I really do wish that writers upon psychical subjects would sometimes make an allusion to the animal world—the very existence of which one might, almost, suppose they had forgotten. The perpetual ignoring of so vast a matter—as though one were to go about, affecting not to breathe—is not only irritating, but calculated to produce a bad impression. Surely the originator or maintainer of any view or doctrine of the nature and immortal destinies of man, ought to be delighted to enforce his arguments by showing that they are applicable, not to man only, but to millions of animals, to whom, as we all now very well know, he is more or less closely related. When, therefore, we constantly miss this most natural and necessary extension, it is difficult not to think that some flaw, some weak point in the hypothesis—and, if so, what a weak one!—is being carefully avoided. It is amusing to contrast the space which animals occupy in such a work as Darwin’s “Descent of Man” with that allotted to them—to be counted not by pages, but lines—in those two huge volumes of the late Mr. Myers’ “Human Personality and its Survival of Physical Death.” Yet, as clearly as man’s body, in the former work, is shown to have been evolved out of the bodies of animals, so clearly is his mind demonstrated to have come to him through their minds. That, mentally and corporeally, we are no more nor less than the chief animal in this world, is now indeed, a proven and, scientifically speaking, an admitted thing; and I think it is time that those who, with scientific pretensions, seem yearning, more and more, to spell man with a capital M, should be called upon to state their views in regard to that mighty assemblage of beings, but for which he (or He) would never have appeared here at all, yet which, notwithstanding, they seem determined to ignore.
Dabchicks and Nest
CHAPTER XII
One evening in June 1901—the 6th, to be precise—I was walking near Tuddenham, where a big lane crosses a little stream by a rustic bridge, and stopped to lean against the palings on one side. Looking along the water, I saw, but hardly noticed, what looked like a snag or stump, round which some weeds and débris had accumulated. All at once, my eye caught something move on this, and, turning the glasses upon it, I at once saw that a dabchick was sitting on its nest. I watched it, for a little, and as it had built within full view of the roadside, so it was evident that it was not in the smallest degree alarmed by my presence, though, under other circumstances, it would certainly have stolen away before I was within the distance. This was about 7.15, and at 7.30 I saw another dabchick—the male, as I will assume, and which, I think, is probable—swimming up to the nest. It brought some weeds in its bill, which it gave to the sitting bird, who took and laid them on the nest; and now the male commenced diving, in a quick, active, brisk little way, each time, upon coming up, bringing a little more weed to the nest, which he sometimes placed himself, sometimes gave to the female. Several times he passed right under the nest, from side to side. I now made a slight détour, and creeping up behind a hedge, found, when I raised my head, that both the birds had disappeared. Yet I was only a few paces nearer than the roadway, which shows how much habit had to do with making the birds feel secure. Walking, now, along the bank of the stream, I examined the nest more closely. It was built, I found, on the but just emerging end of a water-logged branch, the butt of which rested on the bottom. No eggs were visible, but I could see, very well, where they had been most efficiently covered over, according to the bird’s usual, but by no means invariable, habit. Upon my going back to the roadway, and standing where I had been before, one of the birds almost immediately reappeared, and swimming boldly up to the nest, leapt on to it as does the great crested grebe, but in a less lithe, and more dumpy manner. Then, still standing, it removed, with its bill, the weeds lately placed there, putting a bit here and a bit there, with a quick side-to-side motion of the head, and then sank down amongst them, evidently on the eggs. I left at 8.15. There had been no change on the nest, but I may have missed this, by alarming the birds, nor can I be quite sure whether it was the same bird that went back to it. The nest of these dabchicks seemed to me to be a larger structure, in proportion to their size, than those of the crested grebes which I had watched last year. It rose, I thought, higher above the water, and was less flat, having more a gourd or cocoa-nut shape. Towards the summit it narrowed, so that the bird sat upon a round, blunt pinnacle.
At 7 next morning I found the bird—that is to say, one of them—still upon the nest, and, shortly afterwards, a boy drove some cows along a broad margin of meadow, skirting the stream opposite to where it was, so that he passed a good deal nearer to it than I had crept up yesterday. It, however, did not move, and was quite unnoticed by the boy. Afterwards, I walked along the same margin, myself, and sat down upon a willow stump, in full view of the bird, in hopes to see it cover its eggs, should it grow nervous and leave them. For a few minutes, it sat still on the nest, and then, all at once, jumped up and took the water, without arranging the weeds at all, leaving the eggs, therefore, uncovered. Instantly on entering the water, it dived, and I saw nothing more of it whilst I remained seated on the stump. But as soon as I went back to my place—almost the moment I was there—up it came quite close to the nest, dived again, emerged on the other side, and then, swimming back to it, jumped on, and reseated itself, without first removing any weeds—thus confirming my previous observation. Shortly afterwards the partner bird appeared, dipping up, suddenly, not very far from the nest, and, for some little time, he dived and brought weeds to it, as he did the other night. Then the female—who had, probably, sat all night, and would not have left till now, had I not disturbed her—came off, diving as she entered the water, and disappearing from that moment. The male, who was not far from the nest, swam to it, and took her place, where I left him, shortly afterwards, at 8.35. The eggs had been left uncovered by the female when she went, this last time, and this seems natural, as she, no doubt, knew the male had come to relieve her.
Next morning I approached the stream from the Herringswell direction, and crept up behind the bushes, on the bank, without having once—so it seemed to me—been in view of the bird, which I had no doubt would be in its accustomed place. However, as soon as, peeping through, I could see the nest, I saw that it was empty. On going to the gate and waiting for some ten minutes, the bird appeared as before, and, jumping up, commenced rapidly to remove the weeds from the eggs, standing up like a penguin, and with the same hurried, excited little manner that I had noticed on the first occasion of its doing so. Not only had it seen me, therefore, or become aware of my presence, but it had had time to cover its eggs, and this very efficiently, to judge by the amount of weed it threw aside. After this I was nearly a week away, and, on visiting the nest again, nothing fresh happened, except that the two birds made, in the water, that little rejoicing together which I have described in the last chapter. The same note is uttered, therefore, and the same little scene enacted between them, summer and winter, and in whatever occupation they are engaged. Both on this and another occasion, the sitting bird, when I walked down the bank, went off the nest without covering the eggs, the first time letting me get quite near, before going, and, the next, taking alarm whilst I was still at some distance. It seems odd that it did not, in either instance, conceal the eggs and steal off without waiting. To suppose that it thought itself observed, and that, therefore, concealment was of no use, would be to credit it with greater powers of reflection than I feel inclined to do. I rather look upon the habit as a fluctuating and unintelligent one, and in the continuation of the building and arranging of the nest, after incubation has begun, we probably see its origin. As bearing upon this view, it is, I think, worth recording that upon this last occasion of their change on the nest, the bird that relieved its partner—the male, as I fancy—pulled about and arranged the weeds, after jumping up, though the eggs had been left uncovered, the female, as usual, going off suddenly, without the smallest halt or pause. Once let the birds become accustomed to pull about the weeds of the nest, before leaving and settling down upon the eggs, and natural selection would do the rest. The eggs which were most often covered would have the best chance of being hatched, and the uncovering them would be a matter of necessity. Here, again, I can see no room for those little steps or pinches of intelligence, on which instincts, according to the prevailing view, are supposed to have been built up. The prevalence and strength of mere meaningless habits amongst animals, as well as amongst ourselves, seems to me to have been too much overlooked. That the additions made by the dabchick—as well as the crested grebe—to the nest, during incubation, and the frequent pulling of it about, answer no real purpose, and might well be dispensed with, I have, myself, no doubt.
On the last of these two visits, the male bird jumped once upon the nest, whilst the female was still sitting, and took his place as she went off. Next day, I noticed something quite small move upon the nest, against, and partly under, the sitting bird. With the glasses I at once made this out to be a chick, which was sitting beneath the rump and between the wing-tips of the dam, with its head looking the contrary way to hers. As the male, now, swam up, the chick leaned forward and stretched out its neck, whilst he, doing the same upwards over the nest’s rim, the tips of their two bills just touched, or seemed to me to do so. The old bird had just been dipping for weeds, and may have had a little in his bill, but I could not, actually, see that any feeding took place. Possibly that was not the idea. The male then swam out, and continued, for some time, to dip about for weed, and to place it on the nest. Then, again, he stretched his neck up—inquiringly, as it were—towards the little chick, who leaned out and down to him, as before—but, this time, the bills did not touch. This was on the 18th. On the 15th the eggs were still unhatched, as I had seen all four of them lying quite exposed in the nest; but some may have been hatched on the 17th, when the male, for the first time that I had seen, jumped up on the nest whilst the female was still there. On the 20th, coming again at 8 in the evening, I find the bird on the nest, but on going and sitting down on the willow-stump I have mentioned, it takes the water and dives. I see no young ones on the water, and, on going to the nest, find it empty, with the exception of one uncovered egg. The shells of the others lie at the bottom of the stream. Going to the gate, again, the bird soon returns, dives, puts some weed on the nest, then swims away, and, as a joyous little hinny arises, I see the other swimming up, and it is, instantly, apparent that the chicks are on this one’s back, for it shows unnaturally big, and high above the water. She comes to the nest, and, in leaping on to it, shakes them off—three, as I think—into the water, from which, after having paddled about, a little, they climb up and join her. In a few minutes, the partner bird swims up again, and stretching up its neck, in the gentle little way that it has before done, I feel sure that the chicks are being fed, though I cannot actually see that they are, owing to their being on the wrong side of their dam.
Next day I come at 4 in the morning, and it is as though there had been no interval between this and my last entry, for the one bird still sits on the nest with the chicks, whilst the other goes to and fro from it, feeding them. This time I see it do so, once, quite clearly. A little morsel of weed is presented on the tip of the bill, which the chick receives and eats, but just after this it goes off, with the others, on the back of the mother. The latter does not go far, but soon stops, and remains quite still on the weeds and water, as though upon the nest—a thing which I have seen before. In about a quarter of an hour, the other bird emerges from some rushes, and then, the two swimming to meet each other, there is a most joyous and long-lasting little hinny between them—as pretty a little scene of rejoicing as ever one saw. It is a family scene, for the chicks are still on the back of the mother, which they have not once left. Having fully expressed themselves, the two parents separate, and the mother, swimming, still with her burden, to the nest, springs up on it, and, in her usual quick and active manner, goes through the weed-removing process, during the whole of which the chicks still cling to her, for they have not been flung off in her violent ascent. There are two of them—perhaps three—but of this I cannot be sure. The fourth egg, at any rate, must be still unhatched, for from what else can the weeds have just been removed?
At 5.20 the bird goes off, and, for a moment, the two chicks are swimming by her. One of them goes out to a tiny distance, but returns immediately, as though drawn in by a string—quite a curious appearance. They then press to, and crawl upon the mother, in an almost parasitical way, and, when on, I cannot distinguish them from her, though there is an unusual bigness and fluffiness at the extremity of her back, where they both cling, one at each side, projecting, I think, a little beyond her body. Now, too, I fancy I can detect a third, higher up towards her neck. The nest has been left uncovered, and at 6, no bird having come to it again, I go to look at it, and find, as before, one brown egg lying in the cup, and perfectly exposed. All three chicks, therefore, must have been on the back of the mother, who, it is clear now, does not invariably cover the eggs, when leaving them, even though she is quite at her ease, and does not mean to return for some time. This can have nothing to do with three out of the four eggs having been hatched, for, as we have just seen, the one egg was covered by the bird when she left the nest the time before. I have settled it, I think, now, by my observations, that, neither with the great crested grebe nor the dabchick, is the covering of the eggs, on leaving the nest, invariable. In walking up the stream, after this, I got a glimpse of both the dabchicks, before they dived, one after the other. If the chicks were still upon the back of one—as I make no doubt they were—they must have been taken down with it. Next day I watched the family during the greater part of the morning, and was fortunate in seeing one of the chicks fed from the water, whilst sitting in the nest, on the back of its other parent. This was a delightfully distinct view. There was a small piece of light green weed at the tip of the parent’s bill, and this the chick first tasted, as it were, and then swallowed. There were several changes on the nest, and the birds, between them, left it five times, but only covered the egg twice. However, on two of the occasions when it was left bare, the other bird quickly appeared and mounted the nest, whilst, on the third, the bird leaving remained close to it, till she went on again. Always, or almost always, the chicks were on the back of one or other of the birds, mostly that of one, which I took to be the female. When she jumped up, they had to do the best they could, and once, whilst the one was flung off, the other kept its place like a good rider leaping a horse, and did so all the while the weeds were being cleared away, in spite of the mother’s upright attitude—for, between each jerk from side to side, she stood as straight as a little penguin. I was unable to make out more than two chicks. Though, mostly, on the parental back, they sometimes swam for a little, and, once, I saw the black little leg of one of them come out of the water, and waggle in the air, in the way in which the adult crested grebe is so fond of doing. When the mother sat quite motionless in the water, with her head thrown back, and her chicks upon her, she looked exactly as when sitting on the nest, so that one might have thought she was, and that it was slightly submerged. The male, on these occasions, would sometimes pay her a visit, and the chicks, getting down, would swim up to him, and then would come the little thin, pan-piping, joyous duet between their two dams—a pretty, peaceful scene this, whilst statesmen (save the mark!) are making wars and devastating countries.