And I think if you saw this sweet little Humming-bird hanging in the air, with his breast all flashing and sparkling, and with his chestnut crest spread out above it, and his little chestnut and star-spangled wings flying out on each side of it, you would think him almost as pretty as a fairy could be. You would think his fairy-wings the real ones that he was flying with, because you would see them, whilst the other ones would be moving so quickly that they would be only like a mist or haze—a little night that he had made for himself for the star of his beauty to shine in.
Now just try to imagine how lovely that little Humming-bird must be. Can you understand any one wanting to kill him? But now that I have told you about that wretched little demon with his charms to send people to sleep, and those two bad bottles of his, or, rather, the powders inside them—apathy and vanity—I daresay you can understand it. If I had not told you about him I don't think you would have been able to.
Princess Helen's Coquette (how proud he ought to be of a name like that!) is a little Humming-bird something like the last one. He is a little smaller, I think, but whether he is a little prettier, too, or not quite so pretty, or only as pretty, all that I shall leave to you; it is you who will have to decide. His back is all of a golden green, and his head, which has a forked crest at the back of it like a swallow's tail, is a beautiful, rich, dark, velvety green, so that would make a pretty little bird—would it not?—even without anything else. But he has something else—two or three other things in fact—which are so—oh, so very pretty. First, on each side of the back of the head—just under each fork of the little swallow-tailed crest—there is a little delicate tuft of feathers, which rise up and spread out upon each side in such a graceful little curve. But these feathers are not like other feathers. They are something like the “funny feathers” that the Birds of Paradise have, for they are quite thin, like threads, and an inch long, which (although it is not quite so long as those) is yet a good length when you think of what a little thing this little Humming-bird is. These pretty little feathers are of a deep velvety green colour—the same colour as his swallow-tailed crest—and there are three on each side, three little velvet green feather-threads, floating out on each side behind his head. On his throat there is a gorget of gleaming, jewelly green, much lighter than the other greens—more like emerald, but with a goldeny, bronzy wash in it, as well. Just think how beautiful that must be! And then, lower down on his throat, underneath the green gorget—as if all that were not enough for him—this Humming-bird has something else—we will call it a tippet—which flies out all round his neck, and, especially, on each side of it. A tippet or a ruffle—perhaps that is rather a better word—a ruffle of velvet black feathers in front, and of light chestnut feathers with velvet black stripes—like a tiger—on each side. As for his tail, it spreads out into a dear little fan, and the fan is chestnut and black too, broad stripes of chestnut and narrow stripes of black, with a broad patch of black where it begins, which looks like the handle of the fan. What a pretty, pretty bird! Fancy a little birdie that is only about two inches long, and has a crest like a swallow-tail on his head, a gorget—or lappet—on his throat, a tippet—or ruffle—just underneath the gorget, and a little spray of feather-threads on each side of his head, just underneath the crest! Fancy killing such a little fairy-bird as that! Fancy wanting to kill him! But it is all the little demon. It is he who has blown about his nasty powders and frozen the hearts of the poor women, who are really so kind—at any rate they would be if only he would let them.
Did I say, “Such a little fairy-bird”? I think I did, and I was quite right, for it is just this very little Humming-bird that the fairies are so fond of riding on. They go two at a time, sometimes. One sits on his back, and another lies on the broad fan of his tail, and the one on the back uses the little feather-threads as reins. It is so grand! The Humming-bird dashes up at the fairy's own flower-door, and hovers there till she is ready to come out, and then dashes away with her to another flower, where another fairy lives. And that is how the fairies call upon each other in countries where there are Humming-birds. Perhaps you will think that a Humming-bird—even quite a little Humming-bird (and they are none of them big)—is rather a large gee-gee for a fairy to ride on. But you must remember that in tropical countries fairies grow to quite a remarkable size.
Well, that is eight Humming-birds that I have tried to describe to you (though it is very like trying to describe a sunset to some one who has never seen one), and perhaps you think I have chosen all the most beautiful ones first, and that there are no more left which are quite so pretty. But I think I can find just one more that is not such a very plain bird, not a bird you would call ugly if you were to see it hovering about over a bed of geraniums or under a cluster of honeysuckle, some bright spring or summer morning when you happened to go out into your garden. So we will take that one, and, if he is not pretty enough, you must just try to put up with him.
He is called the Sun Beauty. Perhaps you would think him dark at first, for his head and back and shoulders are of such a rich, deep, velvety green that it almost goes into black velvet—all except one little spot on the forehead, just above the beak, and that never can look quite black. Sometimes it does almost, just for one second, but the next second it flashes into green again, and oh, how it gleams and sparkles and throws out little jewels, little splashes of sun-fire all round it! What a wonderful green it is!—at first, and then—oh, what a wonderful—but really there is no proper name for that colour. I was going to say “blue,” and perhaps it is more like blue than anything else, but nothing else is quite like it. Then, just at the beginning of this Humming-bird's throat—just under the chin—there are a few feathers that are like a kind of dusky-smoked-magenta-bronze-jewelry, and a little farther down they gleam into ruddy bronze and coppery topaz, and then—oh, what is that? The very sun himself has flashed out from his throat, from his gorget—yes, a little flake of the sun, a sunflake instead of a snowflake. Oh, it is such a gorget, a gorget of golden topaz, of coppery gold, of green gold, of silver gold, of silver, of gleaming white, of all these together, and it spreads out on each side like a wonderful fan, and shoots out in front of all the other feathers. Such a gorget! The feathers in it are not feathers at all—I do not think they can be feathers—they are sunflakes, as I have told you.
That is what this Humming-bird is like on the throat. Underneath the throat, on the breast, he becomes green again, not the dark velvet green of the back, but a still more glorious green, gleaming and brilliant, but soft and rich at the same time. It is a green that changes, too—changes almost into blue. I will tell you how that is. Once this green—this wonderful, lovely green—did not think itself lovely enough (which was funny), so it said to the blue of the violet and the turquoise and the amethyst and the sapphire: “Come and make part of me, but I must be the greater part.” “That is not fair,” cried the blues of all those lovely things; “we will come, since you have invited us, but we intend to have the upper hand.” “Come then,” said the green, “and let us fight for the mastery. Whichever wins, the other will be improved by it. We will struggle together, and we will see which is the strongest.” So they came, those blues of wonder, from the violet, the turquoise, the sapphire, and the amethyst—yes, and from the sky, the stars, and the sea as well—and they fell in a glory on that glorious green that had been there before them, and fought with it to possess the breast of that Humming-bird. And they are fighting to possess it now. They gleam and flash and sparkle and glow, and try to out-glory each other; but I think that that wonderful green is the strongest, although he has such a lot of blues to fight against. But stronger than any and than all of them is the sun on that Humming-bird's gorget, that gorget of gold and topaz, and copper and bronze, and silver and gleaming white.
That is what that Humming-bird is like, and that is how he got some of his wonderful colours; so, at least, the Indians say, only some of them say that it was the blues who were there first, and asked the green to come. But always, in history, you will find that there are different opinions about the same thing. People are not all agreed, even about the battle of Waterloo.
So, you see, we have been able to find one other handsome Humming-bird, at any rate. And then there is the Hermit Humming-bird. I must just describe him. His head and neck are—brown, the whole of his back is—brown, his wings, his throat, and his breast are—brown, and all the rest of him is—brown. Why, then, he is all brown, without any colours at all, unless there are some lying asleep, and ready to wake up and dart out all of a sudden, in the way I have explained to you. No, there are no colours, either asleep or awake, or, at any rate, hardly any. Compared to the Humming-birds I have been telling you about, this one is just a plain, dull bird, as plain and as dull, almost, as his wife, for that, you know, is what the wives of Humming-birds are like. Then is he a Humming-bird at all? Surely he is not one; he must be some other bird. Oh no, he is not. He is a Humming-bird, but he is a Hermit Humming-bird. I have not told you before—but now I will tell you—that there are some Humming-birds—in fact a good many—that have no bright colours at all, and they are called hermits. A hermit, you know, is a person who lives in a cell or cave, and wears a long, brown gown, with a hood at one end of it for his head, and never dresses gaily or goes out to see things, but has what we should consider a very dull life; only as he likes it that makes it all right—for him. So these dull-coloured Humming-birds are called hermits, not because they live in cells, because, of course, they do not, but because they have no bright things to wear, but only brown gowns, like hermits. But now as Humming-birds used once to be sunbeams, and are still living sunbeams that have been changed into birds, how does it happen that any of them have become hermits, with nothing showy about them? That is a thing which requires an explanation, so it is lucky that there is one all ready for it in the next chapter. Not all the things that require an explanation are so lucky as that. Some of them go on requiring one all their lives, and yet never get what they require. I have known several of that sort.