Part 17

A colony of nesting martins presents a very animated appearance. The main body dash through the air to and fro in front of the cliff, uttering their feeble twittering, but a few are always at the nest holes, either resting or working. These latter are constantly reinforced from those on the wing, and vice versa, so that there are two streams of birds, one flying to the cliff and the other leaving it. Suddenly the whole flock, including both the resting and the flying birds, will, as if affected simultaneously by a common influence, fly off en masse and disappear from sight. But they are never absent for long. At the end of two or three minutes all are back again.

The birds utter unceasingly, when on the wing, a twittering note, not so harsh as that of the sparrow, but sufficiently harsh to make it appear that the birds are squabbling. A certain amount of bickering does take place among the sand-martins. Every now and again a bird may be observed chasing its neighbour in a very unneighbourly manner. Occasionally two will attack one another with open beak, and fall interlocked to the ground. A prettier sight is that of a couple of martins resting side by side at the orifice of the nest hole twittering lovingly to one another. The excavation that leads to the nest is a round passage, less than three inches in diameter. After proceeding inwards and slightly upwards for about two feet, it ends in a globular cavity of larger diameter. This is the nesting chamber, and is lined with grass, fine twigs, feathers, and the like. Two or three white eggs are laid. Sand-martins probably bring up more than one brood in the year. Their nests are likely to be found in all the winter months.

Cotile sinensis is a permanent resident in India and is common in all the northern portions of the country, but is not often seen so far south as Madras. It is curious that this species should be abundant in North India and rare in the south, where insect life is so plentiful. There must be something in the climatic conditions of South India that suits neither this nor the other species of sand-martin. Precisely what this is I cannot conjecture. Birds vary greatly in their adaptability to climate. Some, such as the hoopoe, appear absolutely indifferent to heat or cold, moisture or dryness; others, as most wagtails, shun heat. The two common crows of India afford an excellent illustration of the way in which allied species differ in their power of adapting themselves to variation in climate. The grey-necked species (Corvus splendens) is found throughout the length and breadth of the plains of India, but does not ascend the Himalayas to any great height, and is, in consequence, not found in Murree Mussoorie or Naini Tal. The corby (C. macrorhynchus), on the other hand, is found in all parts of the plains save in the Punjab, and ascends the Himalayas up to 10,000 feet or higher, and is the only crow that occurs in most of the Himalayan hill stations. It is thus evident that the black species is far less sensitive to cold than the other, but why does it occur so sparingly in the Punjab? The connection between climate and the distribution of birds is a fascinating subject about which very little is known. Possibly in the varying sensitiveness of birds to climatic conditions lies the secret of some of the phenomena of bird migration.

XLIII THE EDUCATION OF YOUNG BIRDS

A certain school of naturalists, in which Americans figure largely, lays great stress on the way in which parent birds and beasts educate their offspring. According to this school, a young bird is, like a human babe, born with its mind a blank, and has to be taught by its parents everything that it is necessary for a bird to know. Just as children study at various educational establishments, so do young animals attend what Mr. W. J. Long calls “the school of the woods.” “After many years of watching animals in their native haunts,” he writes, “I am convinced that instinct conveys a much smaller part than we have supposed; that an animal’s success or failure in the ceaseless struggle for life depends, not upon instinct, but upon the kind of training which the animal receives from its mother.” In short, but for its parents, a young bird would never learn to find its food, to fly, or sing, or build a nest.

This theory appears to have met with wide acceptance, chiefly because it brings animals into line with human beings. It is but natural for us humans to put anthropomorphic interpretations on the actions of animals. Careless observation seems to justify us in so doing. While not denying that birds do spend much time and labour in teaching their young, I am of opinion that the lessons taught by them are comparatively unimportant, that their teachings are merely supplementary to the instinct, the inherited education, which is latent in young birds at birth, and displays itself as they increase in size, just as intelligence develops in growing human beings.

By the mere observation of birds and beasts in their natural state it is not easy to ascertain how far the progress made by young ones is the growth of their inborn instincts, and how far it is the result of parental instruction.

It is the failure to appreciate the magnitude of this difficulty that vitiates the teachings of Mr. Long and the school to which he belongs. We can gauge the value of the pedagogic efforts of parent animals only by actual experiment, by removing young birds from parental influence and noticing how far that which we may term their education progresses in the absence of the mother and father.

The first and foremost of the things which a young bird must know is how to find its food. This is an accomplishment which it speedily acquires without any teaching. Young ducklings hatched under a barndoor hen take to the water of their own accord, and soon discover how to use their sieve-like bills.

I read some time ago a most interesting account of two young American ospreys, which Mr. E. H. Baynes took from the nest at an early age. Having secured them, he placed them in an artificial nest which he had made for them. The parents did not succeed in finding them out, the young birds had therefore to face the struggle for existence without a mentor. “For several days,” writes Mr. Baynes, “they spent most of their time lying still, with necks extended and heads prone on the floor of the nest.” At this stage they were, of course, unable to fly. It was not until they were five or six weeks old that the young ospreys entrusted themselves to their wings, and at the first attempt they, or rather one of them, performed an unbroken flight of several miles! After they had learned to use their wings, the ospreys were allowed full liberty, nevertheless they continued to remain in the neighbourhood of Mr. Baynes’s house, and became quite domesticated. When taken away, they returned like homing pigeons. Even as they had made the discovery that they could fly, so did they, one day, find out that they could catch fish. Mr. Baynes thus describes the earliest attempt of one of the young birds: “His tactics were similar to those employed by old and experienced ospreys, but the execution was clumsy. After sailing over the pond for a few minutes, he evidently caught sight of a fish, for he paused, flapped his wings to steady himself, and then dropped into the water. But it was the attempt of a tyro, and of course the fish escaped. The hawk disappeared, and when he came to the surface he struggled vainly to rise from the water. Then he seemed to give it up.” At this, Mr. Baynes was about to jump into the water in order to rescue him; however, “the next moment he made a mighty effort, arose dripping wet, and flew to his old roost on the chimney, where he flapped his wings and spread them out to dry in the sun.” Far from being deterred by this experience, he repeated the operation, and ere long became an expert fisher.

According to the school to which Mr. Long belongs, young birds learn their song from their parents, just as young children learn how to talk. In the words of Barrington, “Notes in birds are no more innate than language is in man, but depend entirely upon the master under which they are bred, as far as their organs will enable them to imitate the sounds which they have frequent opportunities of hearing.”

Similarly Michelet writes: “Nothing is more complex than the education of certain singing birds. The perseverance of the father, the docility of the young, are worthy of all admiration.” There can be no doubt that young birds are very imitative. The young of the koel—an Indian parasitic cuckoo—make ludicrous attempts to caw in imitation of the notes of their corvine foster-parents; but later, when the spring comes, they pour forth the very different notes of their species. In the same way the young of the common cuckoo, no matter by what species they are reared, all cry “cuckoo” when they come of age. Ducklings, pheasants, and partridges, hatched under the domestic hen, and fowls reared by turkeys, have the calls peculiar to their species. It may, of course, be urged that these learn their cries from others of their own kind. Here again, then, actual experiment is necessary to determine which view is correct. Such experiments were performed by Mr. John Blackwall as long ago as 1823. He writes:—

“I placed the eggs of a redbreast in the nest of a chaffinch, and removed the eggs of the chaffinch to that of the redbreast, conceiving that, if I was fortunate in rearing the young, I should, by this exchange, ensure an unexceptional experiment, the result of which must be deemed perfectly conclusive by all parties. In process of time these eggs were hatched, and I had the satisfaction to find that the young birds had their appropriate chirps.

“When ten days old they were taken from their nests, and were brought up by hand, immediately under my own inspection, especial care being taken to remove them to a distance from whatever was likely to influence their notes. At this period an unfortunate circumstance, which it is needless to relate, destroyed all these birds except two (a fine cock redbreast and a hen chaffinch), which, at the expiration of twenty-one days from the time they were hatched, commenced the calls peculiar to their species. This was an important point gained, as it evidently proved that the calls of birds, at least, are instinctive, and that, at this early age, ten days are not sufficient to enable nestlings to acquire even the calls of those under which they are bred. . . . Shortly after, the redbreast began to record (i.e. to attempt to sing), but in so low a tone that it was scarcely possible to trace the rudiments of its future song in those early attempts. As it gained strength and confidence, however, its native notes became very apparent, and they continued to improve in tone till the termination of July, when it commenced moulting. . . . By the beginning of October . . . it began to execute its song in a manner calculated to remove every doubt as to its being that of the redbreast, had any such previously existed.” Mr. Long lays great stress on the manner in which parents inculcate into their young fear of enemies. Fear, he asserts, is not instinctive; young creatures, if found before they have been taught to fear, are not alarmed at the sight of man. I admit that very young creatures are not afraid of foes, and that, later, they do display fear, but I assert that this change is not the result of teaching, that it is the mere development of an inborn instinct which does not show itself until the young are some days old, because there is no necessity for it in the earliest stages of the existence of a young bird.

“Some months ago one of my chaprassis brought me a couple of baby red-vented bulbuls which had fallen out of a nest. They were unable to feed themselves, and were probably less than a week old. One met with an early death, and the survivor was kept in a cage. One day, while I was writing in my study, this young bulbul began scolding in a way that all bulbuls do when alarmed. On looking round, I discovered that a chaprassi had silently entered the room with a shikra on his wrist. The shikra is a kind of sparrow-hawk, common in India. That particular individual was being trained to fly at quail. It had never before been brought to my bungalow, nor is it likely that the captive bulbul, whose cage was placed in a small, enclosed verandah, had ever set eyes upon a shikra. It had left the nest before it was of an age at which it could learn anything from its parents. Its display of fear and its alarm-call were purely instinctive. Its inherited memory must have caused it to behave as it did. Speaking figuratively, its ancestors learned by experience that the shikra is a dangerous bird—a bird to be feared—and this experience has been inherited. To express the matter in more exact language, this inherited fear of the shikra is the product of natural selection. For generations those bulbuls who did not fear and avoid the shikra fell victims to it, while the more cautious ones survived and their descendants inherited this characteristic.

“Of all the arts practised by birds none is so wonderful as that of nest-building. If it can be demonstrated (as I believe it can) that this art is innate in a bird, then there is no difficulty in believing that all the other arts practised by the feathered folk are innate.

“Michelet boldly asserts that a bird has to learn how to build a nest precisely as a schoolboy has to learn arithmetic or algebra. By way of proof, he quotes the case of his canary—Jonquille. “It must be stated at the outset,” he writes, “that Jonquille was born in a cage, and had not seen how nests were made. As soon as I saw her disturbed, and became aware of her approaching maternity, I frequently opened her door and allowed her freedom to collect in the room the materials of the bed the little one would stand in need of. She gathered them up, indeed, but without knowing how to employ them. She put them together and stored them in a corner of the cage. . . . I gave her the nest ready made—at least, the little basket that forms the framework of the walls of the structure. Then she made the mattress and felted the interior coating, but in a very indifferent manner.”

Michelet construes these facts as proof that the art of nest-building is not innate in birds, but has to be learned. As a matter of fact they prove exactly the opposite. The Frenchman’s reasoning is typical of that of those persons who make their facts fit in with their theories. Michelet is blinded by his preconceived notions. He is unable to see things which should be apparent to all. If the art of nest-building is not innate, why did the canary fly about the room collecting the necessary materials and heap them in a corner of the cage? That she did not go so far as to build a nest is easily explained by the fact that she was not given a suitable site for it, that the necessary foundation of branches was not provided for her. As well might one say that a bricklayer did not know his trade because he failed to build a wall on the surface of the sea. When given the framework, Michelet’s untaught canary lost no time in lining it. The alleged act that the lining was not well done may be explained in many ways. Michelet may have imagined this, or the materials provided may not have been altogether suitable; moreover, Jonquille must have worked in haste, as the framework was presumably not given until the bird had collected all the material. Again, the nest was the first that that particular canary had built. Birds, like human beings, learn to profit by experience. Nest-building is an instinctive art, but intelligence may step in and aid blind instinct.

In this connection it is necessary to bear in mind that the nest is completed long before the young birds come out of the egg; that they leave, or are driven away from, the parents before the next nest-building season. If young birds are taught nest-building, who teaches them?

Proof of the instinctiveness of nest-building might be multiplied indefinitely. There are on record scores of instances of birds selecting impossible sites for their nests; these are cases of instinct that has gone astray. Again, the persistent way in which martins will rebuild, or attempt to rebuild, nests that are destroyed, shows to what an extent nest-construction is a matter of instinct. One more concrete piece of evidence must suffice. My friend, Captain Perreau, has, among other birds in his aviary at Bukloh, in the Himalayas, some grey-headed love-birds. This species has the peculiar habit of lining the nest with strips of bark, which the hen carries up to the nest amongst the feathers of the back. Captain Perreau started with two cock love-birds and one hen, and this last had the peculiarity of not carrying up the lining to her nest in the orthodox way; nevertheless, her daughter, when she took unto herself a husband, used to carry up bark and grass to her nest in the orthodox manner. “Why did this hen do this?” Captain Perreau asks. “Her mother could not have taught her. I have no other true love-birds; and my blue-crowned hanging parrakeets, or rather the hens, certainly do carry up to the nesting-hole bark, etc., but they carry it, not in the back, but tucked in between the feathers of the neck and breast.” This neat method of conveying material to the nest is, therefore, certainly an instinctive act, as is almost every other operation connected with nest-building.

To sum up. The parental teaching forms a far less important factor in the education of birds than many naturalists have been led by careless observation to believe. Birds may be said to be born educated in the sense that poets are born, not made. In each case education puts on the finishing touches to the handiwork of nature.

XLIV BIRDS AT SUNSET

It is refreshing to watch the birds at the sunset hour. The fowls of the air are then full to overflowing of healthy activity.

In the garden the magpie-robin (Copsychus saularis), daintily clothed in black and white, vigorously pours forth his joyous song from some leafy bough. From the thicket issue the sharp notes of the tailor-bird (Orthotomus sutorius), the noisy chatter of the seven sisters (Crateropus), and the tinkling melody of the bulbul.

The king crows (Dicrurus ater) are alternately catching insects on the wing and giving vent to their superfluous energy in the form of cheerful notes. Upon the lawn the perky, neatly-built mynas are chasing grasshoppers with relentless activity; nimble wagtails are accounting for numbers of the smaller insects, while the showy-crested hoopoes are eagerly extracting grubs and other good things from the earth by means of their long forceps-like bill. All, especially the hoopoes, have the air of birds racing against time. On that part of the lawn which the malli is flooding to preserve its greenness the crows are thoroughly enjoying their evening bath.

On the sandy path is a company of green bee-eaters (Merops viridis) engaged in dust-bath operations.

Overhead the swifts—our little land albatrosses—are dashing hither and thither at full speed, revelling in the abundant insect life called forth by the fading light, and making the welkin ring with their “shivering screams.” Flying along with the swifts are some sand-martins (Cotile sinensis), easily distinguishable by their slower and more laboured motion.

High above the sphere of action of the swifts and martins are numbers of kites and vultures, sailing in circles on their quest for the wherewithal to satisfy their insatiable appetite.