The largest kind is the macaw. It is a huge, clumsy thing, with a head out of all proportion to its body, (“great head, little wit;”) its plumage is for the most part red, interspersed with green and blue. The noise which it makes is most horribly discordant; and its loudest yell is very like an Indian war-whoop, (one of Mr. Cooper’s;) yet is this monster a great favorite in the West Indies, and, as you pass the residences of the inhabitants, you often see three or four of these ugly wretches clambering awkwardly up the piazzas, and uttering their hoarse, scolding cries, ten times more grating to the ear than the objurgations of a Xantippe, heard above the shrieks of her castigated offspring. The hardihood of these birds is surprising. There was one of them on board of a small vessel, in which it was my ill fortune to voyage from the mainland to the island of Barbadoes. Mr. Macaw, like a militia major in red and blue uniform, would strut about on the lower rigging, and, as soon as he could get near enough to the ear of a sailor, would utter one of his shrillest and most appalling yells. Jack Tar, in his summary method of dealing vengeance, would fetch him a blow with a handspike, that would send him flapping to the quarter-deck; perhaps, with an utter disregard of decorum and discipline, into the very face and eyes of the surly old captain, who, in his rage, would beat him soundly; yet would the valiant and stalwart feathered marine regard those lusty strokes no more than would a pet goldfinch the taps of his lady’s fan.
Some species of parrots exist in almost every region; the smallest and most beautiful, however, are found only in tropical countries. They are seldom seen near thickly populated places, but can be procured with facility in the woods adjacent, where they live in tolerable fellowship with their mischievous neighbors, the monkeys.
Another numerous tribe of tropical birds is known by the name of Chatterers. I do not know what they are called by the ornithologists; but thus are they designated by the inhabitants, from the peculiar sounds which they utter, (being not unlike those of a congress of spinsters, sitting in committee of the whole on some grand question of scandal.) They are distinguished by the epithets—red-breasted, purple-throated, firebirds, pumpadore, red-headed, gold-headed, white-throated, white-capped, purple-shouldered, and Mahometan. The first five migrate; the last five stay at home. Of the former, the firebird is so named from the fact that, in stuffed specimens, the color is sometimes changed by the application of fire. Its natural hue is a dark crimson, but it is susceptible of being changed, by the application of heat, into a rich vermilion. Of the latter, the purple-shouldered is the most rare and the most beautiful. The upper parts of its wings or shoulders are the deepest purple; the remainder of the wings is interspersed with blue, and they end in black. Its back is blue mingled with black; its breast is a delicate blue, and the lower part of its neck is a dark crimson. I describe the male bird only; for (unlike bipeds without feathers) it monopolises the beauty of the species. The female is very plain, though there seems to be a certain winning modesty about her, for all her homely looks. The sumptuously attired male, (“Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these,”) if his choice of a partner were left to himself—which I doubt—must have been guided by a taste as unsophisticated as that of the praiseworthy Cock-Robin, when he courted Jenny Wren, who
“Always wore her old brown gown,
And never dressed so fine!”
While on the subject of homeliness, I may as well conclude it by alluding to a bird, which, on account of its hideousness, the negroes call “Old Witch.” What a very mortifying circumstance it must be to be so ugly, when every body else is so bewitchingly fair! Don’t you think so, Miss Smith? (I do not mean the Miss Smith, who is reading this article, but another.)
Before passing to an account of the third and last family, which I shall try to describe—being by far the most numerous, the strangest, and the most charming of all the tropical birds—I will detain the reader for a moment with an account of two rare species of water birds. They are in general so classed, because, like rails, they frequent reedy ponds and marshes and the borders of streams. I select these two species, because the one is very curious and the other is of a kind with which classical associations are connected, and because they admirably serve to show how wide and fertile a field of interesting investigation lies before the student in this particular realm of Natural History.
The curious species is the Jacana. It is doubtful whether it should be classed with land or water birds; it resembles the latter in its nature, its habits, the form of its body, the shape of its bill, and the diminutiveness of its head; it differs essentially, however, from all others of the class, in the curious spurs which protrude from its wings; its claws are very long and slender, and its nails very pointed and sharp—hence has been derived its name, “The Surgeon.” It is exceedingly wild and can be caught only by stratagem. These birds are of various colors: some dark, tinged with violet; some green; some black; some dusky red. Their flight is very rapid, and their cry sharp and shrill. They travel in pairs, frequenting the borders of rivers and deep marshes. That which is particularly singular about the Jacana is the manner in which it is armed; when it strikes with its wings, it must do considerable execution; it does not seem to be happily called the Surgeon, for its instruments are rather intended to kill than cure.
The classical species is called by moderns, “the Sultana Hen.” It is the smallest of that genus, which was named by the ancients Porphyry—in Greek, Πορφυριωι—in Latin, Porphyrio. Aristotle describes it as a fissiped bird, with long feet, a blue plumage, with a very strongly set, purple-colored bill, and of about the size of a domestic cock. Some old writers, in describing this bird, have said that one of its feet was furnished with membranes, and made to swim like a water-bird’s, and that the other was fissiped, so that it might run like a land-bird. This is not only untrue, but contrary to nature, and signifies no more than that the porphyry or pelican is a bird of the shore, living on the confines of land and water. It was easily tamed, and was very pleasing on account of its noble carriage, its fine form, its plumage brilliant and rich in colors of mingled blue and purple and aquamarine, its docile nature, and its happy facility of agreeing with any companions among whom its lot might be cast. It was held in the highest esteem by both Greeks and Romans; they never suffered it to be eaten; they sent to Lybia for it; always treated it with kindness, and placed it in their palaces and temples, as worthy to dwell there on account of the nobleness of its port, the sweetness of its temper, and the beauty of its plumage. The largest of the species, now known as “the sultana hen,” is precisely the same as the ancient porphyrio. The smallest is called “the little sultana hen.” Her petite majesty is very queenly, but is, no doubt, as well satisfied with the modern name by which she is dignified, as she would be with that which the Greeks gave to the tall highnesses of her very old and royal family. Her robe of state is a brilliant changeable blue and green; and it has never gone out of fashion.
Having thus given an unsystemized and rather imperfect account of a few species of tropical birds, I pass on to treat of the most marvellous and most beautiful tribe of plumed creatures that float in the invisible atmosphere. There have been more than a hundred species already discovered, and every naturalist, who visits the equatorial regions of this Western World, adds a new name to the splendid schedule of HUMMING-BIRDS.[[2]] From their delicate structure, these tiny birds cannot endure the rigors of our climate, where there are very few of those gorgeous plants, upon which they banquet in tropical latitudes. There, when the warm sun calls into life myriads of flowers, vast numbers of humming-birds visit the fields and gardens every morning, and mingle their golden-green tints in gleaming contrast with the white and rose-colored blossoms, that cluster on the vines above the traveller’s head, or spring luxuriantly at his feet. They seem, as they dart rapidly around, humming their faintly heard tunes, to be the very Pucks and Ariels of the light, and each night take up the burden of the fairy song, sung at the feast of Titania,