That is how the Lyre-bird got its tail, and why it is, now, a very beautiful, as well as a very musical, bird. But what its tail was like before Apollo gave it the one it has now, that I cannot tell you, for it has never been known to allude to the subject, and it would hardly do to ask it. We only know that it was quite ordinary. But, do you know, Apollo never quite liked the Lyre-bird's imitating him, even though he had told it that it might, and so, not so very long afterwards, he left the country. He went to Greece—it was a very long time ago—and he has not gone back to Australia yet.
Now you may be sure that a bird with a tail like that has his playing ground, where he may come and show it to his wife or sweetheart; for it is only the male bird who has it—like the others—though, really, I cannot think what Apollo was about, not to give it to the hen as well, for he was always a very polite god. The Lyre-bird's playground is a small, round hillock—which he makes all himself—and there he will come and walk about, raising his magnificent tail right up into the air, and spreading it out in the most beautiful and graceful way. And, as he does this, he will sing so beautifully, sometimes his own notes, which are very pretty ones, and sometimes those of other birds, all of which he can imitate quite well. But, of course, as Apollo has left Australia, he cannot imitate him any more now, and after such a long time he has forgotten what he learnt, unless, indeed, his own notes are what Apollo used to play. But, if that is the case, he must have left off singing his old song, and I do not think he would have done that.
This wonderful bird builds a wonderful nest with a roof to it, so that he can get right inside it and be quite hidden from sight, tail and all, although he is so large—almost as large as a pheasant, even without counting his tail. As a rule it is only little birds that make nests like that, and not big ones. The Lyre-bird's nest is something like the one that our little wren makes—which perhaps you have seen—only of course ever so much bigger. Only one egg is laid in it, and out of it comes one of the queerest little birds you can imagine, all covered with white, fluffy down, and with no tail at all that you can see, so that you would never think he was going to grow into a Lyre-bird. It takes him four years to get that wonderful tail. Apollo did not mean him to have it, until he was quite grown up—it was not a thing to be entrusted to children.
Now you must not think that the Lyre-bird always holds his tail up in the air, for when he walks through the thick bushes he has to carry it as a pheasant does, and I think you know how that is. As soon as he wants to show it to his wife or his sweetheart, up it goes, and oh, it does look so beautiful!
But now, if it were not for that promise which your mother is going to make you, there would very soon be no more of these wonderful birds, with their wonderful and beautiful tails, left in Australia, which would mean that there would be none in the whole world, for Australia is the only country in the world where they are found. People like much better to see that beautiful tail in their rooms, where it will soon get spoilt and dusty, or to put some feathers of it in their hats, than to know that the bird is running about with it, alive and happy, holding it down like a pheasant's when he walks through the bushes, but raising it in the air when he stands on his little hillock, for the hen Lyre-bird to see, and singing her a song as well. People who live in Australia—and there are a great many people who live there—might often see it doing that if they were to take a little trouble (they take a great deal of trouble to kill it), and, even if they could not see it, they would hear its beautiful song. But they like much better to kill it, so that there may be a little less song and beauty and happiness in the world, and all because of the wicked little demon with the correct suit of clothes. But all this is going to be altered, and you are going to alter it. Just run to your mother, wherever she is—if she is not with you now—and ask her to promise, ever so faithfully, never to have anything whatever to do with a hat that has so much as one single feather of a Lyre-bird in it.
CHAPTER XI
The Resplendent Trogon and the Argus Pheasant
One of the most beautiful birds in the whole world—more beautiful, even, than some of the Birds of Paradise and than some of the Humming-birds, even those that are not hermits—is the lovely Trogon of Mexico. But first I must tell you that there are a great many birds called Trogons that live in other parts of America as well as in Mexico, and in other parts of the world as well as in America. But the most beautiful of all of them—which is the only one I shall have time to tell you about—is the Resplendent Trogon or Quezal—for that is what the Indians call it—and it is only found in Mexico, which, you know, is in North America, only right down at the southern end of it, where there are a good many Humming-birds too. There are many more Humming-birds in South America than in North America. It is the hot, tropical countries they are so fond of. You see they like to be with their brothers the sunbeams.