The family to which our present species belongs (Cracidæ), contains birds that for the greater part live in the forests, and are remarkable for habitually frequenting trees to a much greater extent than is usual amongst the larger Gallinaceous birds, and constructing their nests in the branches much in the same style as the smaller perching birds. Several species, amongst which is the bird now before us, have very loud and discordant voices.
The Curassow Birds (Genus Crax) are the best known of this family. They are generally of black or dark red plumage, more or less varied with white, and have very curious and handsome crests, of stiff, recurved feathers. These birds are frequently domesticated in Mexico and the other countries that they inhabit, and a species or two are contained in almost every menagerie of any considerable pretensions in the United States.
The species now before us was first noticed as a bird of the United States, by Col. McCall, who observed it in Texas. Since that period, it has been repeatedly obtained by American naturalists either in that country or in New Mexico.
With that ability and courtesy which has added so much to the interest of the present volume, Col. McCall has furnished the following for our article on this interesting bird:—
“This very gallant-looking and spirited bird I saw, for the first time within our territory, in the extensive forest of chaparral which envelopes the Resaca de la Palma, a stream rendered famous in the history of our country by the victory achieved by the American forces under Gen. Taylor. Here, and for miles along the lower Rio Grande, the poliocephala was abundant; and throughout this region, the remarkable and sonorous cry of the male bird could not fail to attract and fix the attention of the most obtuse or listless wanderer who might chance to approach its abode.
“By the Mexicans it is called Chiac-chia-lacca, an Indian name, and doubtlessly derived from the peculiar cry of the bird, which strikingly resembles a repetition of those syllables. And when I assure you that its voice in compass is equal to that of the Guinea-fowl, and in harshness but little inferior, you may form some idea of the chorus with which the forest is made to ring at the hour of sunrise. At that hour, in the month of April, I have observed a proud and stately fellow descend from the tree on which he had roosted, and mounting upon an old log or stump, commence his clear shrill cry. This was soon responded to, in a lower tone, by the female, the latter always taking up the strain as soon as the importunate call of her mate had ceased.
“Thus alternating, one pair after another would join in the matinal chorus, and before the rising sun had fairly lighted up their close retreat, the woods would ring with the din of an hundred voices, as the happy couples met after the period of separation and repose.
“When at length all this clatter had terminated, the parties quietly betook themselves to their morning-meal. If surprised while thus employed, they would fly into the trees above, whence, peering down with stretched necks and heads turned sideways to the ground, they would challenge the intruder with a singular and oft-repeated croaking note, of which it would be difficult to give any adequate idea with words alone.
“Indeed, the volubility and singularity of voice of the poliocephala is perhaps its most striking and remarkable trait—at least, it so appeared to me. In illustration of which I will state that, while on the march from Matamoras to Tampico, we had encamped on the 30th December, at the spring of Encinal, whence, a short time before sunset, I rode out in company with an officer in search of game. We were passing through a woodland near the stream, when our ears were saluted with a strange sound that resembled somewhat the cry of the panther (Felis onca). We stopped our horses and listened—the cry was repeated, and we were completely at a loss to what animal to ascribe it. I dismounted, and having crawled cautiously through the thicket for some distance, came upon an opening where there were some larger trees; from the lower branches of one of which I now ascertained that the sound proceeded. In a moment or two I discovered a large male poliocephala ascending towards the top of the tree, and uttering this hitherto unheard sound as he sprang from branch to branch in mounting to his roost. He seemed to be much occupied with his own thoughts, and did not observe me; and therefore I was enabled to watch his movements. In a few moments his call was answered from a distance, and soon afterwards he was joined by a bird of the year. Others followed, coming in from different quarters; and there were, in a little while, five or six of them upon the tree. One of these now discovered me, and the alarm was given. The singular cry of the old bird ceased, and they all began to exhibit uneasiness and a disposition to fly; whereupon I shot the old bird, as I had resolved to secure him at all events. On rejoining my companion, he could not at first believe me to be serious, when I told him the sound we had heard had proceeded from the old cock that I presented to him, and who had been calling his family together at the close of day in the manner I have described. On my return to camp, I entered in my note-book the following description which I took from this bird:—
“Length 23 inches, 6 lines; alar stretch, 26 inches; tail, 11 inches; tarsus, 2 inches, 7 lines. The bill similar to that of the common fowl, but longer on the ridge and more curved at the point; the upper mandible light slate blue, the lower yellowish, but brown near the base; legs and feet blackish slate color; the nails black; the irides dark hazel; the chin devoid of feathers, and its skin, which is of an orange-red color, approximating in looseness to the gills of the common fowl; general color above, a brownish olive, with dark green reflections, deepest on the head; breast and belly light rufous, with whitish longitudinal pencillings; tail (of twelve feathers) darker than the back, and with a broad terminal band of dull white; wings dusky olive. A male; a very fine specimen, killed near Encinal, Dec. 30, 1846.