Part 2

III THE BROWN ROCK-CHAT

The standard books on Indian ornithology give inaccurate accounts of the distribution of some species of birds. In certain cases the mistakes are due to imperfect knowledge, in others it is probable that the range of the species in question has undergone change since the text-books were published. There must of necessity be a tendency for a flourishing species to extend its boundaries. Growing species, like successful nations, expand. A correspondent informs me that the Brahminy myna (_Temenuchus pagodarum_) is now a regular visitor at Abbottabad and Taran Taran in the Punjab, whereas Jerdon states that the bird is not found to the west of the United Provinces. Similarly, there is evidence that the red turtle dove (_Œnopopelia tranquebarica_) is extending its range westwards. Oates states that the tailor-bird (_Orthotomus sutorius_) does not occur at elevations over 4000 feet, but I frequently saw it at Coonoor, 2000 feet higher than the limit set by Oates.

The brown rock-chat (_Cercomela fusca_) is another species regarding the distribution of which the text-books are in error. Jerdon gives its range as “Saugor, Bhopal, Bundlekhand, extending towards Gwalior and the United Provinces.” Oates says, “The western limits of this species appear to be a line drawn from Cutch through Jodhpur to Hardwar. Thence it extends to Chunar, near Benares, on the east, and to Jubbulpur on the south, and I have not been able to trace its distribution more accurately than this.” Nevertheless, this bird is very abundant at Lahore, some two hundred miles north-west of the occidental limit laid down by Oates. Brown rock-chats are so common at Lahore, and the locality seems so well suited to their mode of life, that I cannot think that the species is a recent addition to the fauna of the Lahore district. It must have been overlooked. It is scarcely possible for one individual to have a personal knowledge of all parts of so extensive a country as India: we cannot, therefore, expect accuracy in describing the range of birds until an ornithologist does for each locality what Jesse has done for Lucknow, that is to say, compiles a list of birds observed in a particular neighbourhood during a period of observation extending over a number of years.

Let us now pass on to the subject of this essay. The brown rock-chat is a dull-reddish-brown bird, slightly larger than a sparrow. There is no outward difference between the cock and the hen, both being attired with quaker-like plainness. They are, however, sprightly as to their habits, being quite robin-like in behaviour. As they hop about looking for food they make every now and again a neat bow, and by this it is easy to identify them. They seem invariably to inhabit dry, stony ground. Round about Lahore numbers of ruined mosques and tombs exist, and each of these is the home of at least one pair of brown rock-chats. But these birds by no means confine themselves to old ruins. They are very partial to plots of building land on which bricks are stacked. When a man determines to build a bungalow in Lahore he acquires a plot of land, and then has pitched on to it a quantity of bricks in irregular heaps, each heap being a cartload. These bricks are then left undisturbed for any period up to ten years. Among these untidy and unsightly collections of building material numbers of brown rock-chats take up their abode. But there are not enough ruins and collections of bricks to accommodate all the rock-chats of the locality; consequently, many of them haunt inhabited buildings, and display but little fear of the human possessors of these. Indeed, an allied species (_Cercomela melanura_) is thought by some to be the sparrow of the Scriptures.

A cock rock-chat used at the beginning of each hot weather to come into the skylight of my office at Lahore and sing most sweetly, while his mate was sitting on her eggs hard by. As I had not then seen a nest of this species I sent a Mohammedan _chaprassi_ into the Shah Chirag—a tomb in the office compound—to ascertain whether the nest was inside it or not. He brought back word that the nest was inside the sepulchre, but that Christians were not allowed inside, adding, however, that the fakir in charge thought that an exception might be made in my favour. A rupee settled the question. Matting was laid down so that the saint’s burying-place might not be defiled by the dust that fell from the boots of the infidel, and a ladder was taken inside. Let into the walls of the tomb were a number of large niches. In one of these, of which the base was some ten feet above the level of the ground, was the nest of the brown rock-chats, containing three beautiful pale blue eggs, blotched with light yellow at the broad end. The ledge on which the nest was built was covered with dust and pieces of fallen plaster, which had evidently been accumulating there for generations. The fallen plaster served as a foundation for the little nursery, which was composed entirely of fine dried grass. This had the appearance of being woven into a shallow cup, but I am inclined to think that the material had been merely piled on to the ledge, and that the cavity had resulted from the sitting of the bird. The nest was bounded on two sides by the wall, and the part of it next to the wall was deeper than the remainder. There was no attempt at weaving or cementing, and the whole was so loosely put together that it could have been removed only by inserting a piece of cardboard under it, and thus lifting it bodily away. In other niches were three disused nests, one of which I appropriated; they had probably been made in previous years by the same pair of birds. I subsequently came across another nest inside an inhabited bungalow at Lahore, and another on the inner ledge of the window of an outhouse. Hume stated that a pair of brown rock-chats built regularly for years in his house at Etawah. They do not invariably construct the nest inside buildings. Hume writes: “Deep ravines and earthy cliffs also attract them, and thousands of pairs build yearly in that vast network of ravines that fringes the courses of the Jumna and Chambul from opposite Agra to Calpee. Others nest in quarries, and I got several nests from those in the neighbourhood of Futtehpoor Sikri.”

During the nesting season the brown rock-chat knows not what fear is. Mr. R. M. Adam gives an account of a pair which built a nest in a hole in a bath-room wall. The birds did not appear to be frightened by people entering and leaving the room. When the first brood had been reared the hen laid a second clutch of eggs, and, on these being taken, she immediately laid a third batch. Colonel Butler writes: “During the period of incubation both birds are extremely pugnacious, and vigorously attack any small birds, squirrels, rats, lizards, etc., that venture to approach the nest.” The tameness of the brown rock-chat, together with his alluring ways and sweet song, make him an exceptionally fascinating little bird.

IV THE SCAVENGER-IN-WAITING

The number of kites to be seen in any given place depends almost entirely upon the state of sanitation in that place. In England conservancy arrangements are so good that the kite is practically extinct. We have no use for the bird at home. “_Il faut vive_,” says the kite, “and if you do not provide me with offal I shall prey upon poultry,” “As to your living,” replies the farmer, “_Je n’en vois pas la necessité_, and, if you attack my poultry, I shall attack you.” The kites in the United Kingdom were as good as their word; so were the farmers. The result is that the kite is a rara avis at home; a nestling born in the British Isles is said to be worth £25.

India teems with kites (_Milvus govinda_); we may therefore infer that sanitation out there is primitive. Unfortunately, we Anglo-Indians do not require the kites to enable us to appreciate this fact. Kites, however, are useful in giving us the measure of the insanitariness of a town. Lahore is a great place for kites. That city contains a greater proportionate number of these scavenger birds for its size than any other city or town I have ever visited. They are nearly as abundant as the crows; further, that beautiful bird, commonly known as Pharaoh’s chicken (_Neophron percnopterus_), shows his smiling face to one at every turn. Let me here observe that I am not calling anyone names; I am merely stating a fact. If the Lahore municipal authorities take my words to heart, so much the better!

Kites are the assistant sweepers to Government; I was going to say “honorary sweepers,” but that would not have been strictly accurate, for in India nothing is done for nothing. The kites receive no money wages, nothing that comes under the Accountant-General’s audit, but they are paid in truck. They are allowed to keep the refuse they clear away. This seems on the face of it to be a _bandobast_ most favourable to the Government, a very cheap way of securing servants; but, like many another arrangement which reads well on paper, it is in practice not so advantageous as it appears. Thus the kite is apt to put a wide, I might almost say an elastic interpretation on the word “refuse.” To take a concrete example: the other day one of these birds swooped down and carried off the chop that was to have formed the _pièce de résistance_ of my breakfast.

But, notwithstanding his many misdeeds, the kite is a bird with which we in India could ill afford to dispense, for he subsists chiefly upon garbage. Fortified with this knowledge, we are able to properly appreciate the sublime lines of the poet Hurdis:

“Mark but the soaring kite, and she will reade Brave rules for diet; teach thee how to feede; She flies aloft; she spreads her ayrie plumes Above the earth, above the nauseous fumes Of dang’rous earth; she makes herself a stranger T’ inferior things, and checks at every danger.”

Now, I like these lines. Not that I altogether approve of the sentiments therein expressed. I would not advise anyone, not even a German, to learn table manners from the kite. What I do like about the above is the splendid manner in which the poet strikes out a new line. [N.B.—The poets and their friends are strongly advised to omit the forty lines that follow.] The vulgar herd of poets can best be compared to a flock of sheep. One of them makes some wild statement about a bird, and all the rest plagiarise it. Not so Hurdis; he is no slavish imitator. He obviously knows nothing about the kite, but that is a trifle. If poets wrote only of things with which they were _au fait_, where would all our poetry be?

What Hurdis did know was that, as a general rule, when you want to write about a bird of which you know nothing, you are pretty safe in reading what the poets say about it, and then saying the very opposite. That in this particular case the rule does not hold good is Hurdis’s misfortune, not his fault. The kite happens to be almost the only bird about which the poets write correctly. This is a phenomenon I am totally unable to explain.

Cowper sang:

“Kites that swim sublime In still repeated circles, screaming loud.”

Writes Clare:

“Of chick and duck and gosling gone astray, All falling preys to the sweeping kite.”

King says:

“The kite will to her carrion fly.”

The most captious critic could not take exception to any of these sentiments. He might certainly pull a long face at Macaulay’s

“The kites know well the long stern swell That bids the Roman close.”

But he would find it exceedingly difficult to prove that the kites do not know this.

But let us leave the poets and return to the bird as it is, for common though he be in the East, the “sailing glead” is a bird that will repay a little study. His powers of flight, his ability to soar high above the earth, to sail through the thin air with outstretched and apparently motionless wings, are equalled by few birds. Watch him as he glides overhead in great circles until he disappears from sight. He constantly utters his tremulous, querulous scream—_Chēē-hēē-hēē-hēē-hēē_; his head is bent so that his beak points downwards, and few things are there which escape his keen eye. Suddenly he espies a rabble of crows squabbling over a piece of meat. Quick as thought he is full on his downward career. A second or two later the fighting, squawking crows hear the swish of his wings—a sound very familiar to them—and promptly make way for him. None desires to feel the grip of his powerful talons. He sweeps above the bone of contention, drops a little, seizes it with his claws, and sails away to the nearest housetop, where he devours his booty, fixing it with his talons as he tears it with his beak.

Crows love not the kite. His manner of living resembles theirs so closely that a certain amount of opposition is inevitable. Then, again, the kite never makes any bones about carrying off a young crow if the opportunity presents itself. If the truth be told, the crows are afraid of the kite. They will, of course, not admit this. You will never get a crow to admit anything that may be used as evidence against him.

The crows regard kites with much the same feelings that the smaller boys at school regard the big, bullying boys. Those who know the ways of the _corvi_ (and who is there in India that does not?) will not be surprised to hear that they never lose an opportunity of scoring off a kite. There is no commoner sight than that of a brace of them, as likely as not aided and abetted by a king crow, chasing the fleeing glead, and endeavouring to pull a beakful of feathers out of his rump.

But crows prefer to worry the kite upon _terra firma_, for the latter is a clumsy bird when on the ground. He is so heavy that he can only waddle along, and, notwithstanding his great pinions, he experiences difficulty in raising himself off a level plain. Hence it is when a kite is resting, half asleep, upon the ground, that the “lurking villain crows” usually worry him. It requires at least two of the “treble-dated birds” to do this with success. One alights in front of the victim and the other behind him. This apparently harmless manœuvre is quite sufficient to excite the suspicions of the kite. He turns his eyes uneasily from crow to crow, and, although he utters no sound, he is probably cursing his luck that he has not a visual organ at the back of his head. If he is a sensible bird he will at once fly off, in hopes that the perditious crows will not follow him. If he remains, the posteriorly situated crow takes a peck at his tail. He, of course, turns upon the aggressor, and thus gives the front bird the opportunity for which it has been waiting. Sooner or later the kite has to move on.

Kites are very fond of settling on the tops of posts, and on other spiky places; this feature they share with crows, green parrots, blue jays, and other birds. I cannot bring myself to believe that such perches are comfortable; but, just as a small boy will prefer balancing himself upon a narrow railing to sitting on a proper seat, so do birds seem to enjoy perching on all sorts of impossible places. Birds are like small boys in many respects. A kite, of course, enjoys one great advantage when he elects to rest upon such a perch: it is then impossible for “ribald” crows to come and squat to right and to left of him.

Kites are not migratory birds in most parts of India. It is said, however, that the kites leave Calcutta during the rains. I have never visited the “Queen of Indian cities,” so I cannot say whether or not the kites act thus. Jerdon, Blanford, and Cunningham all declare that they do; but Finn writes: “How such an idea could have arisen I do not know. I have always noticed kites in the rains, and have never heard that they were ever in the habit of leaving Calcutta then.” The truth of the matter seems to be that when it rains very heavily the streets of the city on the Hooghly are washed comparatively clean, and all the food of the “sailing glead” is swept out into the country, so the kites go after it, but they return as soon as the rain stops.

The nesting season for the kites is at any time when they feel disposed to undertake the cares of the family. The books tell us that it begins in January. This is correct. Where they go wrong is in asserting that it ends in April. I should rather say that it ends in December. It is true, however, that in Northern India the greater number of nests are constructed in the first three months of the calendar year.

The completed nest is about the size of a football, and is an untidy mass of twigs, rags, mud, brickbats, and such-like things. It is usually placed high up in a tall tree, not quite at the top, on a forked branch. It is not a great architectural triumph, but it serves its purpose. Two eggs are usually laid. These have a white ground blotched with red or brown. Kites object to having their nest pried into, so that he who attempts to steal the eggs must not be surprised if the owners attack him.

V INDIAN WAGTAILS

“What art thou made of?—air or light or dew? —I have no time to tell you if I knew. My tail—ask that—perhaps may solve the matter; I’ve missed three flies already by this chatter.”

I quite agree with Mr. Warde Fowler that wagtails are everything that birds should be. They are just the right size; their shape and form are perfect; they dress most tastefully; they display that sprightliness that one looks for in birds; their movements are elegant and engaging; their undulating flight is blithe and gay; their song is sweet and cheery; they are friendly, and sociable, fond of men and animals, “not too shy, not too bold.” They are, in short, ideal birds.

I know of nothing more enjoyable than to sit watching a wagtail feeding at the water’s edge.

“She runs along the shore so quickly,” writes a long-forgotten author, “that the eye is hardly able to follow her steps, and yet, with a flying glance, she examines every crevice, every stalk that conceals her reposing or creeping prey. Now she steps upon a smoothly washed stone; she bathes and drinks—and how becomingly, and with what an air! The very nicest _soubrette_ could not raise her dress more coquettishly, the best-taught dancer not move with more graceful _pas_ than the pretty bather as she lifts her train and dainty feet. Suddenly she throws herself, with a jump and a bound, into the air, to catch the circling gnat; and now should be seen the beating of wings, the darting hither and thither, the balancing and the shakes and the _allegretto_ that her tail keeps time to. Nothing can surpass it in lightness. In fine, of all the little feathered people, none, except the swallow, is more graceful, fuller of movement, more adroit or insinuating, than the wagtail.”

Wagtails are essentially birds of the temperate zone. They remind us of a fact that we who dwell in the tropics are apt to forget, namely, that there are some beautiful birds found outside the torrid zone.

Fourteen species of wagtail occur in India, but the majority of them leave us to breed. They bring up their families in cool Kashmir, on the chilly, wind-swept heights of Thibet, or even in glacial Siberia, and visit India only in the winter when their native land becomes too frigid even for them.

Many of the migratory wagtails do not show themselves in the southern portion of the peninsula, being rightly of opinion that the climate of Upper India is not far from perfect during the winter months.

There is, however, one species—the most lovable of them all—the pied-wagtail (_Motacilla maderaspatensis_)—which has discovered that it is possible to live in the plains of India throughout the year; and, having made this discovery, it has decided that the troubles and trials of the hot weather are lesser evils than the inconveniences and perils of the long migratory journey. The head of this species is black, relieved by a white streak running through the eye; the wings and tail are mostly black, and a bib—or is “front” a more correct word?—of similar hue is usually worn. The under parts of the bird are white.

The pied-wagtail is common all over India. It is particularly abundant in the city of Madras, where it is to be seen everywhere—on the house-top, in the courtyard, in shady garden, in open field, and on the river bank in company with the soldiers who solemnly fish in the waters round about the fort.

When in Madras I used to see almost daily one of these birds perched on the telegraph wire that runs across the Cooum parallel with the Mount Road bridge. The bird seemed to spend most of the day in pouring forth its sweet song. When sitting on the wire its tail used to hang down in a most unwagtail-like manner, so that the bird looked rather like a pipit. Pied-wagtails sometimes appropriate suitable parts of the bungalow for nesting sites; when this happens the human occupant has plenty of opportunity of studying their ways.

The remaining thirteen species of wagtails are merely winter visitors to the plains of India. Two or three of these are to be seen feeding, during the cold weather, on every grass-covered field, and at the edge of every _jhil_. In the latter place wagtails are nothing short of a nuisance to the man who is out after snipe, for they have the habit of rising along with the snipe, and the white outer-tail feathers invariably catch the eye. Many a snipe owes its life to the wagtail.

The four commonest of the migratory wagtails are, I think, the white (_Motacilla alba_), the masked (_M. impersonata_), the grey (_M. melanope_), and the grey-headed wagtail (_M. borealis_). The two latter are characterised by much bright yellow in the lower plumage, which the first two lack; but I am not going to attempt to achieve the impossible by trying to describe the various species of wagtail. Owing to the fact that these birds, like ladies of fashion, are continually changing their gowns, it is very difficult to state the species to which an individual belongs without examining that individual feather by feather. You may see a dozen wagtails of the same species catching insects on your lawn, each of which differs markedly from all his companions. Most of us are satisfied with the knowledge that a given bird is a wagtail, and are able to enjoy the poetry and grace of its motion without troubling our heads about its scientific name.

VI THE TEESA

_Butastur teesa_ used to be called the white-eyed buzzard, but one day a worthy ornithologist discovered that the bird was not the genuine article, that its legs and its eggs betrayed the fact that it is not a true buzzard. Therefore a new name had to be found for the bird. In their search for this, naturalists have not met with great success. Indeed, the last state of the bird is worse than the first, for it is now known as the white-eyed buzzard-eagle. To the adjectival part of the name no one can take exception, because the white eye and a whitish patch of feathers on the back of the head are the most remarkable features of a rather ordinary-looking fowl. The name “buzzard-eagle,” however, is most misleading. Although, as I have previously had occasion to state, eagles are not quite the noble creatures the poets have made them out to be, to suggest that _Butastur teesa_ is one of them is to insult the whole aquiline community. Eagles, notwithstanding the fact that they sometimes eat carrion, attack, each according to the size of its talons, quarry of considerable size, and are, in consequence, the terror of other birds. As Phil Robinson says of them, “they stand in the sky as the symbol of calamity. When they stoop to the earth it is a vision of sudden death.” To speak thus of _Butastur teesa_ would be, as Euclid says, absurd. The white-eyed buzzard is almost contemptible as a bird of prey; he is a raptorial degenerate, a mere loafer.