From North Pole to Equator: Studies of Wild Life and Scenes in Many Lands

by Alfred Edmund Brehm

Finally, over the surface of the lake the gulls fly and hover, the terns dart hither and thither, the ernes and ospreys pursue their prey, and, where the water is not too deep, the pelicans and swans vie in their fishing industry with the greedy cormorants and grebes.

The beds of streams fringed with trees and bushes are hardly less rich in life. The trees bear the nests of large and small birds of prey, and serve also for their perches. From their tops may be heard the resonant call of the golden oriole, the song of the thrush, the laughter of the woodpecker, and the cooing of the ring-dove and stock-dove; while from the thick undergrowth the glorious song of the nightingale is poured forth with such clearness and power, that even the fastidious ear of the critic listens in rapture to the rare music. On the surface of the stream many different kinds of water-birds swim about as on the lake; among the bushes on the banks there is the same gay company that we saw among the reeds; the lesser white-throat chatters, the white-throat and the barred warbler sing their familiar songs.

When we traverse the dry stretches of the steppes we see another aspect of animal life. Again it is the bird-life which first claims attention. At least six, and perhaps eight species of larks inhabit the steppes, and give life to even the dreariest regions. Uninterruptedly does their song fall on the traveller’s ear; from the ground and from the tops of the small bushes it rises; from morning to evening the rich melody is poured forth from the sky. It seems to be only one song which one hears, for the polyphonous calandra lark takes the strophes of our sky-lark and of the white-winged lark and combines them with its own, nor despises certain notes of the black lark, the red lark, and the short-toed lark, but blends all the single songs with its own, yet without drowning the song of its relatives, no matter how loudly it may pour forth its own and its borrowed melodies. When, in spring, we listen enraptured to our own sky-larks in the meadows, and note how one sweet singer starts up after another in untiring sequence, heralding the spring with inspired and inspiring song, we hardly fancy that all that we can hear at home is surpassed a hundredfold on the steppes. Yet so it is, for here is the true home of the larks; one pair close beside another, one species and then another, or different kinds living together, and in such numbers that the broad steppes seem to have scarce room enough to hold them all. But the larks are not the only inhabitants of these regions. For proportionately numerous are the lark’s worst enemies, full of menace to the dearly loved young brood—the harriers, characteristic birds of the steppes. Whatever region we visit we are sure to see one or another of these birds of prey, in the north Montagu’s harrier, in the south the steppe-harrier, hurrying over his province, sweeping along near the ground in wavy, vacillating flight. Not unfrequently, over a broad hollow, four, six, eight or more may be seen at once absorbed in the chase. Even more abundant, but not quite so widely distributed, are two other children of the steppes, almost identical in nature and habits, and vieing with one another in beauty, grace of form, and vigour of movement,—the lesser kestrel and the red-footed falcon. Wherever there is a perching-place for these charming creatures, where a telegraph-line traverses the country, or where a rocky hillock rises from the plain, there they are sure to be seen. As good-natured as they are gregarious, unenvious of each other’s gain, though they pursue the same booty, these falcons wage indefatigable war against insects of all sorts, from the voracious grasshopper to the small beetle. There they sit, resting and digesting, yet keeping a sharp look-out meanwhile; as soon as they spy booty they rise, and after an easy and dexterous flight begin to glide, then, stopping, they hover, with scarce perceptible vibrations, right over one spot, until, from the height, they are able to fasten their eyes surely on their prey. This done, they precipitate themselves like a falling stone, seize, if they are fortunate, the luckless insect, tear it and devour it as they fly, and, again swinging themselves aloft, proceed as before. Not unfrequently ten or twelve of both species may be seen hunting over the same spot, and their animated behaviour cannot fail to attract and fascinate the observer’s gaze. Every day and all day one comes across them, for hours at a time one may watch them, and always there is a fresh charm in studying their play; they are as characteristic parts of the steppe picture as the salt lake, the tulip or the lily, as the dwarf shrub, the tschi-grass, or the white wool-packs in the heavens. Characteristic also is the rose-starling, beautifully coloured representative of the familiar frequenter of our houses and gardens. He is the eager and successful enemy of the greedy grasshopper, the truest friend of the grazing herds, the untiring guardian of the crops and thus man’s sworn ally, an almost sacred bird in the eyes of those who inhabit the steppes. Notable also is the sand-grouse, a connecting link between fowl and pigeon,[21] which, with other members of its family, is especially at home in the desert. Not less noteworthy are the great bustard, its handsomer relative the ruffed bustard, and the little bustard. The last-named is of special interest to us, because a few years ago it wandered into Germany as far as Thuringia, where it now, as in the steppe, adds a unique charm to the landscape as it discloses its full beauty in whizzing flight. Other beautifully coloured, and indeed really splendid birds inhabit the steppes—the lovely bee-eater and roller, which live on the steep banks of the streams along with falcons and pigeons, the bunting and the scarlet bullfinch, which shelter among the tschi-grass and herbage, and many others. Even the swallows are not absent from this region in which stable human dwellings are so rare. That the sand-martin should make its burrows in all the steeper banks of the lakes will not seem strange to the ornithologist, but it is worthy of note that the swallow and martins are still in process of transition from free-living to semi-domesticated birds, that they still fix their nests to the cliffs, but leave these to establish themselves wherever the Kirghiz rear a tomb, and that the martins seek hospitality even in the tent or yurt.[22] They find it, too, when the Kirghiz is able to settle long enough to allow the eggs to hatch and the young to become fledged, in a nest fixed to the cupola ring of his hut.

But in these regions, whose bird-life I have been describing, there are other animals. Apart from the troublesome mosquitoes, flies, gadflies, wasps, and other such pests, there are only a few species of insects, but most of these are very numerous and are distributed over the whole of the wide area. The same is true of the reptiles; thus in the region which we traversed we found only a few species of lizards and snakes. Among the latter we noted especially two venomous species, our common viper and the halys-viper; neither indeed occurred in multitudes like the lizards, but both were none the less remarkably abundant. Several times every day as we rode through the steppe would one and the other of the Kirghiz who accompanied us bend from his horse with drawn knife, and slash the head off one of these snakes. I remember, too, that, at a little hill-town in the northern Altai, a place called “Schlangenberg” [or Snakemount], we wished to know whether the place had a good right to its name, and that the answer was almost embarrassingly convincing, so abundant was the booty with which those whom we had sent in quest soon returned. We had no longer any reason to doubt the truth of the tale according to which the place owed its name to the fact that, before the town was founded, the people collected thousands and thousands of venomous snakes and burned them. Amphibians and small mammals seem much rarer than reptiles; of the former we saw only a species of toad, and of the latter, several mice, a souslik, two blind mole-rats, and the dainty jerboa, popularly known as the jumping-mouse.

Fig. 14.—The Souslik (Spermophilus citillus).
(⅓ natural size.)

Fig. 15.—The Jerboa (Alactaga jaculus).
(⅓ natural size.)

The sousliks and the jerboas are most charming creatures. The former especially are often characteristic features of steppe-life, for in favourable places they readily become gregarious, and, like the related marmots, form important settlements. It is usually towards evening that one sees them, each sitting at the door of his burrow. On the approach of the waggon or train of riders they hastily beat a retreat, inquisitively they raise their heads once more, and then, at the proper moment, they vanish like a flash into their burrows, only to reappear, however, a few minutes later, peering out cautiously as if to see whether the threatened danger had passed safely by. Their behaviour expresses a continual wavering between curiosity and timidity, and the latter is fully justified, since, apart from man, there are always wolves and foxes, imperial eagles and spotted eagles, on their track. Indeed one may be sure that the sousliks are abundant when one sees an imperial eagle perching on the posts by the wayside or on the trees by a village. The jerboa—by far the prettiest of the steppe-mammals—is much less frequently seen, not indeed because he occurs less frequently, but because, as a nocturnal animal, he only shows himself after sunset. About this time, or later if the moon be favourable, one may see the charming creature steal cautiously from his hole. He stretches himself, and then, with his pigmy fore-limbs pressed close to his breast, trots off on his kangaroo-like hind-legs, going as if on stilts, balancing his slim erect body by help of his long hair-fringed tail. Jerkily and not very rapidly the jerboa jumps along the ground, resting here and there for a little, sniffing at things and touching them with its long whisker-hairs, as he seeks for suitable food. Here he picks out a grain of seed, and there he digs out a bulb; they say of him also that he will not disdain carrion, that he will plunder a bird’s nest, steal the eggs and young of those which nest on the ground, and even hunt smaller rodents, from all which accusations I cannot venture to vindicate him. Precise and detailed observation of his natural life is difficult, for, his senses being keen and his intelligence slight, timidity and shyness are his most prominent qualities. As soon as man appears in what seems dangerous proximity, the creature takes to flight, and it is useless to try to follow; even on horseback one could scarce overtake him. With great bounds he hurries on, jerking out his long hind-legs, with his long tail stretched out as a rudder; bound after bound he goes, and, before one has rightly seen how he began or whither he went, he has disappeared in the darkness.[23]

The fauna of the steppe-mountains differs from that of the low-grounds, differs at least, when, instead of gentle slopes or precipitous rocky walls, there are debris-covered hillsides, wild deeply-cut gorges, and rugged plantless summits. In the narrow, green valleys, through which a brook flows or trickles, the sheldrake feeds—an exceedingly graceful, beautiful, lively bird, scarce larger than a duck—the characteristic duck of the central Asiatic mountains. From the niches of the rocks is heard the cooing of a near relative of the rock-dove, which is well known to be ancestor of our domestic pigeons; from the rough blocks on which the wheatear, the rock-bunting, and the rock-grosbeak flit busily, the melodious song of the rock-thrush streams forth. Around the peaks the cheerful choughs flutter; above them the golden-eagle circles by day, and the horned owl flies silently as a ghost by night, both bent on catching one of the exceedingly abundant rock ptarmigan, or, it may be, a careless marmot. More noteworthy, however, is the Archar of the Kirghiz, one of the giant wild sheep of Central Asia, the same animal that I had the good fortune to shoot on the Arkat mountains.