It has no point, power or appeal. How much better, for the present, the descriptive “Swan-Grebe,” that does, in a small measure, do justice to the superb creature in question.
I suppose, if we are to be candid, the word “Grebe” has never taken root in America. I do not know why. It is, indeed, of French origin; but it has been thoroughly Englished in form. It is short, angular and individual. But the fact is that in the popular mind all “Grebes” are “Hell-divers,” and we may as well admit it; although I do not see the word at all in the scientific list of popular names.
I can imagine some hearer objecting here that his ten-year-old boy or girl has all the names at his tongue’s end—far better than grown-ups. Yes; I know you can teach a child to talk Latin if you do it at the language learning age and make it interesting; but you cannot thereby make it the language of the nation.
To sum up—I take it that the business of ornithology is, first, to accumulate correct information about birds and then to diffuse it among the people.
If the ornithologists had set out definitely to build an eternal barrier to popular interest in birds, they could not have done it better than by establishing such impossible names as are cited above. They never were, and never could be, English names.
The puzzle has been set forth; now what is the answer? I admit that scientists, describing a new bird, may suggest a name in pseudo-English. That seems necessary. But let them receive fair warning, that it is a temporary makeshift; tolerated, but barely respectable.
How are we to discover the acceptable name? Only by looking out for it, as a precious thing to be found, tested when found and accepted when proven. I shall never forget the little thrill that I got when I learned that, in some good and old writings, a Woodpecker was called a “Wood-wale.” How gloriously that name would fit the so-called Pileated Woodpecker (whatever ‘pileated’ means; I don’t know). How rhythmic—how simple! How beautifully descriptive. Doesn’t it make you hear that long, eerie wail in the woods?
Doctor Elliott Coues, with his usual far-sight, insight and literary appreciation, sensed this question, I think; and, in the last edition of the Key, made a move toward the solution by offering every name he could find or invent for each of our birds. Take Woodthrush for instance; he calls it Woodthrush, Wood Robin, Bell bird and Geraldine. Why “Geraldine”? I do not know, unless it is an imitation of its nore, which is, of course, good. But all of these names seem to me of good origin and sound structure. At a guess, I would venture to say that, given equal publicity, “Bell bird” would win over all the others, even granting the already considerable success of the word “Woodthrush”; because it is so descriptive, so alliterative, so easy to say, so easy to remember and so rhythmic; in other words, it is good English.
At once, I hear the objection that that name belongs by priority to a wholly different bird in South America; and I reply that the genius of language does not know of the existence of South America or concern itself with priority, or with anything but getting the idea into the mind and the memory. As to priority, if that spectre be allowed to walk, it will surely eliminate every popular name on every list that ever was given to the public.
I would encourage all who meet them, to collect and send in the names that appear locally under pressure of the growing popular interest.