Part 5

Squirrels are sociably inclined creatures; when not engaged in rearing up their families they live in colonies in some decayed tree. At sunrise they issue forth from the cavity in which they have slept, and bask for a time in the sun before separating to visit their several feeding-grounds; at sunset they all return to their dormitory. Before retiring for the night they play hide-and-seek on the old tree, chasing each other in and out of the holes with which it is riddled.

Young squirrels are born blind and naked, and are then ugly creatures. Their skin shows the three black longitudinal stripes—the marks of Hanuman’s fingers—which give this creature its popular name. The hair soon grows and transforms the squirrels.

A baby _Sciurus_ makes a charming pet. The rapid movements are a never-failing source of amusement. It is feeding out of your hand when it takes alarm at apparently nothing, and, before you can realise what has happened, it has disappeared. After a search it is found under the sofa, on the mantelpiece, or out in the garden. I know of one who took refuge in its owner’s skirts. She had to retire to her room and divest herself of sundry garments before she could recover it. Once, in trying to catch a baby squirrel that was about to leap off the table, I seized the end of its tail; to my astonishment the squirrel went off, leaving the terminal inch of its caudal appendage in my hand, nor did the severance of its note of interrogation seem to cause it any pain. A squirrel’s tail, like a lamp brush, is composed mainly of bristles.

XII THE INTERPRETATION OF THE ACTIONS OF ANIMALS

The proper interpretation of the actions of animals is one of the greatest of the difficulties which confront the naturalist. We all know how liable a man’s actions are to be misinterpreted by his fellow-men, whose thoughts and feelings are similar to his. How much more must we be liable to put false constructions on the acts of those creatures whose thoughts are not our thoughts and whose feelings are not our feelings? The natural tendency is, of course, to assign human attributes to animals, to put anthropomorphic interpretations on their actions, to endow dumb creatures with mental concepts like those of man—in short, to credit them with reasoning powers similar to those enjoyed by human beings. That this is incorrect is the opinion of all who have made a study of the question, and yet even such seem unable completely to divest themselves of the tendency to regard animals as rather simple human folk. I do not wish to speak dogmatically upon this most difficult subject. Let it suffice that it is my belief that animals do not possess the mental powers popularly ascribed to them. My object is not to argue, but to record some instances showing how liable we are to misinterpret animal actions.

Some time ago, while walking near the golf-links at Lahore, I noticed a rat-bird, or common babbler (_Argya caudata_, to give it its proper name), with a green caterpillar hanging from its beak. The succulent insect was, of course, intended for a young bird in a nest near by. Being in no hurry, I determined to find that nest. Under such circumstances, the easiest way is to sit down and wait for the parent bird to indicate the position of the nursery. The bird with the caterpillar had seen me, so, instead of flying with it to the nest, moved about from bush to bush uttering his or her note of anger (I do not pretend to be able to distinguish a cock from a hen rat-bird). In a few minutes the other parent appeared on the scene, also with something in its beak. Observing that all was not well, it too began to “beat about the bush,” or rather from one bush to another. Meanwhile, both swore at the ungentlemanly intruder. However, I had no intention of moving on before I found that nest. After a little time the patience of the second bird became exhausted; it flew to a small bush, into which it disappeared, to reappear almost immediately with an empty beak. I immediately advanced on that bush, of which the top was not three feet above the ground. In the bush I found a neatly constructed, cup-shaped nest, which contained five young rat-birds. I handled these, taking one ugly, naked fellow in my hand in full view of the parents, who were swearing like bargees. I was careful to make certain that the mother and father could see what I was doing, for I was anxious to find out how far their laudable attempts at the concealment of the nest from me were due to the exercise of intelligence. Having replaced the baby bird in the nest, I returned to the place where I had waited for the parents to direct me to their nursery, and watched their future actions. If they had been acting intelligently, they would reason thus, “The great ogre has found our nest and seen our little ones. If he wants them we are powerless to prevent him taking them. The game of keeping their whereabouts hidden from him is up. There is nothing left for us to do but to continue to feed our chicks in the ordinary way without further attempt at concealment.” If, however, they were acting blindly, merely obeying the promptings of the instinct which teaches them not to feed their young ones in the presence of danger, they would be as unwilling now to visit the nest as they were after they first caught sight of me. They pursued the latter course, thus demonstrating that this seemingly most intelligent behaviour is prompted by instinct.

It is a well-known fact that some birds, such as the partridge, whose young are able to run about when first hatched, behave in a very clever manner in presence of danger. The mother bird acts as though her wing was broken, and flutters away from the intruder with what appears to be a great and painful effort. By this means she draws the attention of the enemy to herself; meanwhile her chicks are able to hide themselves in whatever cover happens to be convenient. If anything looks like an intelligent act this surely does. But in this case appearances are deceptive. It sometimes happens that a hen partridge acts in this manner before her eggs are hatched. Under such circumstances the pretence of a broken wing is not only useless, but positively harmful, since it probably directs the attention of the intruder to her white eggs. This feigning of injury would thus appear to be a purely instinctive act, a course of behaviour dictated by natural selection. Mr. Edmund Selous discusses the origin of this peculiar habit in that admirable book entitled _Bird Watching_, to which I would refer those who are interested in the matter. Instances such as these, of acts which are only apparently purposeful, could easily be multiplied. They should prevent our rushing to the conclusion that because a cat, or dog, or horse behaves in a sensible manner under certain conditions, it is exercising intelligence. Natural selection has brought instinct to such perfection that many instinctive actions are very difficult to distinguish from those which are intelligent.

XIII AT THE SIGN OF THE FARASH

The farash tree (_Tamarix articulata_), regarded from the point of view of a human being, is everything that a tree should not be. Its wood has little or no commercial value, being of not much use even as fuel. Its needle-like leaves afford no shade. It has a dusty, dried-up, funereal appearance. During the day it absorbs a large amount of the sun’s heat, which it emits, with interest, at night-time, so that if, on a hot-weather evening, you happen to pass near a farash tree you cannot fail to notice that the temperature of the air immediately surrounding it is considerably higher than it is elsewhere. Each farash tree becomes, for the time being, a natural heating stove. In appearance the farash is not unlike a stunted casuarina tree. It is what botanists call a xerophile; it is addicted to dry, sandy soil, and is found only in the more desert-like parts of Sind and the Punjab. The one redeeming feature of the farash tree is the shelter it affords to the fowls of the air. Its wood is so soft and so liable to decay that the tree seems to have been evolved chiefly for the benefit of those birds which nest in holes. The interior of every aged farash is as full of cavities as a honeycomb. A grove of farash trees is a veritable bird hotel; it might with truth be called _L’Hôtel des Oiseaux_. Like many of the hotels built for the accommodation of human beings, the Farash Hotel is almost deserted at some periods of the year and overcrowded at others. It has its “season.” During the winter months many of its rooms remain untenanted. The more commodious ones, however, are occupied all the year round; some by spotted owlets (_Athene brama_), and others by the little striped squirrel (_Sciurus palmarum_). The spotted owlets do not, like most birds, visit the farash merely for nesting purposes; they live in it, lying up in their inner chamber during the day, immune from the attacks of crows, kites, drongos, and other birds that vex the souls of little owls. No matter at what season of the year you call at the hotel, you will find Mr. and Mrs. Spotted Owlet at home during the daytime. If you tap on the trunk, which is tantamount to knocking at the door or shouting “_Koi hai_,” you may expect to see appear at the door of the suite occupied by the owlets a droll little face, that will bow to you, but with such grimaces as to leave no doubt that you are unwelcome.

The squirrels are winter residents in the hotel; they like to dwell in it throughout the year, but are not always permitted to do so. Numbers of them are ejected every February by the green parrot (_Palæornis torquatus_). The green parrot is a bully, and is neither troubled by the Nonconformist conscience, nor hampered by the Ten Commandments; so that, when he has set his heart on a certain suite in the hotel, he proceeds to install himself therein, regardless of the vested interests of the squirrels. The “season” may be said to begin with the arrival of the green parrots. These rowdy creatures make things “hum,” and must cause considerable annoyance to the more respectable birds that stay in the hotel. The green parrot is to bird gentlefolk what the Italian organ-grinder is to the musical Londoner—an ill that has to be endured. The little coppersmith (_Xantholæma hæmatocephala_) takes up its quarters in the bird hotel early in the season. It is very particular as regards its accommodation. It holds, and rightly holds, that rooms which have already been lived in are apt to harbour parasites and carry disease, so insists on hewing out a chamber for itself. Owing to the industry of both the cock and the hen, the excavation of their retort-shaped nesting chamber occupies surprisingly little time, and the neat, circular front-door that leads to it compares very favourably with the irregular, broken-down-looking entrance to the quarters occupied by the parrots or owlets. As often as not the coppersmith excavates its nest in a horizontal bough, in which case the entrance is invariably made on the under surface, with the object of preventing rain-water coming into the room.

Another regular patron of the Farash Hotel is the beautiful golden-backed woodpecker (_Brachypternus aurantius_). This bird usually arrives later in the season than the coppersmith, but, like it, disdains a room which has been occupied by others. It is not, as a rule, so industrious as the coppersmith, for it usually selects for the site of its abode a part of the tree that is more or less hollow, and proceeds, by means of its pick-like beak, to cut out a neat round passage or tube leading to the ready-made cavity.

The most flashy of the _habitués_ of the hotel is the Indian roller (_Coracias indica_), or “blue jay,” as he is more commonly called. Like “loud” human beings, the roller bird is excessively noisy. When there are both green parrots and blue jays in the hotel it becomes a veritable bear-garden, resembling the hotels in Douglas, a town of the Isle of Man. During the summer months these are filled with holiday-makers from the Lancashire mills, who seem to spend the greater part of the night in playing hide-and-seek, hunt the slipper, “chase me,” and such-like delectable games in the corridors and public rooms. There is, however, this difference between the rowdiness of the Lancashire “tripper” and that of the parrots and “jays”—the former is chiefly nocturnal, whereas the latter is strictly diurnal. The blue jays indulge in their screechings and caterwaulings, their aerial gymnastics, their “tricks i’ the air,” only during the hours of daylight. Not that the hotel is quiet at night. Far from it. The spotted owlets take care of that. The blue jay is not particular as to the nature of his accommodation; any kind of hole is accepted, provided it be fairly roomy. He is quite content with a depression in the broken stump of an upright bough. Sometimes the bird places in its quarters a little furniture, in the shape of a lining of feathers, grass, and paper. More often the bird scorns such luxuries, and is content with the hard bare wood.

When a pair of blue jays first takes up its quarters in the hotel a great secret is made of the fact. Anyone who did not know the birds might think they were trying to avoid their creditors. This is not the case. The fact is that the nest contains some eggs which the owners imagine every other creature wants to steal. When, however, the young ones hatch out, the parents forget all about the necessity for concealing the whereabouts of the nest, so taken up are they with the feeding of their young ones.

The hoopoe (_Upupa indica_) is another bird that must be numbered among the _clientèle_ of the hotel. It is just the kind of visitor that a hotel proprietor likes. It is not in the least particular as to its quarters. Any tumble-down room will do, the filthier the better! All that it demands is that the front-door shall be a mere chink, only just large enough to admit of its' slender body. It then feels that its house is its castle; no enemy can possibly enter it.

The common myna (_Acridotheres tristis_) is another bird which habitually patronises the Farash Hotel. It is even less particular than the hoopoe as to the nature of its quarters—anything in the shape of a hole does quite well. Having secured accommodation, it proceeds to throw into it, pell-mell, a medley of straws, sticks, rags, bits of paper. That is its idea of house-furnishing. So untidy is the myna that you can sometimes discover the room it occupies by the pieces of furniture that stick out of the window! The mynas arrive later than most of the birds which nest in the farash, hence they find all the more desirable suites occupied. This does not distress the happy-go-lucky creatures in the least. They are probably the most contented of all the members of the little colony that lives in the _Hôtel des Oiseaux_. _Summæ opes, inopia cupiditatum._

XIV THE COOT

The coot (_Fulica atra_) is a rail which has taken thoroughly to the water. It has, in consequence, assumed many of the characteristics of a duck. We may perhaps speak of it as a pseudo-duck. Certain it is that inexperienced sportsmen frequently shoot and eat coots under the impression that they are “black duck.” Nevertheless, there is no bird easier to identify than our friend, the bald coot. In the hand it is quite impossible to mistake it for a duck. Its toes are not joined together by webs, but are separated and furnished with lobes which assist it in swimming. Its beak is totally different from that of the true ducks. But there is no necessity to shoot the coot in order to identify it. Save for the conspicuous white bill, and the white shield on the front of the head, which constitutes its “baldness,” the coot is as black as the proverbial nigger-boy. Thus its colouring suffices to differentiate it from any of the ducks that visit India. Further, as “Eha” truly says, “its dumpy figure and very short tail seem to distinguish it, even before one gets near enough to make out its uniform black colour and conspicuous white bill.” The difficulty which the coot experiences in rising from the water is another easy way of identifying it. Ducks rise elegantly and easily; the coot plunges and splashes and beats the water so vigorously with wings and feet that it appears to run along the surface for a few yards before it succeeds in maintaining itself in the air. But, when fairly started, it moves at a great pace, so that, as regards flight, it may well say, even at the risk of perpetrating a pun, _Il n’y a que le premier pas qui coute_. During the efforts preliminary to flight the bird presents a very easy mark; hence its popularity among inexperienced sportsmen. Now, since the coot is, to use a racing term, so indifferent a starter, raptorial birds must find it a quarry particularly easy to catch. Therefore, according to the rules of the game of natural selection, as drawn up by the learned brotherhood of zoologists, the coot ought to be as difficult to see as a thief in the night, and should spend its life skulking among rushes, in order to escape its foes. As a matter of fact it is as conspicuous as a lifeguardsman in full uniform, and, so far from having the habits of a skulker, it seems to take a positive delight in exposing itself, for, as Jerdon says, “It is often seen in the middle of some large tank far away from weeds or cover.”

Someone has suggested that the coot is an example of warning colouration, that it is unpalatable to birds of prey, and that its black livery and white face are nature’s equivalent to the druggist’s label bearing the legend “Poison.” Unfortunately for this suggestion, certain sportsmen, as we have seen, never lose an opportunity of dining off roast coot, and appear to be none the worse for the repast. Moreover, Mr. Frank Finn, who holds that no man is properly acquainted with any species of bird until he has partaken of the flesh thereof, informs us that “coots are edible, but need skinning, as the skin is tough and rank in taste.” Miss J. A. Owen has a higher opinion of the flavour of the bird. She maintains that coots are “very good for eating, but they are not often used for the table, chiefly because they are so difficult to pluck, except when quite warm.” Further, low-caste Indians appear to be very partial to the flesh of our pseudo-duck. One of the drawbacks to water-fowl shooting in this country is the constant wail of the boatmen, “_Maro wo chiriya, sahib, ham log khate hain_” (Shoot that bird, sir, we people eat it). Neither expostulations nor threats will stay the clamour. The sportsman will enjoy no peace until he sacrifices a coot. If, then, human beings of various sorts and conditions can and do eat the coot, it is absurd to suppose that the creature is unpalatable to birds of prey, some of which will devour even the crow. It is true that I do not remember ever having seen an eagle take a coot, but how few of us ever do see raptorial creatures seize their victims? What is more to the point, some observers have seen coots attacked by birds of prey. We are, therefore, compelled to regard the bald coot as a ribald fellow, who makes merry at the expense of modern zoologists by setting at naught the theory of natural selection as it has been developed of late.

Some may, perhaps, accuse me of never missing an opportunity to cast a stone at this hypothesis. To the charge I must plead guilty; but at the same time I urge the plea of justification. The amount of nonsense talked by some naturalists in the name of natural selection is appalling. The generally accepted conception of the nature of the struggle for existence needs modification. Natural selection has of late become a kind of fetish in England. So long as biologists are content to fall down and worship the golden calf they have manufactured, it is hopeless to look for rapid scientific progress. The aspersions I cast on Wallaceism are either justified or they are not. If they are justified, it is surely high time to abandon the doctrine of the all-sufficiency of natural selection to account for the whole of organic evolution. If, on the other hand, they are not justified, why do not the orthodox biologists arise and refute my statements and arguments? It is my belief that the black livery of the coot is not only not the product of natural selection, but is positively harmful to its possessor; that the coot would be an even more successful species than it now is, if, while retaining all its habits and other characteristics, it had a coat of less conspicuous hue. I maintain that many organisms possess characters which are positively injurious to them, and yet manage to survive. Natural selection has to take animals and plants as it finds them—their good qualities with the bad. If a species comes up to a certain standard, that species will be permitted to survive, in spite of some defects. By the ill-luck of variation the coot has acquired black plumage, but this ill-luck is out-weighed by its good-luck in possessing some favourable characters.

The first of these favourable attributes is a good constitution. Thanks to this the coot is able to thrive in every kind of climate: in foggy, damp England; in the hot, steamy swamps of Sind, and in cold Kashmir. In this respect it enjoys a considerable advantage over the ducks, inasmuch as it is not exposed to the dangers and tribulations of the long migratory flight.

Another valuable asset of the coot is a good digestion. Creatures which can live on a mixed diet usually do well in the struggle for existence. Then, the coot is a prolific bird. It brings up several broods in the year, and its clutch of eggs is a large one. The nest is usually well concealed among reeds and floats on the surface of the water, so is difficult of access to both birds and beasts of prey. Moreover, the mother coot carefully covers up the eggs when she leaves the nest. Another useful characteristic of the coot is its wariness. Many water-fowl go to sleep in the daytime, but the coot appears to be always watchful. This perhaps explains its popularity with ducks and other water birds, although I should be inclined to attribute it to the extreme amiability of the coot. Nothing seems to ruffle him, except the approach of a strange male bird to the nest. Whatever be the reason therefor, the general popularity of the coot among his fellow-water-fowl is so well established that in England many sportsmen encourage coot on to their waters in order to attract other water-fowl. Thus, a strong constitution, a good digestion, prolificness, and wariness, enable the coot to thrive, in spite of its showy livery. The first three of the above characteristics enable the species to contend successfully with climate and disease, which are checks on the increase of organisms far more potent than predaceous animals. It is also possible—but this has yet to be demonstrated—that the coot, although edible, is not considered a delicacy by birds of prey, and so is taken when nothing more dainty is obtainable. If this be the case, it could, of course, minimise the disadvantages of the coot’s conspicuousness. But even then there is no evading the fact that the blackness of the coot is an unfavourable characteristic.

XV THE BEAUTIFUL PORPHYRIO