Part 9

The Indian pitta is a bird which likes warmth, but not heat, so that it refuses to live in the Punjab, where the climate is one of extremes—a spell of cold, then a headlong rush into a period of intense heat, followed by an equally sudden return to a low temperature. The pitta seems to occur in all parts of Eastern, Central, and Southern India, undergoing local migration to the south in the autumn and back again in the spring. In places where the climate is never very hot or very cold, as, for example, Madras and the hills in Ceylon, some individuals seem to remain throughout the year. I have seen pittas in Madras at all seasons, and I know of no better testimonial to the excellence of the climate of that city. Jerdon writes of the pitta: “In the Carnatic it chiefly occurs in the beginning of the hot weather, when the land-winds first begin to blow with violence from the west; and the birds in many instances appear to have been blown, by the strong wind, from the Eastern Ghauts, for, being birds of feeble flight, they are unable to contend against the strength of the wind. At this time they take refuge in huts, outhouses, or any building that will afford them shelter. The first bird of this kind that I saw had taken refuge in the General Hospital at Madras; and subsequently, at Nellore, I obtained many alive under the same circumstances.” Other observers have had similar experiences. Bligh, for instance, states that in Ceylon pittas are frequently caught in bungalows on coffee estates on cold and stormy days.

It is strange that so retiring a bird as the pitta should find its way with such frequency into inhabited houses. Jerdon’s explanation is its “feeble flight,” but I doubt whether he is correct in calling the pitta a bird of weak flight; it can travel very fast, for short distances at any rate. It seems to me that the pitta dislikes cold and wind, and therefore naturally seeks any shelter that presents itself. Not being a garden bird, it is unaware that the bungalow, which offers such tempting cover, is the abode of human beings. Possibly another reason why the pitta so frequently enters bungalows is to avoid the crows. Dr. Henderson tells me that he was playing tennis some years ago at a friend’s house in Madras when he saw a bird being chased by a mob of crows. The fugitive took refuge in the drawing-room of the house, where Dr. Henderson caught it, and found that it was an uninjured but very much frightened pitta. Mr. D. G. Hatchell informs me that he once picked up in his verandah a dead pitta that had probably been killed by crows. The _corvi_ are out-and-out Tories. They strongly resent all innovation _qua_ innovation. Any addition to the local fauna is exceedingly distasteful to them. They object to the foreigner quite as strongly as do (perhaps I should say “did”) the Chinese. It is for this reason that they mob every strange bird that shows its face. Now, they seldom come across either the creatures of the night or the denizens of the thick undergrowth; consequently, when such venture forth into the light of day the crows forthwith attack them.

The pitta feeds chiefly on beetles, termites, ants, and other creeping things, which it seeks out among fallen leaves, after the manner of the “seven sisters.” The pitta is quick on its feet, and is able to hop and run with equal ease. It thrives in captivity. It is an excellent pet, provided it be not kept with smaller birds. It regards these as so much fresh meat especially provided for it.

The nest of the pitta is described as a globular structure fully nine inches in horizontal diameter and six inches high, with a circular aperture on one side. Twigs, roots, and dried leaves are the building materials utilised. The eggs are exceedingly beautiful. “The ground colour,” writes Hume, “is China white, sometimes faintly tinged with pink, sometimes creamy; and the eggs are speckled and spotted with deep maroon, dark purple, and brownish purple as primary markings, and pale inky purple as secondary ones. Occasionally, instead of spots, the markings take the form of fine hair-like lines.”

XXV THE INDIAN WHITE-EYE

The Indian white-eye (_Zosterops palpebrosa_) is a bird which should be familiar to everyone who has visited the Nilgiris. To wander far in a hillside wood without meeting a flock of these diminutive creatures is impossible. Sooner or later a number of monosyllabic notes will be heard, each a faint, plaintive cheep. On going to the tree from which these notes appear to emanate a rustle will be observed here and there in the foliage. Closer inspection will reveal a number of tiny birds flitting about among the leaves. These are white-eyes—the most sociable of birds. Except when nesting, they invariably go about in companies of not less than twenty or thirty. Each individual is as restless as a wren, so that some patience must be exercised by the observer if he wish to obtain a good view of any member of the flock. But by standing perfectly motionless for a time under the tree in which the birds are feeding he who is watching will, ere long, be able to make out that the white-eye is a tiny creature, not much more than half the size of a sparrow. The upper parts are yellowish green, the chin, throat, and feathers under the tail are bright yellow, and the remainder of the lower surface of whitish hue. The most marked feature of the _Zosterops_ is a conspicuous ring of white feathers round the eye, which causes the bird to look as though it were wearing white spectacles. From this circle the species derives its popular names, the white-eye or spectacle bird. Thanks to the conspicuous eye-ring, it is impossible to mistake the bird.

All feathered creatures that go about in flocks and haunt thick foliage emit unceasingly a call note, by means of which the members of the flock keep in touch with one another. This ceaseless cheeping note is probably uttered unconsciously. Each individual listens, without knowing that it is doing so, for the calls of its fellows; so long as it hears these it is happy. When the main volume of the sound grows faint the individual white-eye knows that his companions are moving away from him; he accordingly flies in the direction from which their calls are coming, giving vent, as he goes, to a louder cheep than usual. Whenever a white-eye flies from one tree to another it utters this more powerful call and thereby informs its fellows that it is moving forward. This louder cry stimulates the others to follow the bird that has taken the lead. All the time they are thus flitting about the white-eyes are busy picking tiny insects off the leaves. I have never observed them eating anything but insects. Legge, however, asserts that their diet is for the most part frugivorous, in consequence of which the birds are, according to him, very destructive to gardens, picking off the buds of fruit trees, as well as attacking the fruit itself. He further declares that he has known caged individuals in England feed with avidity on dried figs. Hutton also states that white-eyes feed greedily upon the small black berries of a species of _Rhamnus_, common in the Himalayas. Notwithstanding the authorities cited, it is my belief that these little birds are almost exclusively insectivorous. They perform a useful work in devouring numbers of obnoxious insects, which they extract from flowers. In so doing their heads sometimes become powdered with pollen, so that the white-eyes probably, like bees and moths, render service to plants by carrying pollen from one flower to another.

The search for food does not occupy the whole day. Except at the nesting season, the work of birds is light. In the early morning the white-eyes feed industriously; so that by noon they have satisfied their hunger. They then flit and hop and fly about purely for pleasure. White-eyes, like all small birds, literally bubble over with energy. They are as restless as children. Once when walking through the Lawrence Gardens at Lahore in the days when they had not yet fallen into the clutches of that enemy of beautiful scenery, the landscape gardener, I came across a company of these charming little birds disporting themselves amid some low bushes near a plantation of loquat trees. First one little bird, then another, then a third, a fourth, a fifth, etc., dropped to the ground, only to return at once to the bush whence they came. A whole flock appeared to be taking part in this pastime. There were two continuous streams, one of descending and the other of ascending white-eyes. These might have been little fluffy, golden balls with which some unseen person was playing.

When the heat of the day is at its zenith, white-eyes, like most birds in India, enjoy a _siesta_. At this hour little gatherings of them may be seen, each bird huddled against its neighbours on some bough of a leafy tree.

At the nesting season the white-eye sings most sweetly. The ordinary cheeping note then becomes glorified into something resembling the lay of the canary; less powerful, but equally pleasing to the ear.

The nest of the white-eye is a neat little cup, or, as Mr. A. Anderson describes it, a hollow hemisphere. It is a miniature of the oriole’s nursery. It is large for the size of the bird, being usually over two inches in diameter. Some nests are fully two inches deep, while others are quite shallow. It is composed of fine fibres (i.e. grass stems, slender roots, moss, and seed down) and cotton, bound together by cobweb, which is the cement most commonly used by bird masons. The nursery is invariably provided with a lining. In one nest that I found, this lining consisted of human hair. Other lining materials are silky down, hair-like moss and fern-roots, and grass fibres so fine that the horsehairs which are sometimes utilised look quite coarse beside them. The most wonderful thing about the nest of this pretty little bird is the manner in which it is attached to its supports. I have called it a miniature of the oriole’s nursery, because it is usually suspended from two or more branches by cotton fibres. I once came upon a nest which was attached to but one slender branch, and to the tip of this. The end was worked into the structure of the nest so that the whole looked like a ladle with a very thin handle. It seemed incredible that so slight a branch could support the nest and its contents.

I have not been fortunate enough to watch the white-eye building its nest. Mr. A. Anderson states that the pair—for both the cock and the hen take part in nest construction—“set to work with cobwebs, and having first tied together two or three leafy twigs to which they intend to attach their nest, they then use the fine fibre of the _sunn_ (_Crotalaria juncea_), with which material they complete the outer fabric of their very beautiful and compact nest. As the work progresses, more cobwebs and fibre of a silky kind are applied externally, and at times the nest, when tossed about by the wind (sometimes at a considerable elevation), would be mistaken by a casual observer for an accidental collection of cobwebs. The inside of the nest is well felted with the down of the _madar_ plant, and then it is finally lined with fine hair and grass stems of the softest kind.” The nest is usually situated within three or four feet of the ground, but is sometimes placed at much higher elevations.

In South India, the time to look for white-eyes’ nests is from January to March. In the north, the majority of nests are found between April and June.

The eggs are a beautiful pale blue. Most commonly only two seem to be laid. There are, however, many cases on record of three and a few of four eggs. This is an unusually small clutch. Nevertheless it is unlikely that a pair of white-eyes bring up more than two broods in the year. These facts, when taken in conjunction with the wide distribution of the species, indicate that the white-eye meets with exceptional success in rearing its young. The nest is usually well concealed in the depths of a leafy bush. Squirrels and lizards must find the suspended nursery difficult of access. In addition to this we must bear in mind that white-eyes are plucky little creatures. Mr. Ball describes how he saw one of them attacking a rose-finch, a vastly more powerful bird, and drive it away from the flowers of the _mohwa_, which form a favourite hunting-ground of the white-eye.

As I have repeatedly stated, pugnacity is a more valuable asset than protective colouration in the struggle for existence.

Lastly, the white-eye appears able to thrive under greatly varying conditions of climate.

These advantages possessed by white-eyes, I think, explain why the clutch of eggs is so small.

White-eyes make excellent pets. They will live amicably along with amadavats in a cage. Finn is my authority for saying that soft fruit, bread and milk, and small insects are all the food required by white-eyes, and they are so easy to keep that many specimens are sent to Europe.

XXVI GOOSEY, GOOSEY GANDER

The goose, like certain ladies who let lodgings, has seen better times. It is a bird that has come down in the world. For some reason which I have never been able to discover, it is nowadays the object of popular ridicule. It is commonly set forth as the emblem of foolishness. Invidious comparisons are proverbially drawn between it and its more handsome cousin, the swan. The modern bards vie with one another in blackening its character. As Phil Robinson says, “It does not matter who the poet is—he may be anyone between a Herbert and a Butler—the goose is a garrulous fool, _et præterea nihil_.” Well may the bird cry _O tempora! O mores!_ It has indeed fallen upon evil days. Things were not ever thus. Time was when men held the goose in high esteem. Livy was loud in his praises of the bird. Pliny was an ardent admirer thereof. The Romans used to hold a festival in honour of the feathered saviour of the Capitol. The degradation of the goose is, I fear, a matter of looks. Its best friend can scarcely call it handsome. It is built for natation rather than perambulation; nevertheless it spends much time out of water and feeds chiefly on _terra firma_. It is probably a bird that is undergoing evolution, a bird that is changing its habits. It has taken to a more or less terrestrial existence, but has not yet lost what I may perhaps call the aquatic waddle. While walking it looks as though it might lose its balance at any moment. As a matter of fact, the goose is no mean pedestrian, and is capable of performing considerable journeys on foot. When pressed, it can show a fine turn of speed. This I have had some opportunity of observing in the Zoological Gardens at Lahore. A crane (_Grus antigone_) is confined in the water-birds’ enclosure along with the ducks, geese, pelicans, etc. Now, cranes are the most frolicsome and playful of birds. In no other fowl is the sense of humour more highly developed. The crane in question continually indulges in “cake walks,” and cuts other mad capers. Sometimes it is seized with the impulse to “clear the decks,” that is to say, the banks of the ornamental pond. The operation is conducted as follows: The crane opens out its wings, takes two wild jumps into the air, then rushes at the nearest duck or goose, with wings expanded, looking as though it were going through one of the figures of the serpentine dance. The frightened duck flees before the crane; the latter keeps up the chase until the duck takes refuge in the water. Having succeeded in its object, the crane trumpets loudly and performs a dance which a Red Indian on the war-path could scarcely hope to emulate. It next turns its attention to some other inoffensive duck or goose. It is while being thus chased that pinioned geese show a fine turn of speed. Fly they cannot, so they sprint with expanded wings.

The goose is a great favourite of mine. The more one sees of the bird the more one likes it and appreciates its good qualities. It is a creature of character. It rapidly forms attachments, and will sometimes follow about, like a dog, the person to whom it has taken a fancy. A curious instance of this was recorded many years ago by _The Yorkshire Gazette_. A gander belonging to a farmer developed a liking for an old gentleman. The bird used to go every morning from the farmyard to the house of the said elderly gentleman and awake him by its cries. It would then accompany him the whole day in his walks and strut behind him in the most frequented streets, unmindful of the screams of the urchins by whom the strange pair were often followed. When the old gentleman sat down to rest the gander used to squat at his feet. When they were approaching a seat on which the old man was accustomed to sit the gander used to run on ahead and signify by cackling and flapping of wings that the resting-place was reached. When anyone annoyed the old gentleman the gander would express its displeasure by its cries and sometimes by biting. When its friend went into an inn to take a glass of ale, the bird used to follow him inside if permitted; if not allowed to do so, it would wait outside for him.

One should not of course accept as gospel truth everything one reads in a newspaper. It is necessary to discriminate. Thus, when a well-known weekly journal produces a picture of the ladies of a Sultan’s harem dancing unveiled before a distinguished company of gentlemen, one begins to wonder whether truth really is stranger than fiction. However, I see no reason to doubt the substantial accuracy of the story of the Yorkshire gander. The goose is an exceptionally intelligent bird and is very easily tamed. I once made friends with a goose in the Zoological Gardens at Lahore. It was a white, bazaar-bred bird. Whenever it saw me it used to walk up to the fence and emit a low note of welcome. I was able to distinguish that particular bird from the other geese by the fact that a piece had been broken off its upper mandible.

I am glad to notice that Mr. W. H. Hudson, one of the leading British ornithologists, has a high opinion of the goose. In his _Birds and Man_ he gives a delightful account of the home-coming of a flock of tame geese led by a gander. He writes: “Arrived at the wooden gate of the garden in front of the cottage, the leading bird drew up square before it, and with repeated loud screams demanded admittance. Pretty soon in response to the summons, a man came out of the cottage, walked briskly down the garden-path and opened the gate, but only wide enough to put his right leg through; then placing his foot and knee against the leading bird he thrust him roughly back; as he did so three young geese pressed forward and were allowed to pass in; then the gate was slammed in the face of the gander and the rest of his followers, and the man went back to the cottage. The gander’s indignation was fine to see, though he had probably experienced the same rude treatment on many previous occasions. Drawing up before the gate again, he called more loudly than before; then deliberately lifted a leg, and placing his broad webbed foot like an open hand against the gate, actually tried to push it open. His strength was not sufficient, but he continued to push and call until the man returned to open the gate and let the birds go in.”

If only for his sturdy independence and his insistence on his rights the gander is a bird whose character is worthy of study. He is courageous too; so is his wife. She will stand up fearlessly to a boy, a kite, or even a fox, when her brood is threatened. Last year in the Lahore Zoological Gardens a goose hatched a number of goslings. The kites regarded these as fair game, and, in spite of the efforts of the mother, carried off several of the young birds. Thereupon four ganders took counsel and constituted themselves a bodyguard for the goose and chicks, one or more of them being always on duty. In spite of this a kite managed to secure another gosling. The mother and her remaining five chicks were then placed in a cage; notwithstanding this, the ganders still maintained their guard and cried loudly whenever a human being approached the cage containing the brood.

The goose, like the swan, uses its wing as a weapon. When it attacks it stretches its neck and head low along the ground and hisses; it then dashes at its adversary, seizes him with beak and claws, and lays on to him right well with its powerful wings.

Here endeth the account of “Goosey, Goosey Gander.” I must apologise to the geese in their natural state for having completely ignored them. We will make amends by indulging in a wild-goose chase at an early date!

XXVII GEESE IN INDIA

Seven or eight species of goose have been recorded as winter visitors to India. With two exceptions they honour us with their presence only on rare occasions, and do not really form part and parcel of our Indian avifauna. The exceptions are the grey lag goose and the barred-headed goose, which visit India every winter in their millions. It is these that form the subject of this essay. It is difficult for the dweller in the south to realise how abundant geese are in Northern India throughout the cold weather. Flocks of them fly overhead so frequently that they scarcely attract notice. Each flight looks like a great trembling, quivering V, floating in the air, a V of which the angle is wide and one limb frequently longer than the other. During flight geese are distinguishable from cranes and storks by this V-shaped formation, and by the fact that they never sail on expanded wings; they progress by means of a steady, regular motion of the pinions, and are able to cover long distances in short time. Geese on the wing are distinguishable from the smaller species of duck by their larger size, and from Brahminy ducks (_Casarca_ _rutila_) by their lighter colour. Moreover, the curious note of this last species is very different from the cackle of geese. Brahminy ducks go about in couples; geese fly in flocks.

Like most birds which breed in the far north, geese are largely nocturnal; their cries as they fly overhead are among the commonest of the sounds which break the stillness of the winter night in Upper India. They feed mainly in the hours of darkness, and do a certain amount of damage to the young wheat; nor do they leave their feeding ground until the sun is high in the heavens, when they repair to a river bank or shallow lake, where they love to bask in the sun, all with the head tucked under the wing, save one or two who do duty as sentinels.