Bird Life Glimpses

by Edmund Selous

It will be seen from the above that the chicks are very well able to get about. They run, indeed, as easily, if not quite so fast, as a young duckling, and this power is retained by the grown bird, in spite of its aerial habits, for I have seen my two pursuing one another over the ground with perfect ease and some speed, seeming, thus, to run without legs, for these were at no time visible. The ground-breeding habits of the nightjar probably point to a time when it was, much more, a ground-dwelling bird, and as these habits have continued, we can understand a fair power of locomotion having been retained also. My own idea is that the nuptial rite is, sometimes at least, performed on the ground, but of this I have had no more than an indication.[6]

The nightjar utters many notes, besides that very extraordinary one by which it is so well known, and which has procured for it many of its names. I have made out at least nineteen others; but I do not believe that any very special significance belongs to the greater number of them, and I hold the same view in regard to many other notes uttered by various birds, which are supposed, always, to have some well-defined, limited meaning. Each, no doubt, has a meaning, at the time it is uttered, but I think it is, generally, one of many possible ones which may all be expressed by the same note, such note being the outcome, not of a definite idea, but of a certain state of feeling. Surprise, for instance, may be either a glad surprise or a fearful surprise, and very varied acts spring from either joy or fear. With ourselves definite ideas have become greatly developed; but animals may live, rather, in a world of emotions, which would then be much more a cause of their actions, and, consequently, of the cries which accompanied them, than the various ideas appertaining to each. Because, for instance, a rabbit stamps with its hind feet when alarmed, and other rabbits profit by its doing so, why need this be done as a signal, which would involve a conscious design? Is it not more likely that the stamp is merely the reaction to some sudden, strong emotion, which need not always be that of fear? If rabbits stamp, sometimes, in sport and frolic—as I think they do—this cannot be a signal, and therefore we ought not to assume that it is, when it has the appearance, or produces the effect, of one. All we can say, as it seems to me, is that excitement produces a certain muscular movement, which, according to the class of excitement to which it belongs, may mean or express either one thing or another. Such a movement, or such a cry, is like the bang of a gun, which may have been fired either as a salute or with deadly intent. However, if the nightjar’s nineteen notes really express nineteen definite ideas in the bird’s mind, I can only confess that I have not discovered what these are. Some of the sounds, indeed, are very good illustrations of the view here brought forward—for instance, the croodling one just mentioned, which, when it calls the chicks from a distance, seems as though it could have no other meaning than this, but which may also be heard when parent and young are sitting together, and, again, between the intervals in the process of feeding the latter. Is it not, therefore, a sound belonging to the soft, parental emotions, from which sometimes one class of actions, and sometimes another, may spring—the note being the same in all? From the number of sounds which the nightjar has at command, I deduce that it is a bird of considerable range and variety of feeling, which would be likely to make it an intelligent bird also; and this, in my experience, it is. Two of the most interesting notes, or rather series of notes, which it utters, are modifications, or extensions, of the only one which has received much attention—the churr, namely. One of these is a sort of jubilee of gurgling sounds, impossible to describe, at the end of it; and the other—much rarer—a beatification, so to speak, of the churr itself, also towards the end, the sound becoming more vocal and expressive, and losing the hard, woodeny, insect-like character which it usually has. To these I will not add a mere list of sounds, as to the import of which—not wishing to say more than I know—I have nothing very particular to say.

These are days in which the theory of protective coloration has been run—especially, in my opinion, in the case of the higher animals—almost to death. It may not be amiss, therefore, that I should mention the extraordinary resemblance which the nightjar bears to a piece of fir-bark, when it happens to be sitting amidst pieces of fir-bark, and not amidst other things, which, when it is, it no doubt resembles as strongly. If, at a short distance, and for a considerable time, one steadily mistakes one thing for another thing, with the appearance of which one is well acquainted, this, I suppose, is fair proof of a likeness, provided one’s sight is good. Such a mistake I have made several times, and especially upon one occasion. It was midday in June, and a sunny day as well. I had left the bird in question, for a little while, to watch another, and when I returned, it was sitting in the same place, which I knew like my study table. My eye rested full upon it, as it sat, but not catching the outline of the tip of the wings and tail, across a certain dry stalk, as I was accustomed to do, I thought I was looking at a piece of fir-bark—one of those amongst which it sat. I, in fact, looked for the eggs upon the bird, for I knew the exact spot where they should be; but, as I should have seen them, at once, owing to their light colour, I felt sure they must be covered, and after gazing steadily, for some time, all at once—by an optical delusion, as it seemed, rather than by the passing away of one—the piece of fir-bark became the nightjar. It was like a conjuring trick. The broad, flat head, from which the short beak projects hardly noticeably, presented no special outline for the eye to seize on, but was all in one line with the body. It looked just like the blunt, rounded end, either of a stump, or of any of the pieces of fir-bark that were lying about, whilst the dark brown lines and mottlings of the plumage, besides that they blended with, and faded into, the surroundings, had, both in pattern and colouring, a great resemblance to the latter object; the lighter feathers exactly mimicking those patches which are made by the flaking off of some of the numerous layers of which the bark of the Scotch fir is composed. This would only be of any special advantage to the bird when, as in the present instance, it had laid its eggs amongst pieces of such bark, fallen from the neighbouring Scotch fir-trees, and did it invariably do so, a special protective resemblance might, perhaps, be admitted. This, however, is not the case. It lays them, also, under beeches or elsewhere, where neither firs nor fir-bark are to be seen.

Unless, therefore, it can be shown that a large majority of nightjars lay, and have for a long time laid, their eggs in the neighbourhood of the Scotch fir, the theory of a special resemblance in relation to such a habit, due to the action of natural selection, must be given up; as I believe it ought to be in some other apparent instances of it, which have received more attention. Of course, there might be a difference of opinion, especially if the bird were laid on a table, as to the amount, or even the existence, of the resemblance which I here insist upon. But I return to the essential fact. At the distance of two paces I looked full at a nightjar sitting amongst flakes of fir-bark, strewed about the sand, and, for some time, it appeared to me that it was one of these. This is interesting, if we suppose, as I do, that mere chance has brought about the resemblance, for here is a point from which natural selection might easily go on towards perfection. As I did make out the bird, at last, there is clearly more to be done. It is, perhaps, just possible that we already see in the nightjar some steps towards a special resemblance. The bird is especially numerous in Norway, as I was told when I was there; and Norway is one great, pine forest. However, not knowing enough in regard to its habitat, and the relative numbers of individuals that resort to different portions of it, to form an opinion on this point, I will suppose, in the meantime, that its colouring has been made generally protective, in relation to its incubatory habits; for the eggs are laid on the ground, and commonly at the foot of a tree, stump, or bush—in the neighbourhood of such objects, in fact, as have a more or less brownish hue.

It is during incubation that the bird would stand most in need of protection, since it is then exposed, more or less completely, for a great length of time. One bird, as far as I have been able to see, sits on the eggs all day long, without ever once leaving them. Day, however, is night to the nightjar, who not only sits on its eggs, but sleeps, or, at least, dozes, on them as well. Drowsiness may, in this case, have meant security both to bird and eggs; for the most sleepy individuals would, by keeping still, have best safeguarded their young, at all stages, as well as themselves, against the attacks of small predatory animals. Flies used often to crawl over the face of the bird I watched daily. They would get on its eyes; and once a large bluebottle flew right at one of them. But beyond causing it just to open or shut the eye, as the case might be, they produced no effect upon the sleepy creature. The nightjar is a remarkably close sitter, and both this special habit and its general drowsiness upon the nest may have been fostered, at the same time, by natural selection. The more usual view of the nightjar’s colouring is, I suppose, that it is dusky, in harmony with night. But from what does a bird of its great powers of flight require protection, either as against the attacks of enemies or the escape of prey; and again, what colour, short of white, would be a disadvantage to it, in the case of either, when nox atra colorem abstulit rebus?

Questions of a similar nature may be asked in regard to the tiger, lion, and other large feline animals, which, fearing no enemy, and hunting their prey by scent, after dark, are yet supposed to be protected by their coloration. These things are easily settled in the study, where the habits of the species pronounced upon, not being known, are not taken into account; but I may mention that my brother, with his many years’ experience of wild beasts and their ways, and, moreover, a thorough evolutionist, is a great doubter here. How, he asks, as I do now, with him, can the lion be protected, in this way, against the antelope, and the antelope against the lion, when the one hunts, and the other is caught, by scent, after darkness has set in? Of what use, for such a purpose, can colour or colour-markings be to either of them? On the other hand, these go, in varying degrees, to make up a creature’s beauty. Take, for instance, the leopard, jaguar, or tiger.[7] Surely their coloration suggests adornment much more obviously than assimilation; and though they hunt mostly, as I say, by night, they are yet sufficiently diurnal to be able to admire one another in the daytime. Darwin, who is often assumed to have been favourable to the protective theory of coloration in the larger animals, in instances where he was opposed to it, says this: “Although we must admit that many quadrupeds have received their present tints, either as a protection or as an aid in procuring prey, yet, with a host of species, the colours are far too conspicuous, and too singularly arranged, to allow us to suppose that they serve for these purposes.” He then cites various antelopes, giving illustrations of two, and continues: “The same conclusion may, perhaps, be extended to the tiger, one of the most beautiful animals in the world, the sexes of which cannot be distinguished by colour, even by the dealers in wild beasts. Mr. Wallace believes that the striped coat of the tiger ‘so assimilates with the vertical stems of the bamboo[8] as to assist greatly in concealing him from his approaching prey.’ But this view does not appear to me satisfactory.” (It seems opposed to the more usual habits of the creature.) “We have some slight evidence that his beauty may be due to sexual selection, for in two species of felis the analogous marks and colours are rather brighter in the male than in the female. The zebra is conspicuously striped, and stripes cannot afford any protection on the open plains of South Africa.”[9] Yet, when naturalists to-day refer every colour and pattern under the sun to the principle of protection, the reviewers all agree that Darwin agrees with them. Truly, nowadays, “‘Darwin’ laudetur et alget.”

The fact is that for some reason—I believe because it lessens the supposed mental gap between man and other animals—Darwin’s theory of sexual selection was, from the beginning, looked askance at; and even those who may accept it, now, in the general, do so tentatively, and with many cautious expressions intended to guard their own reputations. This is not a frame of mind favourable to applying that theory, and, consequently, all the applications and extensions go to the credit of the more accepted, because less bizarre, one; for even if authorities are mistaken here, they will, at least, have erred in the orthodox groove, which is something. I believe, myself, that it is sexual selection which has produced much of what is supposed to be due not only to the principle of protective, but to that, also, of conspicuous, or distinctive, coloration. Take, for instance, the rabbit’s tail. I have never been able to make out that the accepted theory in regard to it is borne out by the creature’s habits. Rabbits race and run not only in alarm, but as an outcome of high spirits. How can the white tail distinguish between these two causes; and if it cannot, why should it be a sign to follow? One rabbit may indeed judge as to the state of mind of another, but not by looking at the tail; and if too far off to see anything else, it can form no opinion. Again, each rabbit has its own burrow, and it does not follow that because one runs to it here, another should there. Accordingly, I have noticed that white tails in rapid motion produce no effect upon other tails, or their owners, when these are some way off, but that rabbits, alarmed, make their near companions look about them. Of course, in the case of a general stampede, in the dusk, to the warren—from which numbers of the rabbits may have strayed away—it is easy to imagine that the rearmost are following the white tails of those in front of them; or rather that these have given them the alarm, since all know the way to the warren. But how can one tell that this is really so, seeing that the alarm in such a case is generally due to a man stalking up? Would it not look exactly the same in the case of prairie marmots, whose tails are not conspicuously coloured? Young rabbits, it is true, would follow their dams when they ran, in fear, to their burrows; not, however, unless they recognised them, and this they could not do by the tail alone. If they were near enough to recognise them, they would be able, probably, to follow them by sight alone, tail or no tail, nor would another white powder-puff be liable to lead them astray, as otherwise it might do. With antelopes, indeed, which have to follow one another, so as not to stray from the herd, a light-coloured patch, or wash upon the hinder quarters, might be an advantage; but as some of the kinds that have[10] it are handsomely ornamented on the face and body, and as the wash of colour behind is often, in itself, not inelegant, why should not one and all be for the sake of adornment, or, rather, is it not more likely that they are so? No one, I suppose, who believes in sexual selection at all, will be inclined to explain the origin of the coloured posterior surface in the mandril, and some other monkeys, in any other way. To me, having regard to certain primary facts in the sexual relations of all animals, it does not appear strange that this region should, in many species, have fallen under the influence of the latter power. Can we, indeed, say, taking the Hottentots and some civilised monstrosities of feminine costume that do most sincerely flatter them into consideration, that it has not done so in the case of man?

The protective theory, as applied to animals that hunt, or are hunted, by night, seems plausible only if we suppose that the enemies against whom they are protected, are human ones. But even if man has been long enough upon the scene to produce such modification, who can imagine that he has had anything to do with the colouring of such an animal as, say, the tiger, till recently much more the oppressor than the oppressed, and, even now, as much the one as the other—in India, for instance, or Corea, in which latter country things are certainly equal, if we go by the Chinese proverb, which says, “Half the year the Coreans hunt the tigers, and the other half the tigers hunt the Coreans.”

Tigers, indeed—especially those that are cattle-feeders—would seem, often, to kill their prey towards evening, but when it is still broad daylight. With regard, however, to the way in which they accomplish this, I read some years ago, in an Indian sporting work, a most interesting account of a tiger stalking a cow—an account full of suggestiveness, and which ought to have, at once, attracted the attention of naturalists, but which, as far as I know, has never since been referred to. The author—whose name, with that of his work, I cannot recall—says that he saw a cow staring intently at something which was approaching it, and that this something presented so odd an appearance that it was some time before he could make out what it was. At last, however, he saw it to be a tiger, or, rather, the head of one, for the creature’s whole body, being pressed to the ground, with the fur flattened down, so as to make it as small as possible, was hidden, or almost hidden, behind the head, which was raised, and projected forward very conspicuously; so that, being held at about the angle at which the human face is, it looked like a large, painted mask, advancing along the ground in a very mysterious manner. At this mask the cow gazed intently, as if spell-bound, seeming to have no idea of what it was, and it was not till the tiger had got sufficiently near to secure her with ease, that she took to her heels, only to be overtaken and pulled down. Now here we have something worth all the accounts of tiger-shootings that have ever been written, and all the tigers that have ever been shot. So far from the tiger endeavouring to conceal himself in toto, it would appear, from this, that he makes his great brindled head, with its glaring eyes, a very conspicuous object, which, as it is the only part of him seen or remarked, looks curious merely, and excites wonder, rather than fear. I know, myself, how much nearer to birds I am able to get, by approaching on my hands and knees, in which attitude “the human form divine” is not at once recognised. Therefore I can see no reason why the same principle of altering the characteristic appearance should not be employed by some beasts of prey, and long before I read this account I had been struck with the great size of the head of some of the tigers in the Zoological Gardens.

The moral of it all, as it appears to me, is that, before coming to any settled conclusion as to the meaning of colour and colour markings in any animal, we should get accurate and minute information in regard to such animal’s habits. As this is, really, a most important matter, why should there not be scholarships and professorships in connection with it? It is absurd that the only sort of knowledge in natural history which leads to a recognised position, with letters after the name, is knowledge of bones, muscles, tissues, &c. The habits of animals are really as scientific as their anatomies, and professors of them, when once made, would be as good as their brothers.