Married birds sometimes behave in a pretty manner with the fish that they bring to each other, and if coquetry be not the right word to apply to it, I know of none better. The following is my note made at the time:—
"A bird flies in with a fine sand-eel in his bill, and having run the gauntlet of the whole ledge with it, at last succeeds in bringing it to his partner. For a long time now, these two coquet together with the fish. The one that has brought it keeps biting and nibbling at it, moving his head about with it from side to side, bringing it down upon the ledge between his feet, then raising it again, seeming to rejoice in the having it. The other one seems all the while to admire it too, and often makes as though to take it from him—prettily and softly—but he refuses it to her, something as a dog prettily refuses to give up a stick to his master. At last, however, he lets her take it—which, it is apparent, he has meant to do all the time—and when she has it she behaves in much the same manner with it, whilst he would seem to beg it back of her, and thus they go on together for such a time that at last I weary of watching them. There is a wonderful making much of the fish between the two birds, yet it is not eaten by either of them, and there is no chick, here, in the case. It is quite apparent that the fish is only something for coquetry and affection to gather about—it is a focus, a point d'appui, a peg to hang love upon. Yet the birds—and this is what I constantly notice—seem only to have a kind of half consciousness of what they mean." This particular fish, I may say, was minus the head, which had the appearance of having been neatly and cleanly cut off.
Yet there are harsher notes amidst all this tenderness, and the state of a bird's appetite will sometimes make a vast difference in its conduct under the same or similar circumstances. "A bird," for instance, "that has just come with a fish in its bill for the young one, is violently attacked—and this several times in succession—by the other parent, who is in actual charge of the chick. This one—we will suppose it to be the father, though, I half think, unjustly—makes the greediest dart at the fish, trying to seize it out of his wife's bill, and also pecks her very violently. Once he seizes her by the neck and holds her thus for some seconds, yet all the while in the couched attitude and with the chick underneath him. The poor mother yields each time to the storm, scuttles out of the way, seems perplexed and startled, but keeps firm hold of the fish. Driven away over and over again, she always comes back, and at length, by dint of perseverance and right feeling, weathers the storm, insinuates herself into the place of the greedy bird and begins to feed the chick. A new chord of feeling is now struck, and the bird that has been so greedy and ill-tempered co-operates in the most tender and interested manner with the wife whom he has outraged. The 'scene' of a moment ago is forgotten, and there is now a widely different and more accustomed one of family concord, tenderness, and peace."
I cannot think that such conduct as the above is common, and even on this one occasion when I saw it, it is possible (though it does not seem very likely) that the ill-behaving bird did not try to get the fish for its own sake, but only to feed the chick with. But however this may have been, fish are the constant cause of disturbance amongst the birds generally, and the guillemot that flies in with one has to avoid the snaps made at it by all those near to where he alights, and must sometimes run the gauntlet of most of the birds on the ledge before he can get with it to his own domicile. Sometimes he loses the fish, which is then often lost again by the successful bird, and so passed from one to another.
Or it may be tugged at for a long time by two birds that have a firm hold of the head and tail part respectively, and pull it backwards and forwards, not infrequently across the neck of a third bird standing between them. Birds incubating or brooding over their young ones are equally ready with those standing, to try and snatch away a fish from another, but in the great majority of cases the bird who has flown in with his booty and has a very firm hold of it, gets it safely through the crowd. Such episodes as these are rather of the nature of assault and robbery than regular fighting, for the bird attacked, though often severely pecked, never does anything but dodge and pull, for he cannot well thrust back again whilst holding a fish in his bill, and his whole endeavour is to avoid losing this. Combats, however, are very frequent amongst guillemots, much more so than I should have thought the condition of living packed closely together on a narrow ledge in the rock would have allowed, for surely one might have expected that this necessity would have been a power making for peace and concord. That it has been so to some extent, I make no doubt, and it may also have played a part in forming the character of the fighting, which is—or, at least, it struck me as being—somewhat peculiar. Though often violent, it is not, as a rule, vindictive, and as it seems to break out for no particular reason, so it generally ceases suddenly by one of the two birds stopping, as it were, in mid-thrust, and commencing to preen itself, after which it may be resumed once or twice before ceasing finally in the same way. The other bird seems only too happy to be left in peace, and instead of pressing the assault whilst his adversary is thus engaged and at a momentary disadvantage, generally stands unconcerned or begins to preen himself also. This sudden passing from the sublime to the ridiculous, from war to the toilette, has a curious and half comic effect.
Such preening under such circumstances must, one would think, spring from a powerful incentive, and it is, I believe, chiefly when annoyed by insects that the birds preen themselves, though whether their efforts are actually to free themselves of these, or only to allay the irritation by scratching, I am not quite sure. But I noticed that a bird would often bend down its head, and with the extreme tip of its finely-pointed bill appear minutely to explore the surface of its webbed feet—and further, that when the partner of a bird doing this was beside him, it would become most interested, and do its best to assist him in the matter. One may suppose that the ledge—which is, of course, coated with a layer of guano—is covered with these pests, and that they often crawl over the bird's feet, and so ascend on to the body. If the skin of the feet were sensitive, their owner would at once know when this was the case, and with its keen eyesight and stiletto bill might guard itself fairly well, as long as it only stood. As, however, all the birds constantly sit flat on the rock, even when not incubating, the searching of the feet can be of little or no real importance to them. It is very interesting and has a very human appearance (not so much in regard to the particular act as the careful look and manner and the attitudes assumed) to see two birds thus helping to clean each other's feet, as I think must here be the case. When they nibble and preen each other they may, as a rule, I think, be rightly said to cosset and caress, the expression and pose of the bird receiving the benefit being often beatific, and the enjoyment being, no doubt, of the nature of that which a parrot receives by having its poll scratched; though, with regard to this, we must not forget the look of supreme satisfaction which a monkey often has whilst a friend is doing his best to make him clean and respectable. With the foot-cleaning there is no such attitude and expression. The bird helped is at the same time an active agent, and both of them are careful, earnest, and investigatory. It struck me, however, that the chick was cosseted in a somewhat more business-like manner, as though, if not actually to clean it, at least to make it spruce and tidy. It seems probable, indeed, that the conferring a practical benefit of the kind indicated may be one origin of the caress throughout nature; but others may be imagined.
On a Guillemot Ledge.
The usual cause of guillemots fighting would seem to be one of them moving to a sufficient degree to attract the attention of the one nearest to it, who then—as though the circumstances permitted of no other course—delivers a vigorous thrust with its long, spear-like bill. This is the usual way of fighting, so that a combat has something the appearance of a fencing-match. The two birds stand upright with their bodies turned more sideways towards each other, than actually fronting, so that their heads, which alone do so, are twisted a little round. They stand at such a distance apart, that when the neck is held straight up, with the head flying out at a right angle, the tips of their two long lances just touch, so that the birds form a natural archway. In this position they make quick, repeated thrusts at each other, usually directed at the face or neck, by a motion of which, rather than by parrying with the beak, each endeavours to avoid the lunge of its adversary. But besides