Tiger Listening to Soft Music. From a photograph
by Gambier Bolton.
The Capuchin monkeys are kept in a large cage next to one containing a number of grey macaques. The little Capuchins were busy eating their breakfast; but the violin soon attracted an audience. The Capuchins dropped their food and clung to the bars, listening, with their heads on one side, with great attention. The keeper drew our notice to the next cage. There, clinging in rows to the front wires, was a silent assembly of a dozen macaques, all listening intently to the concert which their neighbours were enjoying. At the first sounds of the flute most of these ran away; and the piccolo excited loud and angry screams from all sides. Clearly in this case the violin was the favourite. We then decided to take the opinion of some of the largest and least vivacious animals, and selected the young African elephant for our next auditor. As this animal had shown the utmost dislike to the violin on a previous occasion, the flute was employed to open the concert, and with complete success. The elephant stood listening with deep attention, one foot raised from the ground, and its whole body still—a rare concession to the influence of music from one of the most restless of all animals. So long as the flute continued, it remained motionless and listening. But the change to the piccolo was resented. After the first bar, the elephant twisted round, and stood with its back to the performer, whistling and snorting and stamping its feet. The violin was less disliked, but the signs of disapproval were unmistakable. The deer, as before, were strangely attracted by the violin, and showed equal pleasure in the tones of the flute; the gemul deer, for instance, ran up at once to listen to the latter, their ears and tails being in constant movement at every change of tone or tune. Even the ostrich seemed to enjoy the violin and flute, though it showed marked signs of dislike at the piccolo, writhing its neck and walking uneasily up and down its enclosure. The ibexes were startled at the piccolo, first rushing forward to listen, and then taking refuge on a pile of rocks, from which, however, the softer music of the flute brought them down to listen at the railing. The wild asses and zebras left the hay with which their racks had just been filled; and even the tapir, which lives next door, got up to listen to the violin; while the flute set the Indian wild asses kicking with excitement. But the piccolo had no charms for any of them, and they all returned to their interrupted breakfasts. So far, the piccolo had shown its inability to please in most cases. Of its power to annoy we soon had an amusing proof. The Lion House was almost deserted by the few visitors who were in the Gardens, and the opportunity of making trial of the musical preferences of its inmates was too good to be lost. The violin-player approached a sleeping tiger, which was lying on its side with its feet stretched and touching the bars, and played so softly that the opening notes were scarcely audible. As the sound rose, the tiger awoke, and, raising its head without moving its body, looked for some time with fixed attention at the player. It remained for some time in a very fine attitude listening to the music, and then making the curious sound which, in tiger language, does duty for “purring,” it lay down again and dozed. The soft music still continued, as we were engaged in watching a cheetah, which showed great uneasiness and fear at the sounds, making sudden starts and bounds, raising the fur on its neck, and waving its tail from side to side like an angry cat. But whatever the cheetah’s emotions of dislike, the tiger did not share them, but lay half or wholly asleep, as if the chords which were being played made an agreeable lullaby. Judge, then, of our surprise, when, at the first notes of the piccolo, which succeeded the violin, the tiger sprang to its feet and rushed up and down the cage, shaking its head and ears, and lashing its tail from side to side. As the notes became still louder and more piercing, the tiger bounded across the den, reared on its hind feet, and exhibited the most ludicrous contrast to the calm dignity and repose with which it had listened to the violin. Then came the final and most successful experiment. The piccolo was stopped, and a very soft air played upon the flute. The difference in effect was seen at once. The tiger ceased to “rampage,” and the leaps subsided to a gentle walk, until the animal came to the bars, and, standing still and quiet once more, listened with pleasure to the music.
No doubt it is possible to draw very different conclusions from experiments of so imperfect a character as those which we have described. But it would probably be fair to infer that, for some cause, the violin and flute, which human taste has marked as among the most pleasing of musical instruments, are those most acceptable to animals under that unknown law which determines this branch of animal æsthetics.
TALKING BIRDS.
The parrots and macaws which live in the Parrot House at the Zoo are so numerous and noisy that the keeper has no leisure to teach them to talk. But a parrot which can say a very few words is very quickly imitated by its neighbours, and a new phrase or word travels from cage to cage, should the birds in the immediate neighbourhood of the accomplished talker be of one of the imitative species. Among birds there are progressive and non-progressive races, which are indifferent to “self-improvement,” and never try to learn a song of their own, much less to imitate the voices of other birds or of men. But the desire to gain new notes is very much more common than is generally believed, and there are at least twenty kinds of birds which are able to reproduce even the complex forms of articulate human speech. Aristotle mentions an Indian parrot which could talk, and “when it drank wine was somewhat improper,” habits and language which it had picked up, no doubt, from Phœnician sailors. But the most accomplished talker of Indian birds is the mynah, a handsome purple-black bird, with a short tail, orange legs and beak, and bright yellow ear-flaps, which run round to the back of its head like a collar. It is a bold, lively bird, with a mellow song and whistle of its own. Its power of reproducing human speech is wonderful, and it exhibits the greatest anxiety that the tones should be correct, first repeating them softly to itself, with its head on one side, and then shouting out the words.
In the Insect House at the Zoo there lives a fine old mynah, who was “deposited” in 1883. While a visitor is examining the Indian moths coming out of their cocoons, he may hear behind him a thoughtful cough, and the “Hulloa!” shouted with startling suddenness. It is the mynah, anxious to be friendly, and to begin a conversation. The Hindoo traders in the bazaars avail themselves of the mynah’s services in a curious way. They teach it to pronounce the holy name of Rama; and while the master’s thoughts are on earthly gains intent, the bird compounds for the neglect by shouting incessantly the name of the god, and texts in honour of his power. If the poet Ovid’s Indian parrot finds its way, as he hoped, to the paradise of birds, and there
“Convertit volucres in sua verba pias,”
it must surely meet the mynahs also.
Another bird which talks better than most, and whistles better than any, is the piping crow. It is a lively black-and-white bird, as large as a rook, but far more elegant in form. Several specimens inhabit the Gardens, but the best is in the western Aviary, where it whistles “Merrily danced the Quaker,” in tones like a flute.