Beautiful Birds

by Edmund Selous

CHAPTER II
Birds of Paradise

First I will tell you about the Birds of Paradise. You have heard of them perhaps, and how beautiful they are, but you may have thought that birds with a name like that did not live here at all. For the Emperor of China lives in China, and if the Emperor of China lives in China, the Birds of Paradise ought, one would think, to live in Paradise. But that is not the case—not now at any rate. They live a very long way off, it is true, right over at the other side of the world, but it is not quite so far off as Paradise is. No, it cannot be there that they live, because if you were to leave England in a ship and sail always in the right direction, you would come at last to the very place, instead of coming right round to England again, which is what you would do if you were to sail for Paradise—for you know, of course, that the earth is round. But why, then, are they called Birds of Paradise if they live here on the earth? Well, there are two ways of explaining it. I will tell you first one and then the other, and you can choose the way you like best. The first way is this.

A long time ago—but long after the little demon had crept out of his cave—the early Portuguese voyagers (whom your mother will tell you about), when they came to the Moluccas to get spices, were shown the dried skins of beautiful birds which were called by the natives “Manuk dewata,” which means “God's birds.” There were no wings or feet to the skins, and the natives told the Portuguese that these birds had never had any, but that they lived always in the air, never coming down to settle on the earth, and keeping themselves all the while turned towards the sun. One would have thought they must have wanted wings, at any rate, to be always in the air, but that is what the natives said. So the Portuguese, who did not quite know what to make of it, called them “Passaros de Sol,” which means “Sun-birds” or “Birds-of-the-Sun,” because of their always turning towards him. Some time after that, a learned Dutchman who wrote in Latin (just think!), called these birds “Aves Paradisei”—Paradise Birds or Birds of Paradise—and he told every one that they had never been seen alive by anybody, but only after they had fallen down dead out of the clouds, when they were picked up without wings or feet, and still lying with their heads towards the sun in the way they had fallen. So, after that these wonderful birds were always called “Birds of Paradise.” That is one way of explaining how they got their names, but the other way, and perhaps you will think it a little more probable, is this.

Once the Birds of Paradise were really Birds of Paradise, for they lived there and were ever so much more beautiful than they are now, though perhaps, if you were to see them flying about in their native forests, you would hardly believe that possible. That is because you cannot imagine how beautiful real Birds of Paradise are, for these Birds of Paradise were not more beautiful than the other ones that lived there. All were as beautiful as each other though in different ways, and it was just that which made these Birds of Paradise discontented. “If we go down to earth,” said they, “the birds of all the world will do homage to us on account of our superior beauty, for there will be none to equal us. So we shall reign over them and be their King. Here we are only like all the others. None of them fly to the tree on which we are sitting to do us homage.” “Do not be foolish,” said the tree (for in Paradise trees and all can speak). “The homage which you desire you would soon weary of, and the beauty which you enjoy here would, on earth, be only a pain to you, for it would remind you of the Paradise you had left but could never enter again. For those who once leave Paradise can never more return to it. Therefore be wise and stay, for if you go you will repent, but then it will be too late.” And all the birds around said, “Stay,” and then they raised their voices, which were lovelier than you can imagine, in a song of joy—of joy that they were in Paradise and not on earth. And the Birds of Paradise sang too, their voices were as sweet as any, but they had envy and discontent in their hearts. “Our singing cannot be surpassed, it is true,” thought they, “but it is equalled by that of every other bird. We sing in a chorus merely. It would not be so on earth. We should be ‘prima donnas’ there.” (Your mother will tell you what a prima donna is as well as what doing homage means.)

So, when the song was over, they flew to the Phenix, who was the most important and powerful bird of all the birds that were in Paradise. I have told you that all the birds there were equal, and so they were, only, you see, the Phenix was a little more equal than the others. One cannot be a Phenix for nothing. Now it was only the Phenix who could open the gate of Paradise, and let any bird in or out of it. He was not obliged to let them in, and there were very few birds (who were not there already) that he ever did let in. Many and many a bird fluttered and fluttered outside the door, that had to fly away again. But if a bird that was in Paradise wanted to go out of it, then the Phenix had to open the door and let it out, because if it had stayed it would have been discontented, and birds that are discontented cannot stay in Paradise. It would not be Paradise for long if they could. So when the Birds of Paradise said to the Phenix, “Let us out, for we are tired of being here, where all are equal, and wish to be kings and ‘prima donnas’ on earth,” he had to do it, only he warned them as the tree had done, that if they once left Paradise they could never come back to it again. “The door of Paradise,” said he, “may be passed through twice, but only entered once. When you pass through it the second time, it is to go out of it, and when you are once out of it, out of it you must remain. You can never come in again; you can only flutter at the gate.”

“We shall never do that,” said the proud Birds of Paradise. “We shall stay down on earth and be kings and ‘prima donnas’ amongst the other birds.” So the Phenix let them out, and they flew down through the warm summer sky, looking like soft suns or trembling stars or colours out of the sunrise or sunset, they were so beautiful.

Then the birds of earth flew around them and did them homage, and, when they sang, the nightingale stood silent and hid her head for shame, and would never sing in the daytime any more, but only at night when the beautiful strangers were asleep. That is why the nightingale sings by night and not by day—only since the Birds of Paradise have lost their voice (which I am going to tell you about) she does sing in the daytime sometimes, just a little.

So the Birds of Paradise were kings and “prima donnas” amongst the birds of earth, and they were happy—for a time. They were not quite so happy after a little while, for they got tired of hearing the birds praise them, and, wherever they looked, they saw nothing to give them pleasure. The earth, indeed, was beautiful, but they remembered Paradise, and that made it seem ugly. There was nothing for them to see that was worth the seeing, or to hear that was worth the listening to, except their own beauty and their own song. But that reminded them of Paradise, and they could not bear to be reminded of it now that they had lost it for ever. In fact they were miserable, and it was not long before they were all fluttering outside the gates of Paradise, and begging the Phenix to let them in. But the Phenix said, “No, I cannot. I warned you that the gates of Paradise could only be passed twice, once in and once out, and then no more. I tried to keep you from going, but you chose to go, and now you must stay outside. You can never enter Paradise again.” “If we cannot enter it,” said the poor Birds of Paradise, “let us at least forget it. Take away our beautiful voices, so that, when we sing, we shall not think of all the joys we have lost. Let our song be no more than the lark's or the nightingale's, or make us only able to twitter, and not sing at all. Then we can listen to the lark and the nightingale, and perhaps, in time, we may grow to admire them. As it is, we must either sing or be silent. We do not like to sit silent, and when we sing we think only of Paradise.” “Yes,” said the Phenix, “I will take your voice, your beautiful voice of song.” So he took it, and that is why the Birds of Paradise never sing at all now, not even as the lark and the nightingale sing.

After that they were happier, but still they had their great beauty, their glorious, glorious plumage, and when they looked at each other they felt sad and hung their heads, for still they thought of Paradise. “You have taken our song from us,” they said (for they were soon there at the gate again), “but still our beauty remains. Take that also, that, when we look at each other, we may not think of the Paradise we have lost, and be wretched.” “Fly back to earth,” said the Phenix, “and when you are a little way off I will open the gates of Paradise wide, and the brightness that is in it will stream out and scorch your feathers, and you will be beautiful no more. Only you must fly fast, and you must not turn to look, for if you do, the brightness will blind you. You could bear it once when you lived in it and had known nothing else, but now that you have lived on earth you cannot. It would only blind you now.” So the Birds of Paradise flew towards the earth, and, when they had got a little way, the Phenix opened the gates (he had only been speaking to them through the keyhole), and, as the splendour of Paradise streamed forth and fell upon them, their feathers were scorched in its excessive brightness, all except a few tufts and plumes which were not quite destroyed, because, you see, they were getting farther away every second. A little of their beauty was left, and that was enough to make them the most beautiful birds on earth (till we come to the Humming-birds), but they are very ugly compared to what they once were when they lived in Paradise. Think then, what the real Birds of Paradise must be like when those that have left it, and have had their plumage scorched and spoilt, are so very beautiful. That is the other way of explaining how there come to be Birds of Paradise living on the earth, and I think you will say that it is the more sensible way of the two. For as for people having ever believed that there were birds who had no feet or wings, and that lived always in the air with their heads turned towards the sun, why, that does not seem possible. Nobody could have believed in a thing like that, but here is a natural explanation.