Those are just a few of the beautiful Humming-birds that there are in the world—in that new world that Columbus discovered—but, as you know, there are more than four hundred different kinds, and numbers of them are just as beautiful—some perhaps even more beautiful—than those I have told you about. And you may be sure that they know exactly what to do with their beauty, how to raise up their crests and fan out their tails and ruffle out their gorgets and tippets in the way to make them look most magnificent, and give the greatest possible pleasure to their wives, who are all of them hermits—poor plain Humming-birds—just as the Birds of Paradise do for their wives, who are hermits too.
And do you know that when two gentlemen Humming-birds are both trying to please the same lady—but that, of course, is before she has married either of them—they very often fight, and it is then that they gleam and flash and sparkle, more brilliantly than at any other time. Ah, what a wonderful sight that must be to see—those fights between little fiery, winged meteors, those jewel-combats in the air—diamond and ruby and sapphire and topaz and emerald and amethyst, all angry with each other, shooting out sparks at each other, trying to blind each other, to flash each other down! Ah, those are fiery battles indeed, and yet when they are over—you will think it wonderful—not one Humming-bird has been burnt up by another one. No, Humming-birds do not kill each other, they do not even hurt each other very much, they are only angry, and even that does not last very long. We are not very angry with the poor Humming-birds, I even think we must be fond of them, for there is really hardly one that we have not called by some pretty name, though not nearly so pretty as itself. And yet we kill them, we take away those bright little gem-like lives that are so lovely and so happy. The people who live in those countries make very fine nets—as fine and delicate as those that ladies use for their hair—and put them over the flowers or the shrubs that the Humming-birds come to, so that they get entangled in them and cannot fly away. Then, when they come and find them, they kill them (could you kill a living sunbeam?), and send their skins over here to be put into the hats of women whose hearts the wicked little demon has frozen.
Into hats! Ah, I think if one of those poor, frozen-hearted women could see a Humming-bird, sitting alive in its own little fairy nest, she would blush—yes, blush—to think of it in her hat, even though she wore a pretty one and was pretty, herself, too. For I must tell you that the nests that Humming-birds make are so pretty and graceful and delicate that one might almost think they had been made by the fairies, and, indeed, the Indians say that the fairies do make them, and give them to the Humming-birds. But that is not really true. Humming-birds make their own nests, like other birds, though I cannot help thinking that, sometimes, the fairies must sit in them. Yes, they sit and swing in them sometimes, I feel sure, in the warm, tropical nights, when the stars are set thick in the sky and the fire-flies make stars in the air. For they hang like little cradles from the tips of the leaves of palm-trees, or from the ends of long, dangling creepers or tendrils, or even from the drooping petal of a flower. They are made of the fine webs of spiders, all plaited and woven, or of down that is like our thistle-down, but thicker and softer and silkier. And you may think of everything that is soft and delicate and graceful and fragile and fairy-like, but when you see a Humming-bird's nest, you will think them all coarse—yes, coarse—by comparison. And to think of that bright little glittering thing, sitting there alive and warm, in its warm little soft fairy nest, and then to think of it in a hat—and dead! Oh, dear!—dusty too, I feel sure. Oh, dear! But it is all the fault of that most wicked little demon, and you are going to set it right.
Now perhaps you will wonder why there has been nothing about promising yet, for there have been thirteen Humming-birds in the two last chapters, and not a single promise about any of them. But then, what would be the use of promising about thirteen when there are four hundred and more? It would be ever so much better, I think, to promise about all the four hundred and more together, and that is what I want you to ask your mother to do. Then all those little glittering, jewelly, fairy-like things will go on living and being happy—will go on glittering and gleaming, flashing through the air, sparkling amongst the flowers, sitting and shining in dear little soft swinging cradles, on the tips of broad, green palm leaves, or the petals of fair, drooping flowers. They will go on being living sunbeams then, not poor, dead, dusty ones in hats. And it will be you who will have done this, you who will have kept sunbeams alive in the world, instead of letting them be killed and go out of it for ever. Yes, it will be you—and your dear mother. So now you must say to your dear mother, “Oh, mother, do promise never to wear a hat that has a Humming-bird in it.” Say it quickly, and with ever so many kisses.
CHAPTER X
The Cock-of-the-Rock and the Lyre-Bird
Well, I have told you about the Humming-birds and the Birds of Paradise, which are the most beautiful birds that there are in the world. Now I will tell you about just a few other ones which are very beautiful, although they are not quite so beautiful as those are. One of them is the Cock-of-the-Rock, a bird which lives in South America, where the Humming-birds live. There are three kinds and they are all handsome, but the handsomest, I think, is the one that is called the Blood-red Cock-of-the-Rock. It is about the size of a small pigeon, and of the most wonderful blood-red colour you can imagine. You would think, when you saw it first, that it had not one feather on the whole of its body that was not of this brilliant crimson, but, after a little, when your eyes are not so dazzled, you see that its wings and tail are not red but brown. Only, when the wings are shut they are almost quite covered up by the flaming feathers of the back, and just on one part—that part which we should call the shoulders—they are red too. “A scarlet bird! A crimson bird!” that is what you would say first, if you were to see this wonderful Cock-of-the-Rock, and then, all at once, you would cry out, “Oh, but where is his beak? Why, he has no beak!” Yes, and you might almost say, “Where is his head?” for you don't see that either—at least, you only see the back of it, all the rest, and the beak too, is hidden in a wonderful crest of crimson feathers that almost looks like the head itself, only it is a little too big for that. This crest is just the shape of a tea-cosy, so that it looks as if some one had put a little tea-cosy made of the most splendid blood-red, fiery, crimson-sunset feathers right over the bird's head and covered it quite up. You see no beak at all, and it does look so funny to see a bird without a beak—almost as funny as it would to see a beak without a bird.
The two other kinds of Cock-of-the-Rock are very handsome birds, too. One of them has all its plumage orange-coloured, instead of crimson, and the other is of a colour between orange and crimson. So, if you were travelling from one part of South America to another, it would seem as if the same bird was getting brighter and brighter or darker and darker all the way, for the three different kinds do not live in the same parts of the country, but in different parts that join each other. Only, of course, you would have to go in the right direction, which would be, first, through the forests of British Guiana, then along the banks of the great river Amazon—which is the largest river in the world—then up the mountains of Peru, and then, still higher, up those of Ecuador. Or, you might start from Ecuador and go all the way to British Guiana. If you get an atlas and look for the map of South America, your mother will soon show you where all these places are.
Now after what you know about the Humming-birds and the Birds of Paradise, you will not be surprised to hear that this brilliant crimson or orange-coloured bird has quite a sober-coloured wife, and that he is as careful to please her, as they are, by showing her his beautiful bright plumage in all the ways in which it looks best; in fact he is so very careful about it that I feel quite sure he pleases himself by doing so, at the same time. You know now that male birds dance, when they show their fine feathers to their wives and sweethearts, for I have told you about the “sácalelis” of the Great Bird of Paradise, and the way in which those other Birds of Paradise danced whilst the two travellers were watching them. But some birds have still more wonderful dances than these; at least they behave in a way that is even more like real dancing. Now the Cock-of-the-Rock is a very fine dancer indeed, and he has a regular place to dance and play in, which we may call his ball-room, or his drawing-room, or his play-ground—whichever name we like best. He chooses it in some part of the forest where it is a little open, and where the ground is soft and mossy, and here, every day, a number of birds assemble, some males and some females; for of course the hen-birds come too, there would be nothing to dance for without them. Then first one of the cocks walks out into the middle of the open space and begins to dance. He flutters and waves his wings, moves his head, with its wonderful crimson tea-cosy, from side to side, and hops about with the queerest little jumpy steps you ever saw. As he goes on he gets more and more excited, springs higher and higher into the air, waves his wings more and more violently, and shakes his head as if he were trying to shake off the tea-cosy, so as to have a cup of tea to refresh himself. All the other birds stand and look at him, criticise his performance, turn their heads towards each other, and make remarks, you may be sure. “How elegant!” exclaims a young hen Cock-of-the-Rock. “What spring! What elasticity! Really he is a very fine performer.” “I have seen finer ones in my time,” says an older hen—in fact quite an elderly bird. “One could judge better, however, if there were some one else to compare him with. He seems to be having it all his own way. In my time there was more emulation amongst male birds.” And you may be sure that, as soon as she says that, ever so many other Cocks-of-the-Rock step out into the ring, and there they are, all dancing together, all springing and jumping, all waving their wings, and all trying to shake the tea-cosies off their heads, so as to have a cup of tea for refreshment after all that exercise. Perhaps you will say that that is nonsense, because there is no teapot under the tea-cosy; but remember that no one has ever taken that tea-cosy off. How can you tell what is under a tea-cosy until you take it off. (Your mother will tell you that this is only fun.)