Part 20

LOVE AND COURTSHIP AMONG BIRDS.

An irresistible instinct, an all-compelling law of nature, moves every living creature to seek a mate of its own species but of opposite sex, to unite a second existence with its own, to awaken responsive emotions through complete self-surrender, and thus to form the closest bond which links being to being, life to life. No power is strong enough to set aside this law, no command authoritative enough to influence it. Yielding to no hindrance this instinct overcomes every obstacle, and presses victorious to its goal.

The almighty power through which this law works we call Love, when we speak of its influence on man; we describe it as Instinct when we discuss its operation on the lower animals. But this is a mere play upon words, nothing more; unless by the former word we intend to imply that every natural instinct in man should by man himself be ennobled and moralized. If it be not so, it will be difficult to distinguish between the two. Man and beast are subject to the same law, but the beast yields it a more absolute obedience. The animal does not weigh or reflect, but gives itself up without resistance to the sway of love, which man often fondly imagines he can withstand or escape.

Of course, he who ventures at the outset to dispute man’s belonging to the animal world at all, sees in an animal nothing more than a machine which is moved and guided, stimulated to action, incited to sue for the favour of the opposite sex, impelled to songs of rejoicing, provoked to combat with rivals, by forces outside of itself; and, naturally enough, he denies to such a machine all freedom and discretion, all conflict between opposing motives, all emotional and intellectual life. Without raising himself by thus claiming a monopoly of intelligent action, or at least of intellectual freedom, he degrades the lower animals to false creations of his own hollow vanity, suggesting that they lead a seeming rather than a real life, and that they are without any of the joys of existence.

An exactly contrary position would be undoubtedly more just, as it certainly is more accurate. Indeed, it is scarcely too much to say that he who refuses to credit the lower animals with intelligence raises anxiety on the score of his own, and that he who denies them all emotional life has himself no experience of what emotional life is. Whoever observes without prejudice is sooner or later forced to admit that the mental activity of all animal beings, diverse as its expression may be, is based upon the same laws, and that every animal, within its own allotted life-circle and under the same circumstances, thinks, feels, and acts like any other, and is not, in contrast to man, impelled to quite definite actions by so-called higher laws. The causes of the actions of animals may perhaps be termed laws, but, if so, we must not forget that man is subject to the same. His intellect may enable him to make some of these laws of nature subservient to his purposes, to modify others, sometimes even to evade them, but never to break or annul them.

Let me attempt to prove the correctness of these opinions by giving examples to show how essentially the expressions of life in man and in the lower animals may resemble each other, how both are alike all-powerfully influenced by the most important of the laws of nature, that which has for its aim, or its consequence, the continuance of the species. Man and bird: how wide the gulf which separates them and their lives! how vast the differences between their habits and behaviour! Is there a power which can bridge over this gulf? Are conditions conceivable which can incite them to essentially similar expressions of life? We shall see.

The birds are more unreservedly dependent on the rotation of the seasons than man is. “They sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns”, and they must perforce adapt themselves to the seasons if they are to find sufficient food, if they are to live at all. Therefore they blossom in spring, bring forth their fruits in summer, conceal these and themselves in autumn, and rest in winter like the motherly earth. The chapters of their life-history are closely bound up with the seasonal progress of the year.

In this respect they are indeed governed by an iron law which, within a certain limit, renders anything like freedom and caprice impossible. But whither should spontaneity tend save to want and misery, to the imperilling of their own lives and those of their young? So they bow submissively to nature’s law, and enjoy, in consequence, a freedom which we men might envy them, and should envy them, were we not more capable of withdrawing ourselves from the influence of the seasons than they. But do not we also blossom in spring, and rest in winter? And must not we, too, bow before iron necessity?

If the birds are in bondage in certain respects, they preserve their freedom and power of choice in others, and they exercise both more joyously and unrestrainedly than man himself.

No bird voluntarily renounces the joys of love; very few evade the bonds of marriage; but everyone seeks to attain to and enjoy love as early as possible. Before it has laid aside its youthful dress the young bird has learnt to recognize and respect the distinctions of sex; much earlier than that, the young male fights with his fellows as if in boyish wantonness; as soon as he is full-grown he woos ardently and persistently some female of his own species. No male bird condemns himself to bachelorhood, no female bird hardens her heart against a deserving suitor. For lack of a mate, the male wanders restlessly and aimlessly over land and sea; for a worthy mate the female forgets pain and oppressive grief, however deep these may have been; for the wooer who seems to her most worthy she breaks even her conjugal bonds.

Every female bird attains to the possession of a husband, but not every male readily succeeds in gaining a wife. Even among birds so great a good must be sought after and striven for. On an average, there are more males than females, and many males are obliged to suffer the severest misfortune which can befall them, and to live, at least temporarily, unmated. For the great majority of birds, celibacy is a state of torment from which they strive with all their strength to escape. So they traverse wide tracts in search of a mate, seeking diligently, and when they imagine they have found one, wooing with equal ardour, whether she be maid, wife, or widow. If these wanderings were usually fruitless, they would not take place so regularly as they do.

In wooing their mates, the males exhaust all the charms with which nature has endowed them. According to his species and capacity each brings his best gifts into play, each seeks to show his best side, to reveal all his amiability, to surpass in brilliance others of his kind. This desire increases with the hope of fulfilment; his love intoxicates him, throws him into ecstasies. The older he is the more remarkably does he conduct himself, the more self-confident does he appear, the more impetuously does he strive for the reward of love. The proverb, “There are no fools like old fools”, does not apply in his case, for it is but rarely that age condemns him to weakness and incapacity; on the contrary, it strengthens all his capabilities and increases his energy by mature experience. Little wonder then that at least the younger females prefer the older males, and that these woo, if not more ardently, at least more confidently than their younger rivals.

The means by which a male bird declares his love and conducts his courtship are very various, but, naturally, they always accord with his most prominent gifts. One woos with his song, another with his wings, this one with his bill, and that with his foot; one displays all the magnificence of his plumage, another some special decoration, and a third some otherwise unused accomplishment. Serious birds indulge in play and joke and dignified pranks; silent ones chatter, quiet ones become restless, gentle ones combative, timid ones bold, cautious ones careless: in short, all show themselves in an unwonted light. Their whole nature appears changed, for all their movements are more active, more excited than usual, and their conduct differs from their ordinary behaviour in every respect; they are possessed by an intoxication which increases the elasticity of their nature to such a degree that no flagging is ever perceptible. They deprive themselves of sleep, or reduce it to a minimum without weariness, and while awake they exert all their powers to the utmost without fatigue.

All birds with a voice utter clear, articulate notes in their courtship, and their song is nothing more than a supplication or exultation of love. Our poet’s words:

“Hushed is the nightingale’s lay, Which gladdened our hearts in spring; ’Tis only in love’s heyday That we hear its minstrels sing”,

are literally true; for the song of the nightingale, and those of all other birds which delight us with their lays, begin with the first stirrings of love, and come to an end when the intoxication is past, and other emotions and cares have taken its place. Singing, the bird flies forth on his quest for a mate; in song he tells the female of his approach, and invites her to join him; in passionate song he gives expression to his delight when he has found her, and to his desires, and longings, and hopes; through his song he reveals his strength, and exalts his own bliss to the heavens; and through it, too, he challenges all other males of his species who would presume to disturb his happiness. Only so long as he is inspired by the intoxication of love is the bird’s song full of fire and strength, and if he sing at other times, his lay is certainly a reminiscence of the great joy which once was his. Whoever maintains, as has really been maintained, that a bird sings without any personal feeling whatever, that it sings at a given time simply because it must, and that at another time it could not if it would, has never understood, or sought to understand, the song of birds, but has simply given petulant expression to his own prejudice. A dispassionate observer must soon perceive that a bird’s song, though it remains essentially the same, varies with every emotion, that it flows quietly on, ascends, bursts out triumphantly, and dies away again, according to the prevailing mood, and that it awakens an echo in the breast of other males. If the view referred to were correct, each bird would sing exactly like every other of the same species; it would pour forth its appointed lay as mechanically as a musical box emits the tunes plugged up in its rotating cylinder; none could change or improve his song, or strive to surpass his fellows. Our own view is exactly the opposite, for we are convinced that a bird sings with perfect consciousness, that in his song he lays bare his soul. He is a poet, who, within his own limits, invents, creates, and struggles for utterance; and the motive throughout is love for the opposite sex. Dominated by this love, the jay sings, whistles, and murmurs, the magpie chatters, the croaking raven transforms its rough sounds into gentle, soft notes, the usually silent grebe lets its voice be heard, the diver sings its wild yet tuneful ocean-song, the bittern dips its bill under water that the only cry at its command may become a dull, far-sounding booming. A bird does indeed sing only at a certain season, but it is not because it cannot do so at other times, but because it has then no inducement, no inclination to sing. It is silent when it no longer loves; to speak more prosaically, when the pairing-time is past. This is clearly proved in the case of the familiar cuckoo. Three-fourths of the year go by and its call is not once heard; spring comes round in the revolution of the seasons and it sounds forth almost incessantly from early morning till late in the evening, as long as the pairing-time lasts. But it is silent sooner in the south than in the north, sooner in the plains than in the mountains, exactly corresponding to the brooding-time of the foster-parents, which begin their nest-building earlier, and finish the rearing of their young sooner in the south and in the plains than in the north and in the highlands.

During courtship many birds supplement their vocal efforts by pleasing movements, whether executed with the help of the wings or of the feet; others by peculiar attitudes in which they display themselves, or strut before the females; others, again, by special noises which they produce.

While a few falcons, and all owls, express their desires chiefly, if not exclusively, by means of loud cries, other birds of prey indulge, either alone or in company with their mates, in a magnificent play of wings, which is now a kind of round dance, and anon becomes a perfect frenzy. Eagles, buzzards, peregrine falcons, kestrels, and lesser kestrels circle round each other for hours at a time, ascend spirally to giddy heights, exercise, obviously to their mutual pleasure and satisfaction, all the arts of flight of which they are capable, utter shrill cries from time to time, spread out their plumage in the sunlight, and, finally, glide slowly down and assume a dignified sitting posture, there to resume their caressings. Kites, which behave in an essentially similar manner, let themselves suddenly down, with half-closed wings, from a very considerable height, until they are just over the ground, or a sheet of water, then begin, more quickly than usual, to describe a series of curves, remain hovering for some time over a particular spot, or execute other wonderful movements, then slowly soar again to their former height. Harriers fly for some time with apparent indifference behind the desired mate, then begin to circle round her, describe with her a series of intersecting curves, and, suddenly leaving her, soar, with head directed upwards, almost perpendicularly up to a considerable height, increasing, at the same time, the speed of their ordinarily leisurely flight to a surprising rapidity; then, tumbling precipitately over, fall with almost closed wings to near the ground, circle there once, twice, or oftener, ascend again and proceed as before, till at last the female makes up her mind to follow their example. But all these which we have mentioned are surpassed by the bateleur, or mountebank, a harrier about the size of an eagle, living in the interior of Africa, and one of the most remarkable of birds of prey in form and behaviour (p. 188). Its marvellous flight is at all times likely to attract the attention of observers, but during the pairing-time this becomes an incomparable mountebank performance in the air, a bewildering acrobatic display, which seems to unite in itself all the arts of flight practised by the other birds of prey.

Many other birds which are not specially skilful in flight act in much the same way as the wooing birds of prey. That they call in the aid of their wings when they strive to win the love of a mate, or wish to express their delight in a possession already won, is intelligible enough after what has been related. The swallow, sitting beside his desired or chosen mate, eagerly warbles his melodious lay; but the emotion within his breast is much too strong to allow him to sit still during the progress of his song, so he flies upwards, singing in his flight, and hovers and circles about the female who has followed him. The goatsucker sits for a time lengthwise on a bough, often at some distance from his mate, spins off his whirring strophes for some minutes, then rises, flies about his mate in graceful curves, flapping his wings, and calling to her such a tender “haït”, that one wonders how a sound so soft can possibly be produced by his rough throat. The bee-eater, whose voice is also unmelodious, sits for a long time on his perch, pressing closely to his mate, uttering scarcely a sound, sometimes none whatever, but apparently contenting himself with casting tender glances from his beautiful bright red eyes; but he, too, takes fire, moves his wings abruptly, rises high into the air, describes a circle, utters a jubilant cry, and returns to his mate, who has remained sitting where he left her. In the midst of its most ardent love-song--call it cooing, murmuring, moaning, or what you will--the dove breaks off suddenly as if inspired by its own music, then claps its wings loudly and sharply several times, soars aloft, spreads its wings and floats slowly down to a tree-top, there to begin its song anew. Tree-pipits and rock-pipits, white-throats, and garden warblers behave exactly like the doves; the wood-warblers precipitate themselves from their high perches without ceasing to sing, fly up again to another branch, where they finish their song, to begin it again a few minutes later, and bring it to a conclusion with a similar play of wings. Greenfinches, siskins, and common buntings, in the enthusiasm of love, tumble through the air as if they had no control over their wings; the larks soar to heaven singing their song of love; the serin behaves as if it had taken lessons from a bat.

A similar intoxication possesses those birds which declare their love by dancing. They, too, act contrary to all their usual habits during the dance, and fall finally into a transport which makes them almost forget the outside world. Few birds dance silently, most of them utter peculiar sounds, never heard at other times, at the same time displaying all their adornments, and often bringing the performance to a close with a sort of round dance.

Particularly zealous dancers are the scratchers or fowls in the widest acceptation of the term. Our domestic cock contents himself with strutting proudly about, crowing and flapping his wings; his companions in the yard, the peacock and the turkey, do more, for they dance. Much more vigorous dancers than either of these are all the grouse-like birds and some pheasants. Whoever has watched the dance of the capercaillie in the grey morning hours, has listened to the liquid cooing of the black-grouse, has seen the willow-grouse dancing on the snowy plains of the tundra in the dusk of a northern spring, will agree with me that such homage as these cocks offer to the hens must be as irresistible as that paid by our own peacock when he transforms his chief ornament into a canopy for his desired mate. More remarkable than all the rest is the behaviour of the male tragopans or horned pheasants of Southern Asia, magnificently decorative birds, distinguished by two brightly-coloured horn-like tubes of skin on the sides of the head, and by brilliantly-coloured extensible wattles. After the cock has walked round the hen several times without appearing to pay any attention to her, he stands still at a particular spot, and begins to bow. More and more quickly the courtesies follow each other, the horns meantime swelling and tossing, the wattles dilating and collapsing again, till all are literally flying about the head of the love-crazed bird. Now he unfolds and spreads his wings, rounds and droops his tail, sinks down with bent feet, and, spitting and hissing, lets his wings sweep along the ground. Suddenly every movement ceases. Bent low, his plumage ruffled, his wings and tail pressed against the ground, his eyes closed, his breathing audible, he remains for a while in motionless ecstasy. His fully-unfolded decorations gleam with dazzling brightness. Abruptly he rises again, spits and hisses, trembles, smooths his feathers, scratches, throws up his tail, flaps his wings, jerks himself up to his full height, rushes upon the female, and, suddenly checking his wild career, appears before her in olympic majesty, stands still for a moment, trembles, twitches, hisses, and all at once lets all his glory vanish, smooths his feathers, draws in his horns and wattles, and goes about his business as if nothing had happened.

With head slightly bent, with wings and tail spread out, the former moving tremulously, the wagtails trip with dainty steps about their chosen mates, bowing, advancing, and retreating again; the fire-finch looks like a brilliant flame of incense as he turns about, singing gaily and spreading his beautiful feathers in the sunlight, on the top of an ear of the Kaffir millet, among which he and his loved one have made their home; tenderly, with mouth pressed to mouth and breast to breast, like the children of men, the dove and his mate together execute a slow dance; the cranes dance passionately, with nimble leaps; not less ardently, even in sight of apparently admiring spectators, does the beautiful cock of the rock of Tropical America disport himself; even the condor, whose powers of flight are of the first order, who sails through the air thousands of feet above the highest peaks of the Andes, whom one would scarcely expect to conduct his wooing otherwise than with his wings, ventures on a little dance, and with head sunk upon his breast, and with wings fully spread, circles slowly and with mincing steps around his mate, to an accompaniment of strange drumming, murmuring sounds.

Other birds, again, instead of dancing, spring impetuously up and down, and hop hither and thither among the branches, at the same time displaying whatever beauty they possess: thus, the male birds-of-paradise assemble in crowds on certain trees during the early morning hours, and with the aforesaid movements and tremulous quivering of their wings, display their wonderful plumage in honour of the other sex. Others even build bower-like structures, which they decorate with all kinds of coloured, shimmering, and glittering objects, and within which they perform their dances. Finally, a few birds with no special accomplishments either of voice or of flight or of dance, make use of their bills to produce singular sounds. Thus all the storks woo by quickly clapping the two halves of the bill together, so producing a clatter which makes up for their lack of voice; thus, too, the woodpeckers hammer so fast on a dry tree-top or branch that the wood flies about in splinters, and a drumming sound is caused which resounds throughout the forest.

Although it cannot be said that the female coquettishly repels any advances and declarations of love, it is only in cases of necessity that she accepts a suitor without exercising selection. At first she listens to the tenderest love-songs apparently with the greatest indifference, and looks on unconcernedly at all the play of wings, the dances executed in her honour, and all the beauty displayed to do her homage. For the most part she behaves as if all the display of fascinations on the part of the males had no relation to her at all. Leisurely, and seemingly quite uninterested in their doings, she goes about her daily business of seeking food. In many, though by no means in all cases, she is ultimately enticed by the song in her glorification, the dances to her praise, but by no action does she give a sign of complaisant response. Many female birds, especially the hens of all polygamous species, do not even come to the “playing” grounds of the cocks, though they are anything but coy, and often by their inviting cries inflame the strutting cocks to the height of passion. If a male becomes more importunate than is agreeable to the female she takes refuge in flight. In very rare cases this may perhaps be meant in earnest, but it is usually continued with such energy and persistence that it is not always easy to determine whether it takes place without any secondary intention or whether it is merely a pretence. If it aims at nothing, it certainly achieves something: a heightening of the desire, a straining to the utmost of all the powers and resources of the wooing male. More excited than ever, regardless of all considerations, and bent only on attaining his object, he pursues the flying female as if he meant to force her to grant his suit; he sings with more fire, struts, dances, and plays with more agility than ever, and exercises his arts of flight whenever the female stops to rest, and more eagerly than ever he follows her if she takes to fresh flight.

Probably the females would be more compliant than they generally are if one male were the only suitor. But the fact that the males are in most species in the majority gives the female bird the boon of freedom of choice. Several males, sometimes even a considerable number of them, pay court to her at the same time, and thus justify her deliberation and selectiveness. Intentionally or unintentionally, she obeys the law of selection; among several she tries to pick out the best, the strongest, the healthiest, the most excellent in every respect. She can afford to be fastidious. The reaction of her conduct on the males finds expression in boundless jealousy, which results, not unnaturally, in prolonged, often mortal, combat. Every bird, harmless as he may appear to us, is a hero in fighting for his loved one, and everyone understands so well how to use the weapons he is provided with, whether bill, claws, spurred feet, or even wings armed with horny spines, that the battle in many cases comes to an end only with the death of one of the combatants.

The combat takes place in the air, on the ground, among the branches, or in the water, according to the species of bird. Eagles and falcons fight their adversaries in the air with beak and talons. Magnificent curves, rival flights to attain to a height suitable for attack, swift thrust, brilliant parry, mutual persecution and courageous persistence are the chief features of such duels. If one of the kingly champions succeeds in seizing his foe, the latter strikes his talons into his opponent’s breast, and both, unable properly to use their wings, fall whirling through the air. When the ground is reached the fight is, of course, interrupted; but, as soon as one rises, the other follows him, and hostilities begin anew. If one becomes exhausted, perhaps in consequence of wounds received, he beats a retreat, and, hotly pursued by the victor, flies hastily and without attempting resistance, beyond the limits of the domain which the female bird has chosen for herself; but, in spite of defeat, he does not finally relinquish the strife until she has declared decidedly in favour of the conqueror. Such duels sometimes, though not very often, have a fatal issue, for the eagle, whose jealousy is provoked by love and ambition, shows no mercy towards a conquered foe, but remorselessly kills the adversary who has been incapacitated for further combat or for flight. Even those apparently most harmless creatures, the swifts, occasionally kill their rivals, for in their struggles, which are precisely like those of the eagles and falcons, they strike their sharp claws into the breasts of their foes, and tear the flesh so that the death of the wounded one often results.

Among all birds with voices the combat is preceded by a definite challenge. Even the song of a singing bird is a weapon with which he may gain a bloodless victory; the pairing-cry, which so well expresses wooing, always excites jealousy. Whoever can imitate the call of the cuckoo may entice the usually cautious bird to the very tree under which he is standing. Whoever can adequately mimic the complex whistle of the golden oriole, the cooing of the wild pigeon and turtle-dove, the drumming of the woodpeckers--in a word, the wooing song or call-note of any bird--may achieve a similar result. When a second suitor appears on the scene he announces his arrival by calling or singing. But he soon proceeds to action; and thenceforward there rages between him and his rival a strife as violent as those already described. In mad fury, calling, screaming, and screeching, one chases the other hither and thither, high in mid-air or in lower strata of the atmosphere, between tree-tops or among the bushes, and just as in the pursuit of the female, so in this chase one male provokes the other to passionate rage by challenging calls, and even by song, by displaying his decorations, and by other mocking behaviour. If the pursuer succeeds in catching his flying foe, he pecks him so hard with his bill that the feathers fly about; if he lets him go, the pursued one turns in a trice and renews the attack; if neither gives way they maul one another thoroughly, whether they are in the air, among the branches, or on the ground. Among them, too, the struggle is finally abandoned only when the female declares for one or other of the combatants.

Ground-birds always fight on the ground, swimming-birds only in the water. How obstinately the gallinaceous birds may do battle is known to everyone who has watched two cocks fighting. Their duels, too, are a matter of life and death, though a fatal result does not often take place except when the natural weapons have been sharpened and the means of protection weakened by man’s cruel interference. Rival ostriches fight with their strong legs, and, striking forwards, tear deep wounds with their sharp toe-nails in the breast, body, and legs of their opponent. Jealous bustards, after spending a long time challenging each other with throat inflated, wings and tail outspread, and much grumbling and hissing, make use of their bills with very considerable effect. Sandpipers and other shore-birds, particularly the fighting ruffs, which fight about everything, about a mate or about a fly, about sun and light, or about their standing-ground, run against each other with bills like poised lances, and receive the thrusts among their breast-feathers, which in the case of the ruffs are developed into what serves as a shield. Coots rush at each other on an unsteady surface of water-plants, and strike each other with their legs. Swans, geese, and ducks chase each other till one of the combatants succeeds in seizing the other by the head and holding him under water, till he is in danger of suffocating, or at least until he is so much exhausted that he is unable to continue the struggle. Swans, like spur-winged birds, seem also to use the hard, sharp, thorn-like horny quills at the angle of the wing to give effective strokes.