Englishmen who dwell in sunny climates get browned by the sun, yet no one dreams of making a separate species of sun-burned Englishmen. Why, then, do so in the case of birds whose external appearance is slightly altered by their environment?
Even as scientific men have toyed with the Latin name of the bird, so have compositors played with its English name. Nine out of ten of them flatly decline to call it the grey lag goose; they persist in setting it down as the grey leg goose. If the bird’s legs were grey this would not matter. Unfortunately they are not. In extenuation of the conduct of the compositor there is the fact that etymologists are unable to agree as to the meaning and derivation of the word lag.
The other common species of goose is the barred-headed goose (Anser indicus). This is not found in Europe. It is a grey bird, more so than the grey lag goose, with two black bands across the back of the head. The upper one runs from eye to eye, the lower is parallel to, but shorter than, the upper bar. The back of the neck is black and the sides white. There is some black in the wings. The bill and feet are yellow. Both these species of goose are a little smaller than the domestic bird.
Geese are very wary creatures, and possess plenty of intelligence. They all seem to know intuitively the range of a gun, and as they object to being peppered with No. 2, or any other kind of shot, it is necessary for the sportsman to have recourse to guile if he would make a bag. It is this which makes shooting them such good sport. Every bird obtained has to be worked for. By rising very early in the morning the gunner may sometimes get a shot at them while they are feeding. They seem to be less wary then than later in the day. Sometimes, when riding at sunrise, I have suddenly found myself within forty yards of a flock of geese feeding in a field.
They usually indulge in their midday siesta in an open place, and invariably post sentinels. For this reason they do not give one much opportunity of observing them. They cannot, or pretend they cannot, distinguish between the naturalist and the sportsman. In this, perhaps, they are wise. Their intelligence has, I think, been exaggerated. Last winter, when punting down the Jumna, I noticed a flock of geese resting on the moist sand at the water’s edge. Behind them was a semi-circular sandbank, some fifteen feet in height. This bank sheltered the geese from the wind. Birds, like ladies, object to having their feathers ruffled. It occurred to me that owing to the sandbank one could approach quite near to the flock unobserved. Knowing that geese are creatures of habit, I counted on the flock being at the identical spot next day. Consequently, I returned the following morning and approached on all fours from the sandbank side, and was rewarded by securing a barred-headed goose. I repeated the operation on the following day, and again bagged a goose. The third day I was unable to visit the place, so sent a friend, who was only prevented from slaying a goose by the fact that two Brahminy ducks in mid-stream saw him approaching and gave the alarm. We left the camp the next day. I do not, therefore, know whether the geese continued to frequent that danger-fraught sandbank. The fact that they allowed themselves to be caught napping thrice shows that they have not quite so much intelligence as some people credit them with. For all that, the goose is no fool.
I commend the common peafowl (Pavo cristatus) to the Indian patriot, for it is a true Swadeshi bird. It is made in India and nowhere else. The beastly foreigner does, indeed, produce a cheap imitation in the shape of Pavo muticus—the Javan peafowl; but with this the patriotic Indian bird will have nothing to do. The two species are very like in appearance, the most noticeable difference being in the shape of the crest; that of the Indian species is like an expanded fan, while the cranial ornament of the Javan species resembles a closed fan. Notwithstanding their similarity they do not interbreed when brought together. This, I am aware, was not Jerdon’s view. He stated that hybrids between the two species were not rare in aviaries. In this particular instance Jerdon, mirabile dictu, seems to have been wrong; he probably mistook the japanned variety of the common bird for a hybrid. My experience tends to show that the two species will not interbreed. Caste feeling evidently runs high.
Peafowl are distributed all over India; they occur in most localities suited to their habits, that is to say where there is plenty of cover, good crops, and abundance of water. They are very plentiful in the Himalayan terai, where they are a source of annoyance to the sportsman. You are sitting in your machan, listening to the approaching line of beaters. Presently there is a rustle among the fallen leaves; a creature is making its way through the undergrowth. You listen intently, and perceive with satisfaction that the moving object is coming towards your machan. You are now all attention, and grasp your rifle in such a manner that it can, in an instant, be brought to your shoulder. Then, to your disgust, a peacock emerges with a good-morning-have-you-used-Pear’s-soap air. When, after about half a dozen of these false alarms, a bear appears, you are, as likely as not, unprepared for him.
In many parts of Northern India, notably in those districts through which the Jumna and Ganges run, peafowl are accounted sacred by the Hindu population. If you shoot one in such a locality the villagers have a disagreeable way of turning out en masse, armed with lathis. The reverence for the peacock is curiously local. In one village the people will invite you to shoot the birds on account of the damage they do to the crops; while the inhabitants of a village at a distance of less than a hundred miles will send a wire to the Lieutenant-Governor if you so much as point a gun at the sacred fowl. I once camped in a district where peafowl were exceptionally numerous, and on this account I concluded that they were venerated by the populace. But, sacred or not, I hold that there is nothing to equal a young peafowl as a table bird, so I used to mark down the trees in which the pea-chicks roosted, and return to the spot with a gun, after the shades of night had fallen. Having shot a sleeping bird I smuggled it into camp in order not to offend the village folk. After having taken these precautions for about two months I learned that the people entertained no objection whatever to the birds being shot! Peafowl are objects of veneration in all the Native States of Rajputana. These are strongholds of orthodox Hinduism. Nilgai, even, may not be shot, because the Pundits, not being zoological experts, labour under the delusion that these ungainly antelope are kine.
In some parts of India peafowl may be seen in a state of semi-domestication and are regularly fed by temple keepers. The drawback to the peacock as a domestic bird is that he renders the night hideous by his cries, which resemble those of an exceptionally lusty cat. Blanford, I notice, called them “sonorous.” There is no accounting for taste. In my opinion, peafowl should be seen and not heard.
The peacock, like the ostrich, is almost omnivorous; it feeds chiefly upon grain, buds, and shoots of grass, but it is not averse to insects, and will devour many of these, which are generally supposed to be inedible and so warningly coloured. Lizards and snakes complete a varied menu.
The peafowl is a bird of considerable interest to the zoologist, as it affords a striking example of sexual dimorphism. In plain English, the cock differs greatly from the hen in appearance. In some species, such as the myna, the crow, and the blue jay, the cock is indistinguishable from the hen. In others, as, for example, the sparrow, the sexes differ slightly in appearance. In others, again, the cock differs from the hen as the sun does from the moon. The peafowl is one of these.
Zoologists have for years been trying to find out why in some species the cock resembles the hen while in others it does not. Humiliating though it be, we must, if we are honest, admit that we are little, if any, nearer the explanation of the phenomenon than we were a couple of centuries ago. Darwin thought that the pretty plumage of the males was due to selection on the part of the females. He tried to prove that hens are able to pick and choose their mates, that they have a keen eye for beauty. Just as political economists of Ricardo’s school teach us that every man marries the richest woman who will have him, so does Darwin ask us to believe that hens always mate with the best-looking of their suitors, that they quiz each with the eye of an art critic, and pronounce judgment somewhat as follows: “Number one is no class; his train is too short. I would not be seen dead beside number two; he looks as though he had issued from a fifth-rate dyer’s shop. I’ll take number three, he is the pick of the bunch.” Darwin argued that the showy cocks are fully alive to their good looks, and know how to show them off to best advantage. There is much to be said in favour of his theory. A peacock, when he sees a hen that he admires, promptly turns his back upon her, erects his great train and his paltry little tail which is hidden away underneath. He then spreads out his feathers and suddenly faces the hen, flapping his wings, and causing every feather in his body to quiver with a curious noise, so that he appears to be seized with a shivering fit. The hen either affects not to notice him, or assumes an air of studied boredom. Unfortunately for Darwin’s theory, peacocks sometimes show off in the absence of other living creatures. Moreover, a young cock with a train of which a magpie would be ashamed will strut about and show off with the greatest pride.
There are in the “Zoo” at Lahore a number of albino peacocks. These, although handsome birds, are not so beautiful as the coloured variety, being a uniform white; nevertheless they are exceedingly popular with the hens, and experience no difficulty in cutting out all the coloured beaux. It is very naughty of the hens to prefer the albinos, for by so doing they deal a severe blow to the theory of sexual selection. Stolzman has quite another hypothesis to account for the superior beauty of the male. As any “suffragette” will tell you, the male is a more or less superfluous being; the world would get along much better if he were less plentiful. Hence, in the interests of the race, it is necessary that the numbers of the pernicious creature should be strictly limited. Nature has, therefore, arrayed cock-birds in coats of many colours so that they shall be easily seen and devoured by beasts of prey! Wallace, again, thinks that the comparatively sombre hues of the hen are due to her greater need of protection, as it is she who does all the incubating. An objection to this view is the well-known fact that many showy cocks sit on the eggs turn-about with the dull-coloured hens in open and exposed nests.
Peafowl are polygamous. The breeding season begins in May and continues all through the hot weather. The typical nest is described as “a broad depression scratched by the hen, and lined with a few leaves and twigs or a little grass.” It is usually made amongst thick grass or in dense bushes, but occasionally there is no attempt at concealment. Mr. A. Anderson states that peahens frequently lay at high elevations, that he has on several occasions taken their eggs from the roofs of huts of deserted villages on which rank vegetation grew to a height of two or three feet. My experience of captive birds bears out this. The peahens in the Lahore “Zoo” lay all their eggs on a broad shelf in their aviary, some fifteen feet above the level of the ground. Seven or eight eggs of a dirty white hue are laid. These are, in the words of Hume, “delicious eating.”
Poets, naturalists, essayists, and novelists have with one accord and from time immemorial extolled the English spring. In this particular instance their eulogies are justified, for spring in England is like a wayward maiden: when she does choose to be amiable, she is so amiable that her past perverseness is at once forgiven. But why do not Anglo-Indian writers sing to the glories of the Indian autumn? Is it not worthy of all praise? It is the season which corresponds most nearly to spring in England, and is as much longed for. Even as spring chases away the gloomy, cheerless English winter, so does autumn drive away the Indian hot weather, unpleasant everywhere, and terrible in the plains of the Punjab and the United Provinces. Those condemned to live in Portland Gaol probably suffer fewer physical discomforts than they who spend the summer in any part of the plains of Northern India. First, weeks of a furnace-like heat, when to breathe seems an effort; then a long spell of close, steamy heat, so that the earth seems to have become a great washhouse. From this the Anglo-Indian emerges, limp, listless, and languid. How great, then, is his joy when one day he notices a suspicion of coolness in the air. Day by day this coolness grows more appreciable, so that by late September or early October to take an early-morning stroll becomes a pleasure. Then the sky is bluer, the atmosphere is clearer, the foliage is greener than at any other time of the year. Then at eventide the village smoke hangs low, looking like a thin blue semi-transparent cloud resting lightly on the earth—a sure sign of the approaching cold weather. Then, too, the winter birds begin to appear.
Even as the cuckoo is welcomed in England as the harbinger of the sweet spring, so in Northern India is the redstart looked for as the herald of the glorious cold weather. Within a week of the first sight of that sprightly little bird will come the day when punkahs cease to be a necessity. Last year (1907) the hot weather lingered long, and the redstarts were late in coming. It was not until the 27th September that I observed one at Lahore.
Several species of redstart are found within Indian limits, but only one of them haunts the plains, and so thoroughly deserves the name of the Indian redstart (Ruticilla rufiventris). This species visits India in hundreds of thousands from September to April.
I have observed it in the city of Madras, but so far south as that it is not common, being a mere straggler to those parts. In the Punjab and the United Provinces, however, it is exceedingly numerous. Throughout the cold weather at least one pair take up their abode in every compound.
The Indian redstart is a sexually dimorphic species, that is to say the cock differs from the hen in appearance; the former, moreover, is seasonally dimorphic. The feathers of his head, neck, breast, and back are black with grey fringes. In the autumn and early winter the grey edges completely obliterate the black parts, so that the bird looks grey. But during the winter the grey edges gradually become worn away, and the black portions then show, so that by the middle of the summer the cock redstart is a black bird. Thus he remains until transformed by the autumnal moult. His under parts are deep orange, and his lower back and all the tail feathers, except the middle pair, are brick-red. Now, when the tail is unexpanded the two middle caudal feathers are folded over the others, and hide them from view, and, as the lower back is covered by the wings, the red parts are not visible when the bird walks about looking for food; but the moment it takes to its wings all the red feathers become displayed, so that the bird, as it flies away, looks as though its plumage were almost entirely red. Hence the name redstart—“start” being an old English word for tail. Another popular name for the bird is firetail.
Two species of redstart visit England, and these also are characterised by reddish tails. The hen Indian redstart is reddish brown where the cock is grey or black, and red where he is red. The gradual change in colour undergone by the cock redstart every year is instructive, because it seems to show that the bird is even now undergoing evolution. I think it likely that the feathers of the cock were at one time uniformly grey and that they are becoming a uniform black. The tendency seems to be for the grey margin to become narrower. It will probably eventually disappear. In some birds it is so narrow that much black shows even after the autumn moult; in others the margin is so broad that it never disappears. What is causing this change in plumage? It cannot be the need for protection. The incipient blackness is probably an indirect result of either natural or sexual selection. Thus birds with black bases to their feathers may be either more robust or have stronger sexual instincts than those which have scarcely any black. In the former case natural selection, and in the latter sexual selection, will tend to preserve those individuals which have the least grey in their feathers. This idea of the connection between colour and strength is not mere fancy. Cuckoo-coloured (barred-grey) birds are very common among ordinary fowls, but are, I believe, never seen among Indian gamecocks. Grey plumage seems to be inconsistent with fighting propensities. Black, on the other hand, seems to be a good fighting colour. Most black-plumaged birds, as, for example, the king crow, the various members of the crow tribe, and the coot, are exceedingly pugnacious.
Redstarts live largely on the ground, from which they pick their food. This appears to consist exclusively of tiny insects. They sometimes hawk their quarry on the wing. They are usually found near a hedge or thicket, into which they take refuge when disturbed. They show but little fear of man, and, consequently, frequent gardens. They occasionally perch on the housetop. Indeed, they are quite robin-like in their habits, and the species, thanks to its reddish abdomen, looks more like the familiar English robin than does the Indian robin.
The Indian redstart, like all its family, has a peculiar quivering motion of its tail, which is especially noticeable immediately after it has alighted on a perch; hence its Hindustani name, Thir-thira, the trembler. Its Telugu name is said to be Nuni-budi-gadu—the oil-bottle bird—a name of which I am unable to offer any explanation. Eurasian boys call it the “devil bird,” for reasons best known to themselves.
The redstart stays in India until May, when it goes into Tibet and Afghanistan to breed. A few individuals are said to spend the summer in India. There are in the British Museum specimens supposed to have been shot at Sambhar in July and Ahmednagar in June. I have never observed this bird in India between the end of May and the beginning of September, and am inclined to think that the above dates have been incorrectly recorded.