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

by Alfred Edmund Brehm

Apart from the birds, which continually attract the naturalist’s attention by their omnipresence, beauty, vivacity and nimbleness, as well as by their songs, or rather cries; apart also from the very numerous lizards and snakes, or the abundant insects, even a careful observer can see very little of the other denizens of the primeval forest, and especially little of its mammals. But one can hardly fail to see a band of long-tailed monkeys, for the liveliness and restlessness characteristic of these and of all the African monkeys is sure to bring them sooner or later before the most unobservant eye, and their continual gurgling noises must reach the ear; yet one may pass within a few yards of most of the other mammals without having any idea that they are near. The great majority of the mammals inhabiting the primeval forest become active only after sundown, and return to their lairs before daybreak; but even those which are active and busy in full sunlight in the morning and evening are by no means so easily seen as might be imagined, for the thickness of the forest stands them in good stead. A European with whom I hunted in the primeval forest said to me: “Did you see that leopard that bounded from me towards you a few minutes ago? I could not shoot for I had not my gun in order; but you must have seen him.” He was wrong; I had not seen the great beast, so dense was the undergrowth in the forest. Where it is less dense another fact has its importance: the colour-resemblance between the mammals and their surroundings. The grayish lemur, which sits or sleeps huddled up high up on a branch spun over with lichens, resembles a knob or protuberance so clearly and convincingly that its form is only made out when the sportsman, taught by former experience, uses his glass and observes it keenly; the bat, which hangs high up in the crown of another tree, also looks like an outgrowth or a withered leaf; even the spotted skin of the leopard may be a faithful mimicry of the dry leaves and flowering euphorbias, and I myself once had to advance with cocked rifle to within fifteen paces of a bush in which a leopard had taken shelter before I could distinguish the animal from his surroundings. The same holds true of the forest antelopes, and indeed of all the mammals, and they know that this is so.[54] Not everywhere, but here and there throughout the forest, and then always abundantly, there lives a little antelope, the bush or Salt’s antelope. It is one of the most charming of all ruminants, most gracefully built, not bigger than a fawn a few days old, and of a foxy, gray-blue colour. It lives with a mate in the thickest undergrowth of the forest, choosing for its lair or habitual resting-place a bush which is branched and leafy to the ground, and thence treading out narrow paths in all directions through the thicket. I have often shot the animal; but at first it escaped me as it escapes all the travellers and sportsmen who make its acquaintance. I could never see it except when, if startled, it flew past me like an arrow. “Look, sir, there, in front of you in the nearest bush is a little antelope; it is down there in the gap between the two thickly-leaved branches,” whispered my native guide in my ear. I strained every nerve, penetrated every part of the bush with my gaze, and saw nothing but branches and leaves, for the graceful legs had become twigs, the head and body a leafy bough. But the sportsman’s eye becomes accustomed in time even to the primeval forest. When one has become familiar with the dainty creature’s habits, one learns to find it as well as the sharp-sighted natives do. Its acute hearing warns it of the approach of a man long before he can see any trace of its presence. Scared by the rustle of heavy human footsteps it starts up from its lair, takes a few steps forwards, and steps into some gap from which to see what happens. Like a bronze statue it stands stiff and motionless, without even moving an ear or turning an eye, but looking and listening; the leg which was raised to step onwards remains in that position, not a sign betrays life. Now is the time for the sportsman to raise his gun quickly, take aim and shoot; a moment later the cunning antelope has gained the cover of a neighbouring bush at a single bound, or has bent slowly down and crept away so quietly that scarcely a leaf stirs, scarcely a blade of grass moves.

Fig. 33.—Salt’s Antelope (Antilope Saltiana).

The primeval forest thus presents a succession of varied pictures to the traveller’s eye. If one has learnt to see, and attempts to understand, one finds more in every part of the forest at every season than one can master. But one does not see the same things at every spot, and at every season. Here, where spring lasts only a few weeks, and summer and autumn are counted by days, the long reign of winter sets in directly after the rainy season, just as in the steppe, and the full, rich, overflowing life of animals and plants is crowded into a very short time. As soon as the birds have finished brooding they begin to migrate; as soon as the mammals have exhausted the food-supply in one part of the forest they betake themselves to another. Consequently one meets different animals in the same spot at different times, or at least one sees different aspects of animal life. The river, for instance, becomes animated in proportion as the forest becomes depopulated.

While the river is high, one does not see much of the animals which live in and about the water. All the islands are deeply buried under the water, the banks are likewise flooded, and the birds which usually inhabit them are crowded out for the time. And if a crocodile should raise his head and part of his scaly back above the water, he must be close to the boat if one sees him at all. Strictly speaking, there remain only the hippopotamuses, which are comparatively abundant in some parts, the birds flying about over the water, and perhaps a few diving-birds to prove that any higher vertebrates live in and about the river. But, when the rain has ceased, the river falls, and all the islands, sand-banks, and the river-banks themselves stand out once more. The scene is changed also as far as the animal world is concerned. The hippopotamuses retire to the deepest parts of the river, associating in troops sometimes of considerable strength, and making themselves very conspicuous as they come to the surface to breathe, each breath being inhaled with a snort which can be heard a long way off. During the day they land on islands or sand-banks to rest or stretch themselves in the sun, and they can then be seen from a distance of more than half a mile. The crocodiles eagerly enjoy a pleasure they had to forego while the river was high, that of sunning themselves for hours in the heat of the day. To this end they creep out about mid-day on a flat, sandy island, fall heavily with an audible plump on the sand, open their formidably-toothed jaws wide, and sleep till evening; there may be ten, twenty, or thirty of them on a single sand-bank. Now the sand-banks, both river-banks, and the shores of the larger islands are covered with flocks of birds whose numerical strength is most impressive. For, by this time of year most of the native shore-birds and swimming-birds have ended their brooding labours, and frequent the shores of the river with their young to enjoy, while they are moulting, the abundant and easily-procured food. About the same time, too, the migratory birds from the north arrive to pass the winter here. The last-named are also to be found in every part of the primeval forest, but are not nearly so much in evidence there as by the river, whose banks and islands are covered by the largest and most conspicuous species. It may even happen that the available space by the river is too small, the rich supply of food insufficient for the number of claimants. Thus every space is more than fully occupied, every promising hunting-ground is visited by thousands, every sleeping-place even is fought over. For three days I sailed, in an excellent boat and with a very good wind, up the White Nile, and during the whole long journey both banks were uninterruptedly covered with a gay and motley throng of littoral and aquatic birds. In the midst of the forests about the Blue Nile one can see a similar sight. Extensive sand-banks are completely covered by gray and demoiselle cranes, but they only serve these winter visitors as resting, sleeping, and moulting places, from whence they fly out every morning into the steppe in search of food, returning about mid-day to drink, bathe, dress their feathers, and to spend the night, though they are in continual danger from the crocodiles. Regularly about mid-day they are joined by several crowned cranes whose visit always causes lively excitement, for they are, if not better, at least more ardent dancers than the other cranes, and on their arrival they never fail to exhibit their skill, and thus to incite the others to rivalry. On the same sand-banks one may often see tantalus-ibises, magnificent stork-like birds, with rosy-white plumage and brilliant rose-red wings, which take possession of the extreme edge of the island or the neighbouring damp places. In a good light they literally glow, and they are at all times beautiful, contrasting wonderfully with the light gray cranes, and decorating the whole neighbourhood. Splendid giant or saddle-billed storks step proudly along the shores; ugly, but curiously-formed marabous walk up and down with an air of dignity; glittering, open-bill storks stand in large companies; giant and great white herons wade about in search of fish; and everywhere standing and lying, swimming and diving, grazing and grubbing, cackling and chattering are thousands of Spur-winged, Egyptian, and other geese, widow and pintail ducks, African darters, ibises, curlews, sandpipers, dunlins, redshanks, and many more, a motley throng which decorates the stream even more than the tantalus ibises. But, in addition to all those mentioned, some of whom are constantly coming and going, there fly terns and gulls, sand-martins and bee-eaters, while splendid sea-eagles wheel in circles high up in the air.

Fig. 34.—Crocodile and Crocodile-birds (Pluxianus ægyptius).

There are some members of this bird-fauna, so rich in every respect, who have to wait till the water is at its lowest before they can begin to brood, for, when the river is full, they are quite unable to find such nesting-places as they desire. Among these is a running bird, prettily and gaily coloured, clever and vivacious by nature, which was well known to the ancients as the Crocodile-bird or the Trochilus of Herodotus. Of it the old historian relates, as Pliny repeats on his authority, that it lives in true friendship with the crocodile. And this old story is no fable, as one might be inclined to suppose, but is based on solid facts, which I have myself been able to verify.[55] The crocodile-bird, whose image is so often represented on the ancient Egyptian monuments, and stands for U in the hieroglyphic alphabet, occurs in Egypt and Nubia, but nowadays it seems to be only in the Soudan that it discharges, on the crocodile’s behalf, those sentinel duties for which it was famous among the ancient peoples. But the service it renders is not to the crocodile alone, but to all other creatures who are willing to take advantage of its watchfulness. Observant, inquisitive, excitable, clamorous, and gifted with a far-reaching voice, it is well fitted to serve as watchman to all less careful creatures. No approach, whether of beast of prey or of man, escapes its suspicious observation; every sailing-boat or rowing-boat on the river attracts its attention; and it never fails to tell of its discovery in loud cries. Thus it brings under the notice of all the other creatures who share its home or resting-place the unusual occurrence, enabling them either to find out for themselves if there is really any danger, or to make good their escape on the strength of its warning. Thus it discharges the duties of a sentinel. Its friendly relations with the crocodile can hardly be called mutual, for to credit the crocodile with friendship is going rather far. Certainly the reptile treats the bird as a harmless creature, but this is not out of any benevolence, but simply because he has a thorough knowledge and a correct estimate of his partner. And as to the bird, it is at home on the sand-banks where the crocodile is wont to rest, and has been from its youth accustomed to the monster; it busies itself about him and associates itself with him, as if he were the master and itself the servant. Without hesitation it hops on his back as he rests; without apprehension it approaches his gaping jaws to see if there be perchance a leech sucking his lips, or if there be some morsel of food sticking between his teeth; and without misgiving it darts off with either. All this the crocodile quietly allows, for doubtless he has learned by experience that he cannot get at the ever watchful, agile, and clever little rogue. I once saw a crocodile-bird having a meal along with a screaming sea-eagle off a fish, which the latter had caught and borne to a sand-bank. While the eagle, which held its booty firmly in its talons or stood upon it, was breaking off pieces of the flesh, the parasite at the lordly bird’s table kept at a respectful distance; but as soon as the eagle raised its head to swallow, the crocodile-bird ran forward, seized one of the prepared fragments, and was off again to his old position, there to enjoy his stolen goods. Not less astonishing than this self-possessed audacity is the way in which the crocodile-bird hides its eggs from prying eyes. For long I searched in vain for the nest. When the brooding period set in was readily enough discovered by dissecting a specimen which I killed; and that the bird must nest on the sand-bank I was already convinced from my observation of its mode of life. But it was in vain that I searched their favourite spots; not a hint of a nest could I find. At last I observed a pair, one sitting on the ground, the other busying itself round about; I brought my field-glass to bear upon the sitting bird and made straight for it. As I came near it rose, hastily scraped some sand together, and flew off, uttering its usual cry, but without any other signs of excitement. I was not diverted from my purpose, but advanced carefully, keeping the exact spot always in view. But even when I reached the place I could see no nest, and it was not till I noticed a slight unevenness in the sand, and dug carefully with my fingers, that I found what I sought, two eggs most deceptively like the sand in their colour and markings. Had the mother-bird been allowed more time than I gave her, it is not likely that I should ever have noticed the slight unevenness in the sand.

Even richer, if that be possible, than the fauna of the river, and at any rate more diverse, is that to be found at the proper season on the shores and surface of all the lakes and larger water-pools which lie within the forest and are filled either by the spring rains or by the full floods of the river. Surrounded by the forest, and not unfrequently so thickly hedged round that one cannot reach them without great difficulty, and more immediately fringed by a scarcely less rich vegetation of canes and reed-thickets, where the papyrus and the lotos still flourish, these rain-lakes, or Fulat as the natives call them, afford most excellent resting-stations and breeding-places for the most diverse kinds of beasts and birds.

Their safe seclusion pleases even the hippopotamus so well that it seeks them out as fit places where to bring forth and suckle, tend and rear its young, safe from dangerous intruders, and without trouble as to food, which the water supplies in abundance. Wild hogs and buffaloes are also attracted to the luxuriant fringe of vegetation and to the creeks which gradually pass into swamp and bog. To all the thirsty race of antelopes the quiet pools afford welcome supplies. On the surface thousands of pelicans gather in the evenings, and fish greedily before they go to roost on the tall trees near by; all day long the darters dive; many ducks and geese swim about, both native species and those which have come from the north to these comfortable winter-quarters; in the creeks and shallows the giant-herons and the beautiful little bush-herons secure rich booty at small cost of exertion; countless hosts of little birds are sheltered among the green, sappy herbage of the shore, and many other shore-and water-birds find resting-places and build their nests on the overtowering trees of the forest.